"Mum?" I hear myself hum quietly in reply, long, slender fingers kneading through a mop of wet, messy hair. The child is hiding her face from view, hands covering her eyes as I wash her hair. "What happens after you die?"

"After you die...? After you die... you go up to the stars, baby."

~X~

As I lay down and close my eyes that night, images flash before me.

I see my mother, young and beautiful, with a sad smile on her face and a soothing lullaby on her lips. I see the King, too tall and too quiet, an intimidating wall that stretches so high none of us could ever see the sky above. I see Rasiel. The heir, the first-born... the lucky son. (Or so everyone had always thought).

Until he died. Until they all did.

I see so many faces, the one after the other, and though I can't always stick a name to the face, they all look familiar. I know them, from walking around the castle, from just existing – they were maids and servants who had once served at the castle. They bow respectfully (or is it fear that's in their eyes?), and let me through.

I see my tutors.

I see the Archduke – his execution – all too clearly inside my head.

I turn around and throw a pillow over my face in an attempt to smother these thoughts, but in the end it does nothing to stop my over-active imagination. I don't know why this is happening... why it is happening now, of all times, but that doesn't change the fact that it is. I may be laying in a small, bare room, stripped of all my toys and belongings – my belly filled with the best meal I've had in three years... but they... are dead. Gone. Murdered. Not one of them will ever breathe, or walk, or talk ever again.

I wonder, absently, who will organise all those funerals. My father and brother don't have any family left – is the state going to do it? The Kingdom?

Will they be buried next to the Queen – forever a family, even though theirs was ripped apart at the seams? It seems like something that would happen in Accidia – the hideous pretentiousness that lurks around every corner.

(I hated it there.)

To a certain extend, though I'm not really sure I understand him at all anymore, I'm sure Bel did too. Maybe that's why he did it – maybe he, too, felt the need to be free.

In the end, I can only wonder.

I manage to catch a news broadcast on the television some days after my arrival in Italy, and though I can't speak the language, I instinctively know what it's all about. It's a bit hard not to, when I find myself staring at large pictures of myself and Bel. I can read our names, I can hear the announcer speaking in rapid Italian, and unwittingly, my lips tilt upwards in amusement. That is not how you pronounce Belphegor.

The woman gestures towards something on the screen, and the number of an emergency hotline appears in front of me. She makes what I assume to be one last plea for the audience to call if they have any information about our whereabouts before the program goes on.

I make a habit out of following the news during those first few days- it's perhaps the only thing I actively do. It's always the same, Bel and I, I and Bel, with our enlarged pictures on the TV screen. I wonder in how many countries our pictures are being projected – wonder how long it will take them to figure out who really is behind the massacre.

Or maybe they already know? After all, wouldn't a missing son be better than a murderer? Maybe Bel is already dead. Maybe they've found him and are keeping him locked up in some remote, super secret psychiatric institution? Frankly, I've got no idea how he could have stayed undetected for this long.

But then one day something strange happens. The night-time news comes on, and as usual I'm sitting on the sofa with the remote control in hand- the audio muted so that Ottavia won't know I'm down here. I wait, and wait and wait, but in the end... our pictures never show up.

They don't show up then, or the night after, or next week. It's as if suddenly, no one's speaking about it anymore. I check some other channels, but it's all the same.

I don't know what to make of that: does it mean they found him? Did they not? Surely, they're not giving up this soon? Is somebody trying to sweep the entire incident under the rug? I don't know why anyone would, but somehow, I know it means something. I just don't know what.

Incidentally, this is also the night Ottavia catches me awake and in front of the television for the first time. She ushers me back to bed, but not before I manage to squeeze in a question.

("Do you know what happened to Bel?")

(She says she doesn't, but reassures me that I'm safe here.)

Nice as that is, it's not exactly why I'm asking.

I don't get much sleep that night... though, then again, I never seem to get much sleep these nights in general.

(I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, drenched in cold sweat and terrified tears. My heart beats hard against my ribcage as though it's about to burst through skin and bones alike, and for a fleeting moment I'm never sure of where I am. All I can think of are high ceilings and grand four-poster beds. There's a rocking chair in front of the window, illuminated by a single ray of moonlight that's let in through the gap between curtains.

All too clearly, I can feel the cool metal kissing my skin, digging deeper – painfully – as my brother stands above me, that terrifying grin stretched out on his lips.

