Halifax, Canada
July 2011

I'm young, I know, but even so

"Rilla? Is that you?" Dad calls out.

Stopping to pop my head into his office, I see him sitting at his desk, legs propped up on the desk top, and looking very much like a person engaged in doing nothing at all.

"Come here and keep your old father company for a bit?" he asks, his eyes crinkling into a smile.

"Sure," I smile back. Slipping into the room and closing the door behind me, I walk past Dad to drop a kiss on his cheek, before folding myself on the squishy old armchair that's been the only constant in the succession of Dad's offices ever since I can remember. Nan keeps trying to get him to replace it, but Dad always cheerfully refuses, and truthfully, I'm glad for it. What it lacks in looks, it makes up for in cosiness.

"Did you have a good time?" Dad wants to know, referencing the fact that I've just come back from lunch with some old friends from school (at which the topic of Betty and Liam's engagement proved so popular that, thankfully, no-one wanted to know much about what is going on in my life).

I nod empathically. "Yes, it was lovely to see everyone again. We really don't meet up often enough, so it's always especially nice when we manage to get together."

"I can imagine," agrees Dad, while lightly nodding along to the music playing in the background.

With a pointed look at his legs still on the desk, I enquire, "And what have you been doing today?"

"Not writing the article for that medical journal. The one I should have been writing," he answers with a conspiratorial smile. "But no telling your mother."

"My lips are sealed," I promise with a laugh.

"That's my girl!" declares Dad proudly and winks at me.

With a whirring sound, the current record – Genesis' endless 'Firth of Fifth' – comes to an end and, swinging his legs down from the desk, Dad gets up to put on a new one.

Vinyl records, it must be said, is the one and only thing Dad is snobbish about. He swears their sound is much more authentic than that of any other medium. CDs, he's declared to be perfectly useless and suspiciously new-fangled besides, and back when Shirley and I once tried to demonstrate to him the benefits of portable media, he nodded and smiled a lot and then went to put on a Springsteen record.

I watch quietly as Dad selects a record from his collection. It's big enough to take up almost half of a wall and meticulously organised at that. Many years ago, when Joy was mad at him for something no-one can remember, she went into his office at night and re-ordered them. I was just a child then, but I still remember how mad Dad was about it. After that, we all knew better than to ever touch his records.

Having apparently decided on one, Dad puts on the new record and seconds later, the familiar tune of Bob Seger's 'Against the Wind' floats through the room.

Snuggling deeper into the squishy armchair, I allow my twitching foot to move to the beat of the song. Dad remains standing next to the record player, eyes closed, taking in the music, and for several long moments, we both just listen to the song.

It's only when the instrumental bridge in the middle of the song is over that Dad opens his eyes again. "Ah, that piano is just beautiful," he remarks appreciatively.

I nod my affirmation, but feel otherwise too lazy to move or speak, just about suppressing a yawn. Allowing Seger to play out the rest of his song, Dad picks out Toto's 'Hold the Line' next (which is certainly catchy enough to wake me up again), before he returns to his chair, sitting down and stretching out his legs in front of him.

He's looking at me, mildly interested, until I feel myself growing twitchy. As Steve Lukather launches into his guitar solo, I ask, "Was there any specific reason you wanted to talk to me?"

"I just thought we could spend some time together," Dad answers with a smile. "Despite your exciting Big Apple life, your boring old parents are always happy when you come back to see them."

"Dad!" I chide. "Don't be melodramatic! You see me plenty. More than any of the others, except for Jem and Shirley."

Because while I have so far made a habit out of spending my summers with my parents, my sisters and Walter rarely return except for the big Ingleside reunions. I think Di hasn't been back to Halifax in about two years.

Unlike Ingleside, which has been our island home ever since I can remember, my parents moved several times within Halifax. Before my birth, those were usually moves to ever bigger properties, but lately, they've been downsizing. After I left for university and Jem moved out of their basement, they sold the last house and rented out a flat. It takes up the upper floor of one of these big old houses that once belonged to just one family, but have since been partitioned off. Of us children, only Shirley still has a permanent bedroom here, the rest of us sleeping in the small guest room or on the pull-out couch in the living room whenever we're visiting. (As the only other child returned so far, I laid claim to the guest room immediately. If anyone else should arrive before we decamp to the island, they're perfectly welcome to the couch!)

