Glen St. Mary, Canada
December 2011

I had to have this talk with you

There's a knock on the door and I reluctantly turn to look at it. "Yes?"

A mere second later, Dad pops his head in. "Can we come in?" Behind him I can see a flash of red, which is most likely to be Mum.

"Sure," I nod, even though I'm not entirely sure I want company. (The thing about living alone is that I've grown used to having my quiet downtimes. And my family can be a bit overwhelming, especially after not having seen them for several months.)

It is indeed Mum who follows Dad into the room. While he sits down at my desk, swivelling the chair around to face us, she takes a seat next to me on the bed.

I eye them a little warily. I know an intervention when I see one.

Mum reaches out to pat my knee through the blanket. "How are you doing, sweetie?"

"Good," I assure. "Fine."

My parents exchange a meaningful look.

"The photographers turning up at church the other day… we felt their presence upset you," Mum explains carefully.

Taking a deep breath, I shake my head. "No. They didn't upset me. Or at least, they didn't upset me anymore than they usually do."

Another glance crosses between my parents. "What do you mean by 'usually'?" asks Dad after a moment.

I shrug. "I don't exactly get to leave the house anymore without some photographers lurking in front of the building. Christmas wasn't in any way different from that. Just another day."

They look at each other again and I really wish they wouldn't do that. If they're here to talk, why not talk with me instead of exchanging nonverbal messages about me?

"That must be… trying," intones Mum, before reaching out again, this time to squeeze my arm.

Once more, I shrug. "It's not particularly enjoyable, but it's not something I can change. I've found that if I give them their picture, they usually leave me alone after that. I tried to run or hide from them in the beginning, but that just made them follow me and search for me, which is even worse."

"You're very composed about this," Dad observes from his place at the desk.

"I got used to it, I guess. I mean, yes, in the beginning, when there were twenty or more of them, it could be scary, but there aren't nearly as many hanging around anymore. I know most of their faces by now, too, which makes it easier. It's… unpleasant, but it is what it is." I suppress the urge to shrug again.

Mum smiles at me. "I'm proud of how mature you are about this."

"So am I," agrees Dad, but he looks more thoughtful. "But if that wasn't what upset you… what did?"

I take a moment to answer, looking down at my quilt as I order the words in my head. "I wasn't upset, per se. It was more… it was a surprise to learn that my own family is thinking about how the public interest in me can be harnessed to stop people from hunting or make people get vaccinated or sell people more books." The ending comes out a little more sharpish than intended, but I don't do anything to take it back.

Whatever my parents expected, it obviously wasn't that. For two or three seconds, they both look at me, before exchanging another loaded look. (This is really starting to make me feel twitchy.)

"No-one is using you to sell anything," Dad tries to placate. I sit up a little straighter and draw my legs under me, away from Mum's patting hands.

"Your father is right," Mum adds. "I just pointed out that there are positive aspects to this, and getting more children to read is one of them."

Rubbing my neck, I turn my head away from them for a moment, looking over at the window. "What makes you think your new readership actually consists of children?"

A short laugh from Mum makes me turn back towards her. "I write books for children, darling."

"I know you do," I concede, making sure to keep my voice level. "And I agree that some of those books you're selling right now might end up in the hands of children. But others are surely bought by adults trying to figure out whether I'm the girl making deals with God or the one throwing a perfectly good cake into a brook."

I don't think that particular thought has crossed her mind before, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dad nodding slowly.

"Has there been anything in the press about this?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Not about this. But I think it's just a matter of time." Because if the last weeks have taught me anything it's that there's no information about me that isn't worth an article to them. Even if it's just which economics books I checked out of the college library or what kind of sandwich I had for lunch.

(I have no idea how they always find me, but they seem to have a real knack for it. Alas, we never figured out how they first found out about Ken and me either, even though the guy called Emmett really tried his best. We can guess, but we can't know for sure. Which is… slightly disconcerting, to be honest.)

"And besides, even if it is children reading the books," I add, while reaching for my phone, "the increase in public interest comes attached to these types of articles."

The screen springs to life with the press of a button and I hold it out for Mum to see without even so much as glancing at it myself. I don't need to. I know exactly what she's looking at right now.

Naughty Rilla – Not Such a Nice Girl?

This, splashed below a picture of myself, taken at some party or club or another. It's not the only picture either. Someone was apparently really thorough about searching for pictures of me partying. They put together a nice little collection, too.

