New York City, USA
January 2011

The heat pipes just cough

"Georgie!" I chide. "Either get under the blanket or stay on top of it! It's getting cold."

To emphasize my words, I poke him into the side, causing him to swish his tail in annoyance. His front half is hidden under the covers, with the back half still sticking out, thus creating a funnel for the cold air to get inside my blanket cocoon, which I do not appreciate.

Thankfully, George has apparently now made up his mind to fully crawl under the blanket, cutting off the gush of cold air that hitherto assailed my right hip. Still not too happy with the current state of things, he moves around under the covers some, until he winds up sticking out his head at the top, very near my own.

"Hello boy," I greet him with a smile.

He blinks at me, unimpressed.

"I know that life's much warmer for someone with fur," I concede his point. "But I don't have fur."

George pulls up a paw and starts licking it.

"Yes, you're right. It's my own fault for not having fur," I sigh. In the summer heat, I always feel for him, positively wilting in his silky pelt, but in winter, being furry has definite advantages.

Not deigning to answer, but obviously decreeing the paw to be suitably cleaned, George pulls his head back under the blanket. There's some nudging and kneading as he gets comfortable, but finally, he settles down, curling tightly against my stomach.

"Now that's more like it." Quite pleased at this additional source of warmth, I reach down to scratch his ears. He presses his head into my hand and purrs in appreciation, making him feel like a buzzing little heating machine against my body.

Shuffling a little, I pull the covers up over my icy nose and ears. Drawing my legs close to my body, I proceed to curl myself around George's softly purring form, stealing as much of his fur-induced heat as possible. Thankfully, he's in a cuddling mood, for otherwise, he would never allow this.

Momentarily, I consider whether to reach out a hand from under the blanket and take up the book sitting half a meter from my head, but determine it to be a much too strenuous action. I must conserve body heat at all cost and the best thing to do that is just to move as little as possible.

In fact, if I just go to sleep, maybe it will magically be warmer when I wake up again? It doesn't even have to be a hundred years. Three months should totally suffice. Not that it feels as if it will ever be spring again, but experience says that every winter must be over, eventually.

Yawning, I let my eyes drift shut. Technically speaking, it's too early for sleep, but then, it's too cold for anything else. (Maybe I should have taken Mrs Weisz up on her offer of an electric blanket after all?)

Minutes pass, and I just feel myself nodding off when the piercing sound of the doorbell rips through the air.

Unwilling, I open my eyes. The doorbell is still ringing.

Holding up the blanket, I look at George who has raised his head and looks right back at me. "You live here as well. You could learn to open the door some time, you know?" I inform him.

George does not move.

"Come on, let's play on it. Rock-paper-claw, and the loser has to get up and get the door," I suggest. It's a convenient game to play, at least for me. Quite predictable.

George yawns and settles his head back on a paw. The doorbell rings again.

Rolling my eyes at him, I slip out from under the blankets, biting back a curse as my feet hit the too cold ground, and pat over towards the door, pulling my cardigan tighter around myself as I walk.

"Yes?" I ask of the intercom, not doing much to mask my annoyance.

"It's me."

Startled, I stand up a little straighter.

What is he doing here? Now?

Buzzing him in, I reach out for the handle of the door to open it, standing on the doorstep with my arms wrapped around myself and listening to his footsteps as he walks up the stairs.

Coming up the last set of steps, Kens face breaks out into a smile when he sees me and my heart jumps up into my throat. It's not that I've forgotten how handsome he is, but… well, he is. Handsome, I mean.

"Hey," I greet, my voice sounding a little off as I speak around the lump of heart in my throat. "I didn't expect you this soon."

I stretch out a hand towards him and he catches it between his gloved ones. (It's nice. Warm.)

"I told you I was returning today, didn't I?" he wonders, his brow knitting in confusion.

Well, yes. But how was I to know that "being back in the city" equals "being back on my doorstep"?

"I thought you might want to settle in first," I explain with a half-shrug. My hand is still firmly held between his.

His expression clears. "Oh, I did. I dropped off my luggage over at my place and got changed."

We obviously have a differing understanding of what 'settling in' entails. But then, if he came here basically straight from the airport… well, I'm not likely to complain, am I?

"Having settled that," he continues with a sly little smile, "may I kiss you now?"

Who am I to say no when he's asking so politely?

Inclining my head slightly in agreement, I am immediately drawn forward into his arms. His lips find mine and… mmmhhhh. This is nice.