"We can never see too much of our beloved children," Dad declares grandly, but there's a distinct twinkle of amusement on his eyes.

"Oh, please. Save your sweet talks for Mum, will you?" I retort drily, rolling my eyes at him and feeling quite pleased at how successful I am at keeping a straight face.

"Excellent idea," Dad agrees amiably, and ugh, that's about all I ever want to know about that. I love how in love my parents are, but I certainly don't need to hear any specifics.

Apparently, my thoughts must have shown clearly on my face, because Dad laughs quietly. But instead of probing (or plying me with details), he merely gets up replace Toto with another record. He carefully places the spindle and the first bars of 'The Way It Is' by Bruce Hornsby & The Range can be heard.

It sure looks like someone is feeling piano-y today.

Having settled back into his chair, Dad once again goes back to looking at me. "Alright, if you prefer more serious subjects of discussion…" he begins slowly. "How are you doing? How did exams go?"

I groan.

"Can we not?" I plead, even though I know I don't have any chance of success. My parents never ask for proof of my college grades, but they always make a point to ask how my studies are going. In fact, I'm surprised that Dad's only asking now.

"Exams are important, Rilla," Dad points out. He doesn't say it accusingly, but I can feel the back of my neck starting to prickle at the prospect of that discussion. He's looking all disappointed, too, and that doesn't help matters.

"I know they are," I counter. "And I passed all of mine, so it's all peachy. We can now go on to discuss happier things."

The truth is, it isn't looking so very peachy. My exams really aren't something to be proud of. Luckily, there were the somewhat more successful midterm exams plus class participation plus a group project (coordinated to perfection by Chelsea) plus a couple of papers to dredge my overall grades up into more acceptable territory, but it's still… yeah.

Dad makes a thoughtful sound. "You know that your mother and I are of the opinion that you're all adults and responsible for your own lives, but this is your future we are talking about. If you don't do your best in university, you might come to regret it."

"Well, I'm sorry we can't all be Di," I retort, somewhat sullenly, and curl myself deeper into the armchair.

"No-one is expecting you to be Di, Rilla," Dad replies earnestly.

"Could have fooled me," I mutter, not looking at him.

The thing is, I am not like Di. Nor like Joy, for that matter. Their particular brand of brilliance passed me by. Shirley has it, but his overall grades in school have always been hampered by the fact that he couldn't (or wouldn't) write a proper essay even if his life depended on it. And while Nan and Jem are just run-of-the-mill clever, they both have a goal firmly in sight and know to work towards it. Jem's helped by the fact that he has no real academic weaknesses, while Nan can spin everything to sound cleverer than it is.

And then there are Walter and I. Having neither brilliance nor a high-flying goal, we are best motivated by something that truly interests us and find little joy in running the hamster wheel just for the sake of it. Which shouldn't be the travesty it is considered in this family, if you ask me.

I'm not a very bad student. It's not that. I mean, after I actually knuckled down to learn, I did quite well in my International Baccalaureate courses (my parents' idea and one of the reasons why they sent all of us to Halifax Grammar School) and NYU doesn't accept just anyone, after all. I don't even think I'm particularly stupid. My grades usually come in somewhat above average, but not above average enough to be in any way impressive. And I have to put in the work to achieve it. Di can walk into an exam and wing it and come out successful, but not me. I do the work or pay the price.

This time, I paid the price.

Dad has gotten up again and moments later, Derek and the Dominos (or, really, Eric Clapton and Friends) start on 'Layla'. Instead of going back to his chair though, Dad comes to kneel down in front of me. I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them, looking at him warily over the top of my knees.

"No-one is expecting you to be Di," Dad affirms. "We are very proud of Di, but we're proud of you as well, just the way you are. We just sometimes worry about you, your mother and I."