The accompanying text hold some thinly-veiled jibes, questioning whether I am too fast or too much of a party animal to be stepping out with the heir to the British throne. It's all rather unpleasant, really (and badly written, too – Grandma Bertha would get apoplexy from reading it). I really should have known better than to look at it. I managed to ignore most of the articles claiming I'm pregnant, after all (though Di alerted me to a nice piece praising my fashion style and Shirley showed me an odd one about our ancestors turning into cows… or something). Still, it's hard to ignore everything.

"This isn't… very nice," Mum says slowly, while holding out the phone for Dad to see.

"That's one way of putting it," I nod.

"Where did they get the pictures?" wonders Mum. "Did they follow you when you went out with your friends?"

That actually makes me laugh, though there's little humour behind it. "I haven't gone clubbing since October. It's a bit of a hassle, with a dozen reporters following me around, you know? The most I did was go for dinner with Chelsea and Megan to celebrate exams being over for the year and they already did an entire article just about that before Christmas."

(I did surprisingly well in those exams. Having reporters camping on my doorstep made me stay at home quite a bit these past weeks and with little else left to do, I ended up turning towards doing college stuff. So that, admittedly, might be one benefit of this entire situation.)

Dad hands me back my phone. "Then these are old pictures?"

"Must be," I confirm. "Some look familiar as well. It's not unlikely that someone went through my Facebook page before Shirley set it to private. Or else, they filched my friends' social media. I asked them to take down all pictures of me, but they might not have gotten them all, or maybe just not gotten to them in time. Not that it matters much anyway. It's done."

I look down at the phone in my hand. I must say when I looked at the article for the first time this morning… well, it surprised me. Not the fact that it exists at all, because I've come to expect new articles about myself roughly every other day, just as I've come to expect the photographers to be there in front of the house every single morning. It's more… I wasn't prepared for the nastiness of this, I guess.

I mean, yes, I know these are pictures of me partying, but isn't that what people do? I'm not doing anything outrageous in any of the photos either. Dancing, laughing with friends, having the occasional drink… and yes, my skirts may be short and my heels high, but it's not like I'm half-naked! It doesn't warrant… this.

It certainly doesn't warrant some of the comments posted below the story. 'Harlot' is one of the nicer words thrown around. Several people also question whether I'm having a bad influence on Ken and for some reason, there is a lot of speculation about what the Queen will think.

Dropping the phone down on the blanket, screen down, I instead look up at Mum. "This is part of the public interest that gets more children to read your books," I point out to her. "You will forgive me if I'd rather have my privacy instead."

I'm not even mad, I realise. Not at her, not even at that stupid article. More stunned at finding complete strangers judging me for having a life and calling me names. Hurt, too, at least a bit. Somewhat helpless. But mostly, there's a feeling of resignation that precludes an emotion as strong as anger.

Mum sighs and leans forward to touch my arm. "I didn't know they wrote such things about you."

Unfolding my legs, I get up from the bed and walk over to the window instead. Turning my back to it, I survey my parents for a moment. "Look, I realise that the public interest is part of the package deal of dating Ken. I walked into this one on my own. Still, it would be nice to know my family is behind me, instead of informing me about all the other people who might benefit from strangers calling me a harlot on the internet."

For a long moment, no-one says anything. Finally, it's Dad replying, "You're right. Some of what has been said was insensitive. But I'm sure no-one meant to hurt you and you must remember that we're all still adjusting to this situation as well.

"I know that," I nod. "And I'm sorry you're having to do it at all. Adjust, I mean. But some of those comments did sting and Ken said to tell you and… well, I guess I have just done that."

I'm quite proud of how I did it, too. It might be because I just lack the energy for any more tempestuous reactions right now, but I do think I got my point across very calmly. It's not even about laying blame either. It's just that, well… we're all adjusting, as Dad said. It's probably best to get this out of the way early, lest it starts to rankle.

"You have and we heard you," confirms Mum. "I promise you no more comments about the reading habits of underprivileged children. Alright?"

That actually gets a smile from me, mirroring her own. "Alright."

"And I will remind your brother that we all agree about the benefits of vaccination but that there are better ways to educate the public – beginning with our actual patients," adds Dad with a twinkle in his eyes.

I nod, turning my smile on him.

Privately, I'm feeling quite grateful to Ken for convincing me to tell them about what bothered me. The secrecy of the last year has made it a little difficult for me to correctly gauge what to talk about and what to keep quiet, but he was right in this case. It was good to get this cleared up.

And speaking of secrecy…

There's a dark figure strolling through the snowy garden below my window and even out of the corner of my eye, I recognise it as Walter.