Gently, he guides me backwards and I'm vaguely aware of the sound of the door falling shut. Not that I care, much, when he's kissing me like this. My hands try to tug his scarf free, but it won't budge and I don't have the patience for it, instead sliding my fingers upwards to weave them into his hair. He had more success with the belt of my cardigan, his hands now slipping beneath my sweater… tugging at the shirt beneath… finding the hem of my tank top…

Abruptly, he pulls away. "How many layers are you wearing?" For a moment, his expression veers between incredulity and amusement, finally setting on a combination of both.

I blink, trying to focus. "Mhh… five? I think."

He leans forward, pushing aside the cardigan, and pulling at all other layers until his fingers meet the skin of my stomach. (Where did his gloves go?) "Five," he confirms, grinning up at me. Then, peering closer – "Are those tights?" One finger runs along the top of those self-same tights peeking out from beneath my jeans.

Rolling my eyes, I push my collection of shirts down (his hands, however, stay where they are, lightly moving past my waist to my back, making me shiver). "Yes, those are tights," I confirm. Lovely, warm, woollen ones at that.

Ken laughs, straitening again. "If this is meant to work as some kind of chastity belt…"

"Funny," I reply, aiming for wryness and yet not totally succeeding. In truth, it is a bit funny.

"No chastity belt then. Good." He looks quite pleased with himself as he leans forward to drop a kiss on the tip of my nose.

I make a point to scrunch up the nose, drawing a smile from him. "I'm just cold," I explain, shrugging slightly.

"Now that you mention it, it is quite chilly in here," he acknowledges, while at the same time running one finger along my spine, causing a shiver to run through my body.

"Case in point," he adds, thought the smugness of his grin leaves little doubt that he knows exactly just how little the cold had to do with my reaction.

My half-hearted glare does little to wipe the grin from his face, nor does the finger I poke into his chest help much. "The heating is broken. My landlord wants to look at it 'in the next few days', which could very well end up being in two or three weeks. He doesn't have the best track record. Until he manages to get the heating fixed, I shall wear as many layers of clothing as I please," I inform Ken haughtily.

"You could have said. I would have brought you a jumper or two. Socks, too. Shetland wool. We basically live in it when up at Balmoral," he remarks, now finally looking somewhat sympathetic.

"Is it as cold as here in… well, Balmoral?" I ask, stumbling slightly over the name.

Ken laughs. "Oh, far colder. I mean, outside temperatures don't even get that cold, though the wind can be a beast. But the castle itself is over 150 years old. It's draughty, prone to dampness and to call the heating unreliable would be a euphemism."

Castle. Of course.

His gaze finds mine. "But you're Canadian. Shouldn't you be used to the cold?" he wonders, now clearly back to teasing.

"Outside, yes," I nod seriously. "Not inside though. I like the inside to be warm. And besides, I left most of my really warm clothing in Canada, because it tends to be colder there. So that actually worked to my disadvantage."

"I'll get you some of those jumpers," he promises. "For now though, I've got something else for you."

I blink in surprise. "For me?"

"Mhm. Belated Christmas present," he adds, while moving his hands out from under my clothes, making sure to lightly graze my skin as he does.

I take a deep breath. "I… I don't have anything for you." I mean, how was I to know we were on 'giving Christmas presents'-level already?

"And I had no birthday present for you. I'd say we're even," he points out comfortably.

"My birthday is in July. You didn't even know I existed in July," I argue, though not quite succeeding in keeping the smile off my face.

"Grave oversight on my part, wouldn't you say?" he asks, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

I nod. "Quite."

"In that case, allow me to…" He reaches into the pocket of his coat and produces a –

A toothbrush?

Raising both eyebrows sceptically, I look from the toothbrush to him and back again. "Well… thank you. I suppose."

Laughing, Ken shakes his head. "No. That one's mine."

"Quite the optimist, aren't we?" I ask archly, doing my very most to suppress the smile threatening to break through.

He shrugs modestly. "Yes, that's me."

"Some might also call it preposterous…" I point out.

He opens his mouth to respond, but then seems to think better of it. Instead, he carefully places the toothbrush on the kitchen counter next to us (so that's where his gloves went), cups my face with one hand and leans forward for another kiss.

No peck on the nose, this one.

When he does pull back after… a while, the smug smile is firmly back in place. "You were saying?" he teases, his face no more than an inch or two from mine.

"I…" I begin, then trail off.

What was I saying?

"You know what? Nothing. Nothing at all." I'm feeling slightly short of breath, though whether from the kiss or his proximity, I couldn't say. Probably both.

