Iracebeth, between mouthfuls of buttery tarts, couldn't stop asking question after question about the clockwork guest in the family castle. "How old is he?"

"Well, I couldn't say," said King Oleron, leaning back in his regal red robes and breathing in the warm smell of things baking in the kitchen. "Twelve years old, I believe, or maybe slightly older… not that it matters now."

"Does he have a name, Father?"

"Iracebeth, please," came a voice from the other end of the kitchen, "don't talk with your mouth full. It's vulgar and unbecoming of you." The words came from Queen Elsemere, who was usually dressed in her glittering ivory gown, her creamy white hair under a gorgeous crown, but at the moment, she was busy baking more tarts, as cooking desserts and other little things was a longtime favourite hobby of hers. Her husband had always told her that it wasn't necessary, that their league of trained chefs and cooks could do it all for her, but the elegant Queen had always insisted that she had no interest in being waited on hand and foot.

King Oleron obliged his eldest daughter. "His name was Seinäkello… or just Kello, he went by. In the Finnish language, the word means "clock", or more accurately, "timekeeper"… his name is Time, Iracebeth."

Iracebeth flipped her hair back from her face, gazing off dreamily as tart crumbs fell from her pale pink lips. "I think it's frightfully romantic! He was a fighter in the Resistance, back in his own kingdom."

"It's positively horrid!" Mirana objected, her brow furrowed. "He was a child soldier who got captured and slated for execution, Racie… and you're supposed to share the tarts! Mother, tell her!"

Queen Elsemere rolled her eyes and smiled. "Iracebeth, leave some tarts for your sister. I baked them for both of you! Do you see how?" The Queen pointed a slender finger at one of the fresh tarts on the plate, and remarked, "the crusts are creamy and white, while the centres are scarlet red. These colours are the colours of our kingdom, the kingdom that you'll both one day rule together!"

"Very well," huffed Iracebeth, sliding the platter of tarts towards Mirana. "Go ahead, Mirana. I'm sorry for being greedy, but… oh, wait! Shouldn't we save some for Tick-Tock?"

"For who?" asked the Queen, puzzled.

"She keeps calling the clockwork boy that," Mirana explained. "You really shouldn't, Racie. It's patronizing."

"He never complained about it." Iracebeth pointed out, sneakily reaching the tips of her fingers out to swipe another tart.

"Of course he didn't," said Mirana, lightly slapping her older sister's hand away from the platter before she could grab anything. "He was injured, he had a fever. Honestly, Racie! You really must learn to be more considerate!"

"Oh, don't bother saving any tarts for Time," chuckled King Oleron. "He can't eat anything anymore… but you can certainly save me one of those before you eat them all, my daughters."

Mirana and Iracebeth stared… then both burst into fits of wild giggles, sliding the platter towards the King. "We didn't mean to eat them so quickly," Mirana apologized as she watched him lift one of the tarts in his broad hands, holding it like a delicate flower before popping it into his mouth.

It was moments like these that the two princesses loved the most. Born into royalty, their lives were as rigid and stiff as their duties would one day be, and yet their parents had always ensured that they had time to be silly, to be mad, to be absolutely bonkers together as a family. To deny this would go against the very spirit of Underland, a world reliant on madness as much as, if not more-so, than order.

Iracebeth couldn't help but feel rather wistful and sad at this. As much as she longed for the day when she would be declared a Queen herself, to rule as the eldest child, she would no doubt be agonizingly nostalgic for these little moments spent with her family. She needed them, as much as she didn't always like to admit it. In her gilt bedroom with her little ant farm and tiny porcelain treasures, with her younger sister by her side, she felt an unwavering sense of comfort. Time would, invariably, inevitably, take it all away.