"You mean now that Shirley has finally resolved to leave his room, you need another child to worry over?" I grumble.

(Shirley is heading for Georgia Tech in the fall. Quite what drew him to Atlanta, no-one knows, but I have a sneaking suspicion that's actually why he picked it. Shirley hates to be predictable and him studying computer sciences was already predictable enough.)

Shaking his head slightly, Dad reaches out to place his hand over mine. "This has nothing to do with Shirley and you know it," he points out reasonably. (Dad does most things reasonably.) "We just wonder what you picture your future to look like."

Yeah. Well. I wonder that as well.

"I'm just… taking it as it comes, I guess," I answer slowly, raising my shoulders in what is half a shrug, but not lowering them again.

"Next year, you'll be done with college," Dad reminds. "Do you know what you'd like to do afterwards?"

I let my shoulders fall. "Get a job. As everyone does."

"Hmh," makes Dad. "And what kind of job do you see yourself doing?"

Jeez, how am I supposed to know?

"Some kind of office job, I suppose. Whatever you do with an economics degree," I reply. I must say, I'm hazy on the details of this, but then, I also don't care all that much. Most office jobs are created alike, aren't they?

Dad looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, before giving my hand a gentle squeeze. "If you would like to start over… study something else…"

Huh? Where did that come from?

I shake my head. "No. Why would I?" Economics are, after all, perfectly serviceable, if somewhat bland.

"You just don't seem as passionate about your studies as –" Abruptly, Dad breaks off.

As your siblings, he was going to say. The words hang between us, as glaring as a blinking neon sign.

He's not wrong, either. My siblings all chose subjects they're passionate about. Even Walter loves his Russian poets, which is more than I can say about microeconomics or Irish literature.

Over on the record player, the song segues into its second, piano-heavy part.

"I'm not," I tell Dad openly. "I'm not passionate about it. It's alright and it could be worse. That's not too bad, as far as I am concerned. And I know that probably marks me out as the weird one, but I don't have anything I'm that passionate about. I just don't."

Dad looks like he wants to say something, but I cut right across him. "Look, I realise I messed up with my exams. I didn't study enough, which was my own fault and I know it. I'm annoyed at myself, because I knew better and ignored it, but there you have it. It's not the end of the world though, because for the kind of job I'm likely to get, I won't be needing top grades anyway. I promise you I will make sure to study harder next time, but it's not like anything really changed."

I can see Dad's brow furrow into a frown as he processes this. He's trying, I know, but I don't really expect him to get it. Dad has brilliance, he has goals and he has something he is that passionate about. In short, he's the exact opposite of me.

"And that is truly enough for you?" Dad asks carefully after having organised his thoughts.

I shrug. "Sure."

Because it just has to be, right? I've known for years that I'm not the one destined for greatness in this family. More likely, I'm going to spend my days answering phones and filing papers while my siblings write their names into history books. And yes, at first, it hurt to acknowledge that, but the years have lessened the sting somewhat.

Dad shakes his head, as if trying to clear his mind. "But there must be something –"

I interrupt him with a shake of my own head. "There isn't. I don't have that perfect profession like the rest of you do. I'll get a job, it'll pay the bills, I'll go home at the end of the day, and it'll be alright. I enjoy my life just fine. I don't need work to fulfil me in any way."

And I'm sure as hell not going to attempt to enter into a race I have no chance of winning. If I must be the foolish one in the family, let it be that way, but I refuse to embarrass myself over it.

It's clear from the look in Dad's eyes that he's not convinced, but I didn't expect him to be. For the brilliant, it's hard to imagine what life looks like for us mere mortals. But to his credit, he nods anyway, before slowly unfolding himself and getting to his feet.

"We just want you to be happy." His voice, as he says it, is quiet, but sincere. I don't doubt it, either.

"I am happy," I reply, feeling myself softening. "And I'll put more work into my studies in the future. I promise."

(This, if nothing else, should be the one advantage of not having Ken around anymore. I'll have lots more time on my hands come next semester.)