Laughing, he leans back somewhat. A second later, a box appears in front of my face. A small, dark blue box that can only contain –

"Jewellery?" The word is past my lips before I can stop it.

Ken inclines his head slightly. "Not alright?" he asks. "I figured that apart from immediate family, you're the only woman I can give jewellery to."

Well… I do like the sound of this 'only woman'-bit, there's no denying that, but… I take a deep breath.

"No, it's… thanks. Thank you," I make my voice sound firmer than I feel and look up to give him a smile.

Gingerly, I reach out to take the box from him. Opening it, I see a delicate gold chain with a small, circle-like charm at the end. Breathing, I realise, comes a little easier. I don't know quite what I expected (diamonds, maybe, or something far too ostentatious), but this is good. This, I can wear without someone thinking I robbed a bank.

When I raise my eyes to his, I find him watching me closely. "It's lovely," I tell him, and mean it. "Thank you. Really."

"I'm glad you like it." His smile, now, is sincere, and out of an impulse, I stand up on my tiptoes to give him a soft kiss.

His fingers enclose the hand I placed on his cheek. "You're icy," he remarks.

"Before you forced me out of it, I did resolve to spend the rest of the evening scooped up in bed," I explain with a shrug, my gaze once again drawn back down to the necklace.

"Then let's get you back there," Ken decides. A quick look reveals him to be quite serious, the remark having none of the suggestive undertones it might have had. Which is good, I guess. Not that I wouldn't have liked… I mean, I liked it back when we… oh, it's just too cold, alright?

I carefully place the box with the necklace on the counter, right next to his toothbrush and gloves, then watch Ken shrug out of his coat and slip off his shoes.

"George's somewhere beneath the blanket," I warn as he moves over to the bed.

"The blanket?" he repeats with a comical expression. "That looks like three blankets at least."

Three is correct. With Mrs Lynde's quilt thrown on top for good measure.

"It's cold," I remind as I reach past him to throw back the blankets, revealing a slightly dishevelled George. He blinks up into the sudden light, looking none too pleased with this interruption of his beauty sleep.

"Your Majesty," Ken greets with a little mock bow. "Apologies for disturbing you."

George yawns unashamedly.

It takes some shuffling until we have all found our places, but in the end, I'm curled up in Ken's arms, facing him (there definitely is an argument to be made for the sharing of body heat), with George having moved out from under the blanket mountain to now lay atop my feet (this, too, a welcome source of warmth).

"Ken?" I query. "Can I ask you something?"

He makes a sound that I take for confirmation.

"Why do you all go up to Scotland in winter? I mean, you have other… other places to stay, right? Why spend Christmas in the coldest one you have?" Because let's be honest, that is puzzling behaviour.

For a moment, he doesn't react. Then, I can feel him laughing quietly. "That," he declares, "is a very good question."

Well, yes. That's why I asked it.

"The southernmost palace we have is Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, though I suspect that London is actually a little warmer in winter," he muses. "We've got several places there, but it doesn't provide much holiday feeling."

"No, I wouldn't think so. I mean, that road basically runs right through –," Buckingham Palace, I meant to say, but the name catches in my throat. "Your London home," I amend.

I have a feeling he noticed the change of term, but mercifully doesn't comment on it. Instead, he asks, "You've been? To London?"

There we go.

"Actually, I've been to –," deep breath, Rilla, "to Buckingham Palace."

"Really? To Buck House?" He shuffles slightly so he can look at me a bit better. "How come?"

Groaning, I hide my face in his shoulder. "I just went to see it, alright? A normal tourist, doing normal touristy things. I paid the entrance fee and everything. And then I didn't eat for two days to make up for the expense."

Ken laughs. "That bad, huh?"

I raise my head, my indignation just about winning out against the embarrassment. "Excuse me? People are made to pay through their sodding noses for the privilege of being herded through a couple of rooms alongside, oh, a thousand or so other tourists."

"We do make a point to set up a new exhibition each year," he points out, but I can tell he's ribbing me. "When were you there?"

"Summer of 2007. They had an exhibition in honour of, well…" I let the sentence trails off.

"My grandparents," nods Ken. "I remember. It would have been their sixtieth wedding anniversary that July."

Well, if he says so…

"Exhibition or not, it was still outrageously expensive," I grumble, causing him to reach out and ruffle my hair.

"I'll give you a private tour when you're in London the next time," he promises. "Show you all the good bits we usually keep hidden from the public."

"Such as?" I enquire, my curiosity piqued.

He grins. "We have a swimming pool in the basement."

"Is that so?" I ask, raising one eyebrow and suppressing a smile.