It takes me a couple of minutes to calm down, to convince myself that this – the plain room, the single bed, the lamppost outside my bedroom – are all real. This is real. I'm safe. Everything is fine.

I can't quite stand the feeling of blankets wrapped around my body – they form a web I can't escape from and the more I try to disentangle myself, the heavier they seem to become. Tears sting my eyes by the time I'm finally, finally able throw the covers off me, relishing the feeling of cool air between my legs. It takes me a couple of moments before I can lie down again.

On nights like those, I never sleep much.)

But that's not even what worries me most...

Strange, isn't it?

I know the concept of death, of course I do – I'm not a child – I understand it better than any three-year-old possibly ever could, just like I understand the severity of my brother's actions: Slaughter. Regicide. Murder. Fraticide. I understand that all very well.

It's logical, that I should have nightmares – I'd be more worried if I didn't.

But there's something strange, too, inside my chest. A feeling that festers and makes my heart beat faster when I think back to that day. Not in fear, but in something different. I think about the blood splattered on the floors and walls. I think about the maids and butlers. I envision the King – defenceless against the insanity of his eight-year-old son.

I wonder what he looked like, after Bel was done with him.

I know I should be horrified, disgusted by the thoughts inside my mind. I know Maria would have been... but I'm not Maria anymore, I guess, because despite my best efforts to stop them, the corners of my lips twist upwards. Despite my best efforts not to, there's nothing I want to do more than laugh.

Red really is a beautiful colour.

~X~

When I finally decide to pick myself up again and get down for breakfast, Ottavia is pleased to see some progress. She pours me a tall glass of milk as I seat myself at the table and offers me a plate of freshly-made pancakes. I devour them like I've never even eaten before and this earns me a complimentary pat on the head. (Which is a weird experience in and of itself because... when is the last time anybody did that to me?)

We don't talk about last night, about the question I asked or the fact that I was out of bed that late. We don't talk about anything substantial at all. Instead, we let the radio make the morning background noise for us.

That's what Ottavia is like: quiet, peaceful. It's not like the King's brand of quiet, and I can appreciate that.

When I'm done eating, Ottavia picks up my plate and puts it in the sink.

"We're going out today, Princess."

"Out?" I dumbly echo, "I thought you had to work?"

"No, not today... I've got the day off."

What she does exactly is something that's only ever been explained to me in the vaguest of terms: which is to say, she could either be a rocket scientist, a taxi driver or anything in between because it all kind of fits the description. Either way, she got the job surprisingly fast and she's supporting us both, so who am I to complain?

As I get dressed later that same day, I make sure to pull my hair back all the way – kept in place by a hairband I found lying in the living room – and wrap myself in an outfit that doesn't stand out too much. I haven't been outside since the day I got here, and the prospect of breathing in some fresh air is an enticing one.

I try not to look too excited as Ottavia leads me out the door and down the stairs, have to keep myself from making a run for it, jumping outside and dramatically inhaling the... admittedly not that fresh city air... ah, well, pros and cons and all that...

"Is Toro going to pick us up?" I ask my caretaker as I place my hand in hers. Ottavia shakes her head, glancing down at her watch.

"No, he's busy today. We're going to have to get there ourselves."

In front of us there is a long street. It stretches out, going slowly downhill until I can't see much of anything anymore. All around us there are parked cars and apartment buildings and as Ottavia starts to lead the way downhill, I can't help but notice that the buildings look nothing like each other. A lot of the buildings have balconies – some look old, some look newer, some have plants, some just look completely neglected... I spot a balcony in the shape of a half-circle a bit further down. They're all of different lengths and sizes, and it only seems to add to the chaos of the city.

For some reason, the pavement is really uneven too.

A turn to the left, and we reach what seems to be the edge of a park. It looks large from where I'm standing, but then again, from my point of view everything seems large. Though the alphabet is familiar to me, I can't understand what's on any of the signs and inspecting those loses its interest soon enough.

We pass a bunch of small shops, cafes and even more apartment buildings before eventually reaching what seems to be the main road. Ottavia's quick to hail a taxi, and we don't lose any time getting in and letting the driver know where we're going.

"I'm going to have to teach you Italian one of these days," Ottavia murmurs, absently running her fingers through my hair, grooming it. "Swedish is just a tad too obvious, don't you think?"

I can't say I disagree. I catch the taxi driver glancing at us but he looks away as soon as he realises he's being watched right back.