Dad smiles at me, before turning to select a new record. I settle back into the armchair, waiting for the next offering in today's selection of "greatest piano sections in rock history". What comes on is – 'School' by Supertramp. Of all the songs…

"Dad!" I protest.

Chuckling, Dad turns around to face me. "Hear them out, darling," he asks.

So, I do. And as the song unfolds its message, I can't help reflecting, that, for all everyone always pins Mum as the empathetic one, Dad is just as good, in his own way. Had he chided or upbraided me, I know I probably would have gone defiant and left the room. Now, I've made up my mind to do better next semester, just to make him proud.

Having remained standing by the record player, Dad is quick to put on the next record after Supertramp have finished and when he does, I can't help laughing. It's Al Stewart's 'The Year of the Cat'.

"One of George's favourites!" I declare happily. Then, after a second of thought, "Though he probably thinks he ought to be dedicated a century at least, not just a measly year."

"Very probably," agrees Dad. "That cat is quite the character."

Mum and Dad, it must be said, met George when they came to visit Joy and me in New York not too long after I moved into The Shoebox. Clever cat that he is, he made a point to like them both and was adored in return. Mum delightedly declared him to resemble Rusty, her own childhood cat, while Dad commented favourably on his purr. That they took to him can hardly be considered surprising though, seeing as George's super powers even managed to win over a dog person like Ken.

Watching Dad carefully put away the Supertramp record, his head nodding along to the instrumental intro of Al Stewart and his cat year, I realise that I probably won't get a better chance than this.

"I've met someone," I tell him, just a little hesitatingly.

Dad slides the record into its proper place on one of the shelves and looks over at me. "That's nice. Is he a fellow student?"

"No. He's from England," I reply, quite as if that was not a fairly nonsensical answer to the question he asked.

For a moment, there's puzzlement in Dad's face, but then he nods slowly. "What does he do?"

Oh, trust Dad to jump right to the difficult questions!

"He's… well… what I mean is… look, he…" Frustrated, I break off. I've found no better way to say this than when I struggled to tell my sisters. Only that now, there's no Ken around to help me out.

Over on the record player, Al Stewart finally starts singing. Dad watches me patiently, his eyes shining in amusement.

I take a deep breath. "He's a prince."

There. It sounds no less weird out loud than it did in my head.

Dad frowns in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't –"

"A prince," I interrupt quickly. "A real one. The kind that will be king one day."

Yeah. That doesn't sound much better either.

Still frowning, Dad opens his mouth once or twice, before finally coming up with, "If he's from England and one day will be… do I take that to mean that you're talking about…?"

But the words must seem strange to him as well, for he does not finish his question. Doesn't need to, either. It's clear what he meant to ask.

"Yes," I answer, biting my lip in nervousness. "He's the Prince of Wales to you, but to me… to me, he's just Ken."

Dad blinks rapidly. "And you are…?"

"Yes," I repeat quietly.

The music segues into the first saxophone solo.

"And for how long…?" asks Dad.

"Six months. A little bit more. We were friends before," I reply haltingly. Wrapping my arms tighter around my knees, I watch him for any sign of what he thinks of this, but so far, he just looks utterly baffled.

As the saxophone solo comes to an end, I can see him take a deep breath. "Is this… serious?"

I nod my head, the tiniest of movements. "I love him, Dad."

That does the trick.

Staggering over to his chair, Dad sits down on it heavily, supporting his body by placing his hands on his knees. Shaking his head in disbelief, he remarks, "At least that explains your mother's new found interest in the royal family."

"Yeah. Mum knew," I confirm, shifting slightly in my seat. "I asked her not to tell anyone though. Not even you. It was still so new, when she found out."

Dad exhales heavily. "She didn't tell me. I knew she was keeping a secret, but she said it was yours to tell and I would never want her to break your trust. But I never would have guessed it was this secret either."

"I know it sounds surreal," I admit, my voice small. "It's true though. I'm not making this up. And I'm not crazy or anything,"

That gets Dad to look at me. "I know you're not making it up. It just came as a surprise, I must say."