"Uh-huh," he nods. "And a private ATM as well."

"Now you're just showing off," I chide, though there's laughter in my voice.

"Whatever it takes to impress my lady," he replies with feigned sincerity, looking quite pleased with himself when I laugh.

I cuddle closer to him. "Alright then. Swimming pool and ATM. I demand to see both during my private tour."

"Duly noted," he agrees. A second later, he's overcome by a big yawn.

"Tired?" I ask. Now that I look at him a little closer, he does appear rather knackered.

Ken gives me a sheepish smile. "A bit. I'm still running on London time. It's already past midnight in good ole England and I was up early. Before I flew out, I had a breakfast meeting with a charity that focuses on battling addiction."

"Poor you," I commiserate. "How long have you been up?"

"Nineteen hours? Twenty?" he guesses.

"Well, that's plenty. George thinks it's already too long if he's up for a continuous stretch of twenty minutes, not to speak of hours," I explain and peer towards the cat, sound asleep at the bottom of the bed.

Ken nods seriously. "Clever cat."

"Obviously," I agree, making sure to keep my own expression straight.

He smiles, then reaches out to touch my cheek. "I realise that this is turning out to be the oddest visit you've ever had, but if I stay here, I do fear I'm going to fall asleep on you in about ten minutes. If you want me to, I could leave, or…?" He lets the question hang in the air.

I shake my head decidedly. "You're tired. This is a bed. Sounds like a perfect fit to me."

"Compellingly argued," he acknowledge, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Oh, shush," I laugh, reaching over him to switch off the light. "Just go to sleep."

"As the lady wishes," he shoots back.

I roll my eyes at him in reply, but don't deign to form a verbal answer. He, too, has obviously decided to take me at my word, for he settles down more comfortably, keeping an arm over my waist to hold me close.

"Good night, Cinderilla."

"Sweet dreams, Sleeping Beauty."

I can feel him chuckle at my words, but another yawn cuts off any reply. A half-smile in the dark and he's asleep basically the moment he closes this eyes.

(How unfair. I want to be able to fall asleep this easily!)

Shifting to lie more comfortably, I close my eyes as well, but sleep won't come. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm as wide-awake as I've ever been.

Ken breathing deeply beside me, George snoring softly at my feet, I stare into the darkness and know without a doubt that I will never fall asleep. Not like this, anyway.

Making up my mind, I slip out of the bed, careful not to disturb either Ken or George, and tiptoe over to the bathroom, picking up my mobile phone as I pass the table. Once inside, I quietly lock the door behind me and sit down on the bath mat, my back against the wall.

Two taps and the phone speed-dials Mum.

One, two, three rings, then – "Sweetie!"

"Hey Mum," I greet, my voice slightly subdued so as not to wake anyone in the next room.

Mum, naturally, doesn't miss that. "You have company."

"He's asleep. I'm in the bathroom," I explain quickly.

There's a short pause on the other side. "By 'he' we mean…" She trails off.

"Uh-huh," I nod.

"Just checking," states Mum, though seriously, how many men does she think have any reason to be asleep in my bed?

For a second or two, there's silence.

"He arrived from England today. Came by my place almost directly from the airport. Or so he says, anyway," I tell her.

The fingers of my free hand start combing through the knots of the bath mat.

"That's… that's good, isn't it?" Mum asks carefully.

"Yeah. I think so," I agree quietly.

Mum makes a thoughtful sound. "So… anything else?"

"We kissed, cuddled, talked. Then he fell asleep. Jetlag, I think," I answer. I know it's what you'd call 'the short version', but that's most of what happened, isn't it?

"Did you talk about – ?" begins Mum. But I know what she wants to ask and don't much want to hear it.

So, I cut her off. "He gave me a present."

"A present?" There's definite surprise in her voice. "What kind?"

"Jewellery."

I can hear Mum take a deep breath.

"Rilla…" It's just my name, but it carries about five different meanings, all rolled neatly into one. I know exactly what she's not saying.

"It's a necklace," I assure quickly. "A very delicate one. Can't have been that expensive."

A beat. "Gold?"

"Plated," I amend.

Actually, I'm fairly sure it's solid, but whatever helps Mum sleep at night. Even solid gold, I don't think the necklace cost that much into the three figures.

On the other end of the line, Mum lets go of a long breath.

"He promised me a private tour of Buckingham Palace the next time I'm in London," I add, fully aware of how absolutely surreal the words sound.

Once again, a moment of silence. Then – "Rilla, darling… what does this mean?"

