London, England
April 2014

Come gather round

Di stops dead in her tracks. "This is where you live?" She's staring down the row of uber-fancy Victorian terraced houses with an expression of deep scepticism – and I can't even blame her.

"Not quite," I placate her, though I have a distinct feeling my actual abode won't invoke a very different reaction.

Turning, I see Nan peek through the fence of the communal garden. It occupies much of the square that is bordered by rows of fancy terraced houses.

"It's a garden square," I explain. "They're a London thing, or so I've been told. Only residents get a key."

"Do you have one?" asks Joy. Nan looks vaguely hopeful. (It is a very pretty garden, there's no denying that.)

"I don't, but my landlords do. I know where their key is kept. We can go in sometime if you like," I offer.

Nan nods earnestly. "Yes, please. It looks like stories should be set here."

"If they are, it's undoubtedly stories about an unconventional, spirited earl's daughter falling in love with a poor but rakish merchantman," Di remarks laconically.

"Who then comes into a surprising inheritance," I spin her idea further.

"Naturally," Di acknowledges.

"Or else," supplies Joy, "it's about a beautiful and principled kitchen maid falling for the handsome but arrogant heir who turns out to hide a dark, tragic secret."

"Sounds familiar, Rilla?" Di teases, wiggling her eyebrows.

(My sisters haven't even been in the country for three hours and already, there's been lots of teasing. They were positively delighted when Nan spotted a newspaper in the tube, headlining with an article about Douchebag Chad signing on for Big Brother. I wasn't amused.)

Turning my nose up at Di, I shake my head decidedly. "Indeed it doesn't sound familiar. You forget that no sane person would hire me as a kitchen maid."

"Touché." Di grins.

"Just for the record," pipes up Nan, frowning. "Those were not the kind of stories I meant."

"Not?" Joy feigns surprise. "You mean our ideas lacked the element of an arranged marriage?"

"Always a classic!" I agree brightly.

Nan huffs. "You are incorrigible. All three of you!"

"What can we say? It's all in the genes," Di shoots back, grinning from ear to ear. Nan throws her a withering look.

Joy, ever the peacemaker in our group of sisters (and very possibly only there), reaches out to link arms with Nan. "How's this? We'll go visit the garden tomorrow and then you can tell us the kind of story you were thinking of."

Nan considers her doubtfully as Joy pulls her along the sidewalk, Di and me trotting after them. "Are you making fun of me?" Nan wants to know.

"Wouldn't dream of it," promises Joy, even raising her hand to cover her heart. (The corners of her mouth, however, are twitching suspiciously, belying her attempt at seriousness.)

To draw Nan's attention away from our teasing of her, I suggest, "I thought we could go to Portobello Road Market up in Notting Hill tomorrow. It's a food market during the week, but Saturday is when all the stalls are open. It can get pretty crowded, but if we're there early, it shouldn't be too bad."

As I hoped, that piques Nan's interest immediately. "I heard of that one! They sell antiques, don't they?"

"Among other things," I confirm. "Antiques, clothes, second hand stuff…"

Nan's face visibly brightens.

"Just remember that there's a maximum weight limit on checked bags…" remarks Di pointedly, eyebrows raised.

Nan clucks her tongue at her twin. "I can have it shipped." Then, turning to me, "Can't I have it shipped?"

I raise both hands. "Feel free." (Doesn't really affect me what she does with her purchases, does it?)

"Excellent," declares Nan. "We can also go to the other one, can't we? Camden Market?"

"Sure," I agree. "Best do that during the week though, to escape the weekend crowds."

"Speaking of markets," Joy chimes in. "Could we also go to Borough Market sometime during the week? I might want to stock up on herbs and spices and I heard it's a good place for specialty food."

"Also for good street food," I add. "It's not far from the office and we like to go there during lunch break."

"At least spices don't weigh much," Di mutters audibly.

Joy lightly slaps the back of her head. "We shall see how many pounds in vintage clothing you end up buying."

Valid point!

Di grumbles, making the rest of us laugh even louder.

We've reached a vaulted archway at the end of a row of terraced houses and I stop to unlock the gate, before waving my sisters through. (When the gate falls shut, it effectively locks out the photographers who have been following us at a distance.) Behind the big houses at the front runs a small, cobbled street with a row of narrower buildings, ducking in the shadows of their larger counterparts.