That's one way of putting it.

Silence falls between us just as 'The Year of the Cat' comes to an end. This time, Dad shows no sign of getting up to put on a new record. He's just sitting there, staring into space, shaking his head once in a while.

So, I uncurl myself from the armchair, walk over to the shelves holding his records and flip through them, looking for another one that has a good piano section. Bypassing David Bowie's 'Life on Mars?' and Neil Young's 'After the Goldrush', I finally settle on Jethro Tull and 'Locomotive Breath', a song as remarkable for its use of the flute as it is for its piano intro.

I struggle a little to change the records, but do get it done on the second try. And when the first piano tunes reach his ears, that succeeds in rousing Dad from his thoughts.

"Good pick," he commends and smiles at me, though I can still see the wonder in his eyes. (Partly, maybe, because I've been known to declare the sound of Jethro Tull to be a little too 'out there' for my tastes.)

"Ken likes them," I reply with a shrug, aiming for nonchalance but still watching Dad closely out of the corner of my eye as I walk back to my chair.

Dad swallows heavily, but it's apparent that he, too, is trying to appear normal. "So, he has good taste in music then?"

"You'd approve," I nod. "Not for nothing, you're both of one mind when it comes to my lack of appreciation for Hendrix and Santana."

For a moment, Dad seems to consider this, before a small smile steals onto his lips. "Not even a real prince was able to convert you, I see."

"Got to stick with my principles," I retort loftily, though barely able to fight my own smile. Then, after a moment of thought, "And no, I do not want to discuss principles right now."

Dad chuckles, but bows his head in acquiescence to my request. "I had no intention to," he assures. "If anything, I'm wondering…" He trails off, clearly looking for the right way to phrase this.

"Wondering what?" I prompt.

"You told me you loved him," Dad answers slowly. "I can't help wondering whether those feelings are reciprocated."

I nod once, firmly. "They are."

He looks more thoughtful than surprised at this and I love him for it.

"He went back to England just before I came here," I continue. "But he asked me whether I could see us staying together. It's not going to be easy, but he… well, he said he doesn't want to lose me, and asked me to give our relationship a try, even if it has to be long distance."

"And you said yes." The way Dad says it, it would be a question, but it isn't really.

"And I said yes," I confirm, the smile finally breaking through.

Dad nods slowly, looking pensive. "That is serious, indeed. Do you have any idea where this is heading?"

I shake my head. "No. None at all."

He, in turn, looks so taken aback that I can't help but laugh. "Maybe that's just the way I am, Dad. I'm not one for planning. I take life as it comes. I mean, yes, in a way, this is completely crazy, but it's also just another path in my life. I've got no idea where it's heading, but I'd like to find out. And regardless of where it ends, I have a feeling it might be worth it for the journey alone."

"Hmm…" makes Dad and I know that he, like everyone I've told, thinks I'm walking into this naïvely and totally unprepared. Maybe they're right, too. Very probably, they are. But it's the way I'm doing this and if I end up falling flat on my face, well… then it was my own choice that tripped me up.

I don't voice any of this, but something must have shown on my face, because Dad allows the subject to rest. "A prince," he mutters to himself instead, pulling a somewhat comical face, making me laugh. When he looks at me, there's the familiar twinkle in his eye and I relax back into my chair. Looks like we've weathered the strangest part of this.

As if on cue, 'Locomotive Breath' ends (aptly, too) and Dad gets up to change the record once more. When, after he's done, the sound of guitar strings wafts over to me, it takes me just a second too long to recognise the song. 'Lucky Man' by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. (No piano piece, this one. It's got a weird synthesizer instead.)

He had white horses
And ladies by the score
All dressed in satin
And waiting by the door

Ooooh, what a lucky man he was

"Dad!"


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Love Hurts' (written by Boudleaux Bryant, released by Nazareth in 1975).