I frown at the shower curtain. "Does everything always have to mean something?"

"If a man gives you jewellery and invites you to visit his home, that should mean something. Especially this man," Mum point out.

"Well, what do you think it means?" My voice sounds a little rebellious, but there's part of me very interested in her answer.

"What did he say?" Mum immediately asks back.

The shower curtain absorbs my glare without complaint.

"We… we might… not have talked about it in this much detail," I admit quickly.

Mum sighs. "You need to talk about this, Rilla. Did you ask him why he didn't call the entire time he was in England?"

I press my lips together. "No."

"You should." Mum's voice is gentle, but there's a persistent edge to it.

"But why?" I'm struggling to keep my voice down. "Why do we always have to talk everything out? He's here, he gave me a present, he invited me to see his home and now he's asleep in my bed. What more do you need?"

"I don't need anything, darling," answers Mum, her voice composed. "I'm not sure whether it's enough for you though."

"Well, it is," I insist, stubbornly jutting my chin forward, even though there's no-one to witness it but the shower curtain.

Another long breath from Mum. "What are you two then? A couple?"

I… I think so?

Can't say that though. It just proves her point.

"Sure," I confirm, sounding more confident than I feel.

"Mh," makes Mum, less convinced than I'd like. "And what does that mean?"

What is she talking about?

"I don't think I understand the question," I remark stubbornly. (I mean, I might have an idea. But I don't have to admit that, do I?)

"He's hardly just anyone, Rilla," Mum points out reasonably. "If you are his girlfriend… do you have any idea what you're letting yourself in for?"

"I can handle it, Mum," I persist. "It's fine."

A beat. "But is it? It feels like it's potentially quite… enormous."

"Only if it's blown out of proportion. Which is exactly what you are doing," I argue. "I like him. I'm reasonably sure he likes me as well. Why can't that be enough? Why do you always have to think five steps ahead?"

"Because in this case, I think it's wise to be prepared. It might not look like much now, but say you're still a couple in a year or two… then what?"

"Then nothing!" Why can't she see that? Why does she have to make it all complicated?

"Rilla… you do know that one day, he will be king, don't you?" Mum asks gently.

Frustrated, I let out a breath. "Yes, I know. Thanks for pointing it out. But… so what? It's not like that concerns me, is it?"

Mum sighs. "No. No, maybe not."

But there's a note of doubt in her voice that I don't care for at all.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Visions of Johanna' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1966).


To AnneShirley:
What you don't know (and have no way of knowing) is that in addition to being an unapologetic history nerd and a madcap research fanatic, I also went trough a Romanov phase some years ago. It wasn't limited to Nicholas and Family, but certainly featured them heavily. (I even went to see their former rooms in Alexander Palace when I visited Saint Petersburg back in... oh, 2011?) So, while my knowledge on modern royals might still be sketchy, I've got my Romanovs down pretty good ;).
My timeline deviates only very late in the 19th century, when the Romanovs are already set on their accelerated path to doom. It mostly concern British Royals, too, while Russian history remains pretty untouched by my changes, meaning that the Romanov murders and the revolution(s) happen as they did in real life. (Except for one slight detail, which we will learn about later on.)
Part of what makes this story interesting for me is that I finally get to write all these characters again. DC had Rilla fairly isolated and we did, indeed, never really meet any of the girls or parents, so while I've written them before in other stories, it has been a while. With this chapter, I had lots of fun with Shirley especially! I loved giving him that annoyed teenager vibe, but also wanted him to be a proper part of that family. I dislike how the gets excluded in the books, so this is very much me trying to put that right. I feel that as the youngest, there ought to be a bit of a connection between him and Rilla, and I totally enjoyed writing her in big sister-mode for once! I'm also very happy that my version of Anne continues to work for you and you are, of course, entirely right - Anne would totally do that! (My condolences about you getting teased for your nose. I have the kind of upturned nose that makes me look a decade younger that I am. What I'm saying is, noses can be a pain whichever way they look!)
It's winter in my part of the world as well, and while we rarely get snow either, it's certainly cold enough for me! Not that I need much of an incentive to break out my collection of woollen hats anywhere, ever ;).

To the anonymous Guest:
Hello and thanks for getting in touch :). Marilla is shown talking to quite a few people (Dan, Di, Rilla, Anne and Bertha, I think), but you're right in saying that we haven't seen much of her yet (nor of Bertha, come to think of it). I just had to spread out the family introductions a bit, for otherwise, this Christmas break would have gone on for another five chapters. But it's a long story, so rest assured that I'll get to Marilla as well before it's over.