"Jem's just being Jem," I remark into Dad's direction. "It's actually Walter I'm more concerned about. He's acting… a little strange."

"I think he feels hurt that you didn't tell him about your relationship with Ken," offers Mum immediately.

"That wasn't personal. I didn't tell Jem or Shirley either," I remind her. Below in the garden, the Walter-figure has stopped under a group of trees.

Mum hums in thought. "Perhaps you should tell him that?"

Well… it did work out rather nicely this time around, didn't it? The talking, I mean.

"I could do that," I agree slowly, taking a step away from the window.

"Do," encourages Mum. "I know he'd like it."

I believe her, too. Out of us seven children, Walter has always been the one Mum could read easiest.

Thus, in honour of my new discovery about the power of talk, I find myself in the garden mere minutes later, all bundled up against the cold. (Before I left the house, Dad briefly stopped me for a hug and to ask whether we were good. And I truly think that yes, we are.)

Monday, who left little doubt that he absolutely, totally, very much wants to accompany me outside, bounces ahead of me through the garden, whirling up snow and barking in delight. I don't know how he does it, but that dog is seemingly never in a bad mood.

Walter still stands under the trees and watches me approach him. When I raise a hand, he returns the greeting, but that doesn't really mean anything. Even when put out, Walter can usually be relied upon to be polite. He becomes moody, but not mean.

"Hey there," I greet as I come to a halt next to him.

"Hello, Rilla," he answers, turning his head towards me for a moment, before looking back at Monday.

"Isn't it a bit too cold for him?" Walter asks after a moment, nodding towards the dog.

I follow his gaze to where Monday is currently leaping up excitedly and trying to catch lone snowflakes in his snout. "I don't know," I shrug. "He doesn't look like he wants to go inside to me."

Walter makes a sound that is neither agreement nor disapproval, but lets the argument slide. Instead, he lets his eyes travel upwards, to the high branches of the trees we stand under.

"Thus, on a naked tree-limb, blasted / By tardy winter's whistling chill, / A single leaf which has outlasted / Its season will be trembling still," he suddenly quotes (or, you know, I'm reasonably sure it's a quote.)

"Pushkin?" I guess. If in doubt, it's usually Pushkin with Walter. (In fact, it was his frustration with the English translations of Eugene Onegin that made him learn Russian in the first place. He wanted to be able to understand the original and, well, I guess he does now.)

Walter nods. "It's from a poem called 'I have outlasted all desire'. I've seen people claim it's part of Eugene Onegin, but it's not. It was used in a Russian stage adaption from the 1936 though, which might explain the connection. Prokofiev wrote the music, but the play was cancelled by censors. To my knowledge, it has never been shown."

I nod. Not that this interests me in the least, but at least he's talking, so I'll take it. Even if it's about obscure Russian poems.

"There's another translation," Walter adds thoughtfully. "As conquered by the last cold air / When Winter whistles in the wind / Alone upon a branch that's bare / A trembling leaf is left behind. I can never decide which one I prefer, but of course, both are inferior to the Russian original."

Yes. Of course they are.

(Do I even need to mention that my remembrance of Russian literature does not extend past Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way? And I don't even think I ever finished that one. The love story was somewhat interesting, but I just didn't share the fascination with agriculture. Like, not at all.)

Walter has lapsed into silence and I take this as my opportunity to seize the moment. My eyes fixed on Monday, currently half buried beneath a bushel, I remark, "I came here to talk to you about… well, my relationship with Ken, I guess. I have a feeling that it upset you that I didn't tell you about it myself and I wanted to say that I think I understand it. It wasn't anything personal though. I just… I planned to talk to you and Jem and Shirley this Christmas, but it was taken out of my hands."

Humming in thought (very much like Mum does), Walter turns his head to look at me. "I admit that I couldn't help wondering whether it was a lack of trust that stopped you from telling me."

I shake my head decidedly. "It wasn't that. Definitely not. I think I just… I got tired of telling. Tired of everyone having an opinion. Tired of having the same conversation over and over again."

"We only have an opinion because we care about you," Walter points out.

"I know that," I concede quickly (while crossing my fingers in the hope that he won't now feel compelled to offer up his own opinion). "It can still be tiresome to have everyone and their dog comment on your love life."

"Hmh," makes Walter. "I can imagine Monday's opinion wouldn't be very helpful."

That was… that was a joke, wasn't it?

Peering over at Walter, I can indeed see him smiling, thus confirming him to be joking. Which is good. Joking means he isn't mad.