To AnneShirley:
Welcome back! So nice to be hearing from you again :). I was thinking about you the other day and starting to wonder whether you're alright.
I'm really glad to hear that you friend is doing better. That sounded very worrying, when they didn't know what was wrong with her! I'm also happy and a little honoured that DC was able to distract both of you a little in a difficult situation. And I hope exams went well? :)
In answer to your last review, you are, of course, totally right that at the moment, Ken and Rilla don't have a totally equal relationship. He's in charge more than her and he has information that she doesn't have. That's not good, especially not long-term. Part of why Ken isn't forthcoming with information about his family is for story-telling reasons - by keeping Rilla in the dark about the royals initially, I can reveal all of that in small doses, which hopefully keeps things interesting for longer ;). For another, I actually mean for that relationship to be on unequal ground at the moment, because that's a major plot arc. By the end of this story, if I get it right, Rilla and Ken will be complete equals. Their (especially her) journey to that point is an important part of this story.

I loved reading your thoughts on Jake. I have rather a soft spot for him (Izzie, too, but Jake especially) and I really means a lot that you like him as well. That his behaviour and his worries ring true to you, who has known a similar situation, also means very much to me. (I really, really hope your Dad recovered?)
I wouldn't be too worried about the PPOs renting out that flat, because to Rilla, that doesn't mean any more surveillance than she was under anyway. Basically, the PPOs only enter the rented flat when Ken is with Rilla, so it stands empty when she's alone. They can view the front entrance of her house from it, but can't look into her apartment proper. And she always knew that whenever Ken visited her, his PPOs were waiting in cars on the street, so their presence is nothing new to her. What the flat did was move them from an uncomfortable car to a more comfortable place to stay. Apart from that, nothing changed from how it was before and the change that did happen concerns Rilla only peripherally (if anything, the PPOs are going to be less watchful in their flat than they were in the car, so it might even mean less surveillance for her).
As you said, a long distance relationship will certainly be a challenge for them (though there's another one coming up later in the story, which will be even more difficult, but right now, it's that or breaking up. Ken has to go back, Rilla isn't ready to follow him yet (not to speak of her studies), so they can only try and see whether it works. At least they can blame this separation on someone else, so there's no resentment between Rilla and Ken themselves. Alas, moving on, I hope this first Halifax chapter delivered? I promised Gilbert for quite some time, so it's been a long time coming. I don't have much experience in writing Gilbert, but I do hope I managed to get him right :).

To wow:
I must admit that it does amuse me a little bit how many readers get invested in Rilla's financial situation (and that's definitely not just you!). I'm saying that with lots of affection, because I know that I would wonder about it as well, were I a reader in this situation ;). We'll get there in time though, pinky promise! It's a little plot point that ought to be quite fun, once I get around to writing it.
Rilla's rain check, alas, turned out a bit gentler than I meant for it to, because Gilbert didn't want to be as strict as I had planned. But he got his point across and she will study harder in the future, so I think it was ultimately a successful talk.
Leslie definitely has a mental illness (which will become a big plot point in the future). I haven't yet decided whether she's bipolar or whether it's "just" a depression and the happier times are when she's periodically doing better, but it's definitely serious. And while I think that the press and most of the public have an inkling that something is the matter with her, they were never given a definite diagnosis. The palace might not be able to hide that there is something going on with her, but they could probably hide the extent of it and leave everyone guessing.
Ken's government internship is designed to be as apolitical as possible, also involving time with the opposition and with parliament. This will be his government one day, so they're trying to give him a good look in and show him how the politics behind it work. He's just trailing different people, not getting involved himself. Very similar to what he did at the UN, actually.
Jake, funnily enough, is the only one brave enough to voice what everyone is thinking but no-one is saying: that, if this is supposed to go the distance, there's no way around Rilla moving to the UK at some point. She isn't ready for that yet, but it has to come up again and it definitely will. (Look out for Grandma Bertha having an opinion about it!)

To Aoggfan:
Thank you for your lovely review and your kind words! I'm so glad you're enjoying this story and it made me smile to hear it :). Definitely made my Saturday! I hope you'll like what I have planned for all these characters in the future and would love to hear from you again :).