The mews houses dotted all over London were used to stable horses and carriages, back when horses and carriages were still a thing. When they stopped being a thing – and the number of families rich enough to maintain a large town house dwindled significantly – most mews houses were turned into residential homes, around the same time as the big front houses were sectioned into flats.

With the de Duras family being among the very few still able to keep a town house, theirs remains intact, but their horses and carriages have long been relocated to the country. Lucky for me, I reckon, because otherwise, I'd be less a home right now.

Directing my sisters to a white-painted brick house, I move to unlock the front door.

"This is where you live?" asks Di, in an imitation of herself just minutes earlier.

I smile to myself, but don't answer. I knew she'd question this as well. While much smaller and less fancy than the terraced houses up front, it should still be absolutely impossible for me to rent my 'little' mews house. (And really, it would be impossible but for Rolly and Genie's extreme kindness.)

While I'm still considering what to answer Di, I can hear Joy enquiring, "Do I spy a garage? Don't tell me you have a car to go with all of this."

Rolling my eyes, I turn to look at her. "No sane person drives in London, just as no sane person drives in New York. Rolly uses the garage for his beloved Rolls Royce. It's older than our parents."

"Rolly?" repeats Nan questioningly.

"He and his wife Genie are my landlords. Their daughter is a friend," I explain.

"That would be Tatty, correct?" Joy wants to know.

I nod confirmation. Looks like someone paid attention.

"They all have fancy British titles, don't they?" Joy further enquiries, frowning as if to recall details.

"And a lot of money," adds Di, more statement than question, as she takes in the exterior of my home.

"They have both." I nod. "And they're gracious enough to let me stay here for… well, considerably less than market rent."

In fact, originally, they didn't want to take any money at all. Only when I insisted most stubbornly did we find a compromise and thus, my rent is now officially fixed at – in Genie's words – "whatever you can afford". It won't surprise anyone to know that that's not a lot. I'm much happier working for Pamela than I ever was working for Marcia and the work itself is much more interesting, too (I actually get to plan things, for one), but it pays even less. In fact, I'd be surprised if my 'rent' even went so far as to cover ancillary costs.

"That's nice of them," Nan decides, smiling at me, and that seems to settle that subject. (I'm glad of it, too. I still feel a little uncomfortable with this arrangement and don't need it questioned, not even by my sisters.)

Pushing open the front door, I invite them in with a sweeping gesture. "Step inside, please!"

"Do we get a tour?" asks Joy, looking around curiously.

"That was the idea," I confirm. "Just drop your suitcases in the hallway. We'll pick them up later."

Closing the door, I slip past them through the wide, arched opening leading into the kitchen. It's a funnily triangular room, drenched in light by three patterned lead glass window. The actual kitchen – white and understated – occupies the narrow end and an oval-shaped wooden table stands right in front of us.

"Nice," commends Di.

"I love the windows!" exclaims Nan, leaning forward to examine them closer.

"There are more of those upstairs, some even with a border of coloured glass," I tell her. Truth to be told, I myself am not entirely convinced by the windows (they are pretty old-fashioned), but I guess they suit the feeling of the house. And anyway, Nan seems quite enamoured with them, while Joy is busy inspecting the kitchen. Di just rolls her eyes at them both.

With the garage occupying a large chunk of the downstairs, there's no more room for anything but the kitchen, hall and a half-bathroom, so I direct my sisters upstairs next.

"Come on, up to the first floor," I invite them.

They follow me, but I spy Nan and Di exchanging an amused look. Joy, for her part, reaches out to pat my shoulder. "They're really doing their best to turn you into a little Brit, aren't they?" she asks, grinning.

I frown at her, confused.

"Second floor," emphasises Di. "We're going up to the second floor."

We're… oh. Right.

"Whatever," I reply, the ultimate passive-aggressive response. "Second floor, then."

That just draws more laughter from all three.

Ignoring them, I stomp the last steps up towards the second floor, where the staircase opens directly into what is fancily called the reception room but is really a plain old living room. It is, I must admit, one of the nicer ones, large and airy with a set of French doors leading out to a pretty wrought-iron balcony. To my regret, someone bricked up the fireplace, but if I desire an open fire, I can always pop over to Genie and Rolly when they're in town or else, there are a few palaces where I'm welcome. (Such is my life. I know.)

Di eyes the sofas. "Those look comfy," she remarks.

"They are," I agree. "Good for lounging on. But this house also comes with enough bedrooms so that no-one actually has to sleep on one."

"Of course it does," teases Joy, winking at me when I glare.