"Do you really think nobody will notice... who I am? I mean, if they really want to find me..."

"People tend to be blinder than you'd think. Now speak up – acting like you have something to hide makes people remember you."

I suppose that would make sense, and sure enough, raising my voice and pushing some petulant childishness into it seems to immediately make the snooping chauffeur lose his interest in whatever we were saying.

"Huh... nobody really cares about listening to a child complain, I guess." I shrug my shoulders and push Ottavia's hands away from my hair. She obliges easily enough. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, it's nothing, really." The maid smiles. "It's just... you speak as if you're not a child yourself."

"... Oh..." Well, I'm... not. Not mentally, at least. But it's not like I can tell her that.

"You know... it's okay to be a child. You shouldn't try to grow up too fast, my Lady. We're only young once, and you will realise this later, but you don't want to spend your childhood being an adult. In fact – I'd say – being an adult is overrated."

I look at Ottavia, and I think that something in my big blue eyes – perhaps it's the understanding, or maybe something entirely different that has no place being in the eyes of a three-year-old – breaks her heart.

"Don't worry too much, I'll take care of everything."

It sounds so much like that old promise – the one where she told me she'd protect me, that I feel bad now. I decide to change the subject.

"So, uuuum, how am I going to learn Italian, anyway? Can you teach me?"

"Huh? Oh, no, no, of course not. I'm afraid I'm a terrible teacher. I was thinking, maybe you could go to school come September? It could be a good way for you to practice your Italian, and –"

"If you suggest public school I'm jumping out of this car, I don't care if it's moving."

Ottavia looks like she's trying to bite back a grin... and I've got to say, she's failing.

"You highborn people really are something else, aren't you?" She says fondly. "We'll see about that. We've still got time, either way."

"I can't wait until September to learn the language, anyway. That's ridiculous."

"No, you're right. We'll just have to find some other way then, won't we?"

The rest of the ride is spent in relative silence until we reach our destination.

'Our destination' is a nondescript two-story building next to a tattoo shop and as soon as we walk in, I realize that it is actually a hairdresser's. There's only one other client inside, sitting in one of the chairs with a magazine propped up in front of him, which he flips through casually.

The owner of the shop tells him something before moving over to us. She's a plump, short woman, with a warm smile and dimples on her cheeks. She says something to me in Italian, and I just stare back wide-eyed.

"Uh... ciao?"

When she speaks up, Ottavia sounds like she's smiling.

She gestures towards me, and says something which I can only guess must be the Italian equivalent for "we're here for her" and "she needs a haircut". The hairdresser nods in understanding, prattles on about something else, and proceeds to guide me into one of those saloon chairs all at the same time.

I'm, understandably, a bit overwhelmed and don't even argue when she takes off my hairband and lets my hair fall back into its natural position. It's a bit overgrown, but I've got no doubt I look like the girl everyone's looking for. Tilting my head backwards, I meet two pools of brown eyes – they're filled with recognition and yet... she smiles at me.

She just smiles... nothing else.

"Who are you?" I can't help but ask. It's not like she understands me, but Ottavia does, so she replies for her.

"That's Rena. She's an old friend of mine."

The woman, Rena apparently, makes me lean back into the sink and starts to wash my hair.

Just how many old acquaintances of Ottavia's are willing to help her hide the fact that she has kidnapped and is hiding a foreign Princess?! The fact that any of this is even happening... astounds me. More than that, it's crossing the "strange" territory and landing straight into "suspicious".

A towel is put over my shoulders and I'm ushered into another chair, this one in front of a tall, tall mirror.

"What do you want to do with your hair, Princess?"

"Can my bangs go? And maybe a little trim for the rest – I'd like to grow it out."

Ottavia is quick to translate, and Rena does not disappoint.

A/N: Aaand, the bangs are gone. For anyone that's disappointed, remember: Bel's sister or not, Helena is her own person. She didn't like the bangs back when she was in Accidia and she still doesn't like them now. On another note, do you have any characters you'd like to see soon? If yes, let me know! It has to be someone that lives in Italy though, because (obviously) that's where Helena is and is going to remain for some time.

Also, something else: Updates will be slower from now on. I've got some things to take care of and as much as I love this story, I need to focus on studying right now. I'll pick it back up sometime in February.

Any thoughts? Questions? Leave a review!

(Seriously, they make my day)