"No," I agree, pointedly cheerful. "He wasn't helpful at all. But then, what to expect from a dog whose favourite hobby is chasing his tail?" (Which Monday is actually currently doing, kicking up lots of snow in the process.)

"Not much," nods Walter as he surveys Monday's antics with obvious amusement.

I keep my head turned towards the dog, but am still watching Walter out of the corner of my eye. I must say, this was easier than I feared it would be. Walter can keep quite the grudge if he wants to, so I didn't expect him to give in this quickly. Unless…

"Can I ask you a question?" I ask, somewhat cautiously.

"Sure," he agrees, while picking up a stick to throw it for an excited Monday.

"Okay, here's the thing," I begin slowly. "When Ken and I first started dating, his security people did a background check on me. It also included you and Mum and Dad and the others. To make sure none of you was secretly a drug kingpin, right? Anyway, I don't think Ken ever saw the files, but they gave him a short briefing at some point."

Is it just me or did Walter's posture just stiffen considerably?

"Is that so?" he replies and there's a strange undertone to his voice.

I nod firmly. "Yes, it is. And, well, he never told be what he was told during that briefing, but he did mention that you'd understand about me keeping secrets, because your job required that of you as well. So, you know… that got me thinking about what it is that you actually do all day."

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. He doesn't even make any move to pick up the stick Monday lays at his feet, so that finally, I give in to the dog's beseeching eyes and lolling tongue and throw the stick for him again. Monday happily scampers off and that seems to rouse Walter from his thoughts.

"I was hired to do translations from Russian for the government," he answers carefully.

"I knew that," I confirm. "I am just not sure how that requires you to keep secrets."

A second passes, before he replies, "I'm not translating school books or opera programs."

Yeah, I didn't think he was.

"You mean you're translating secret stuff?" I ask, narrowing my eyes slightly as I look at him. (The truth is, I have come up with an explanation for this all on my own. I'm not stupid. It's just… it all sounds a bit hard to believe, doesn't it?)

"Top secret, some of it," confirms Walter, as he bends down to take the stick from Monday.

I nod slowly. "And when you say you work for the government, you really mean…"

"The CSIS," he finishes, as we both watch Monday bounce after the stick.

The Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

Right.

"So… you're really a spy or something?" (It sounds even weird out loud than it did in my head.)

Walter chuckles softly and turns his head to look at me. "That sounds rather dramatic. I work for the CSIS, yes, but I don't run around in a trench coat and a cloud of smoke all day. Originally, I really only did translation work, but they've since given me some other tasks as well."

"Which you can't talk about," I deduce.

He shakes his head. "Not in detail, no."

Hmm…

"Any trips coming up then?" I ask, acting my most innocent,

Walter laughs quietly. "Not at the moment. Though even if there were, I couldn't really tell you."

Because it's secret. Of course.

"Just as you haven't told us anything about who you really work for," I remark, somewhat pointedly. (Because really, him being put out at me keeping secrets is a prime example of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?)

Walter sighs. "Mum and Dad know. I'm not expressively forbidden from telling the rest of you who I work for either, but…"

He trails off, but I have already understood. "But you weren't keen on the scrutiny," I finish for him. "Or the questions."

"No," confirms Walter with another sigh. "No, I wasn't."

"Well, welcome to the club," I declare cheerfully and clap him on the back. "You have now successfully worked out why I didn't tell you about Ken and you are now officially forbidden from being mad at me for not doing it."

"I was never mad at you," Walter is quick to point out.

I shrug. "Details. You were certainly moody about it for a bit. Which you are also forbidden from being, because otherwise, I will have no choice but to call you Pot henceforth." A beat. "What's that called in Russian?"

"Pot?" he asks, looking a little nonplussed. "That would be gorshok."

"Gorshok," I repeat, satisfied. "Gorshok you shall be, if you ever make a fuss about me keeping secrets again."

Walter blinks at me for a moment, before starting to shake his head, laughing quietly. "You are right," he admits.

"Of course I am," I reply confidently.

I would have said something more, if only to harp on about my rightness a little longer, but Monday takes that moment to return from the far end of the garden. Except that instead of the stick Walter threw for him, he proudly carries a branch that is about four times as long as he is and so wide he can barely get is muzzle around it. He carefully lays it down on Walter's feet and stares up at us, his tail wagging as fast as it will go.

"So…" I begin slowly as we both look down at the dog and his ridiculously big tree branch. "What does 'foolish dog' mean in Russian?"


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Jolene' (written by Dolly Parton, released by her in 1973).


A/N: Special thanks to OriginalMcFishie, who has kindly taken over beta-reading duties while oz diva is away on vacation!