Leading them into a short hall, I open the first door. "Bathroom," I explain – needlessly, I reckon. Everyone should recognise a bathroom, after all, and while this is a nice one – all fancy beige marble – it's undeniably a bathroom. It also comes with a tub, which puts it higher in my esteem than the main bathroom upstairs.

Opening the next door, I begin to explain, "This is –"

"Tiny," Di finishes for me.

She's not wrong. It's technically a bedroom, but so small that there's barely enough space for a twin bed and a bed stand. Size-wise, it's more of a pantry.

I shrug. "Well, it's one of three. I doubt I'll ever have reason to use it."

"No, it's good!" protests Joy. "That way, when I send you the kids in summer, they can each have their own room and your life will be much easier."

Um…

"The kids? In summer?" I repeat, feeling confused.

Joy blinks. "Didn't I tell you?"

Evidently not.

"Dan has a conference in Rome in July and I'm accompanying him. We're dropping off Jake and Izzie here on our way," my sister graciously informs me. (Behind her, Di sniggers.)

"Well, that's… that's good to know," I stutter.

"Thought you might like a heads-up," Joy replies brightly.

(We're both joking though. I'm glad to have the kids with me and she knows it.)

"I guess in that case, I will get to use the pantry bedroom after all," I muse. "This one's much smaller, but I'll make Persis take a nap in here and tell Izzie a real princess slept in this very bed. That should do the trick."

"I applaud your cunning sense of manipulation," comments Joy drily, making the rest of us laugh.

"I'll really ask Persis to do it!" I defend myself, though laughing myself. "It won't even be a lie!"

I will ask her, too. Persis and I don't have sleepovers as much as we did when I technically lived at Ken's place, but Persis is here quite frequently, or else I'm at her place. We go up to Windsor almost every weekend to ride and we're also having dinner with her parents with reasonable frequency, either there or at Buck House. These dinners aren't nearly as odd as they were in the beginning. Seeing as she's more reserved and less easy-going than Owen, my interaction with Leslie didn't come nearly as naturally, but we're both making an effort and I think we'll get there yet.

At any rate, it all combines to ensure that I'm not nearly as lonely as I was last year, even though Ken is still in Scotland. If I'm not with his family, I'm seeing Katie and Tatty, or going out with some colleagues from work, or, most frequently, spend my time with Lucy and Dev. Lucy stays over quite frequently, too, when work keeps her too late to catch the train home. (I even considered offering her to move in, but it would feel awkward to ask Rolly and Genie to put up not only me at a peppercorn rent but my friend as well. Maybe I'll work up the courage someday, but right now, it's all still a bit new.)

Leaving the pantry bedroom behind, I open the door to the last room on the first – second – floor. This bedroom is both good-sized and airy, with a comfortable queen-size bed in the middle that is currently occupied by a sleeping George. (You wouldn't think an animal as small as he is could occupy an entire bed, but let me assure you it's totally possible.)

"George!" Joy smiles. "I haven't seen him since he left New York. How is he?"

"Good, good," I answer and thankfully, it's the truth, too. If possible, George was even happier to move here than I was. At KP, I still kept him indoors for safety reasons, but since moving here, he's been allowed to roam again. He took possession of the house with incredible speed and now considers the entire neighbourhood his territory. In the beginning, he sometimes came home looking distinctly dishevelled, but also pretty pleased, leading me to believe said territory used to belong to other cats before. But I guess the posh Kensington cats can't hold a candle to a real Brooklyn street fighter.

"My landlord, Rolly, is quite taken with him," I continue, looking at George fondly. "When Genie and Rolly are here, I see much less of George than normally. I think Rolly has more time for cuddles and a bigger supply of Dreamies than I do."

"Important matters to consider," agrees Nan with a smile.

George would concur, I'm sure, if he weren't so busy being stubbornly asleep.

Shaking my head at my cat (but with affection!), I change the subject. "If George surrenders the bed, I thought Nan and Di could sleep here. Joy, you can sleep upstairs with me, or else in the pantry bedroom."

"Upstairs sounds good," agrees Joy. (Can't blame her. The pantry bedroom is tiny.)

The upstairs – second or third floor, depending on your preference – has a hall with inbuilt wardrobes that come incredibly handy. The bathroom is white and big, with a his-and-hers sink and large walk-in shower (easily space for two in there). The adjacent master bedroom is huge, the biggest room in the house, and it even comes with a bay window, which I know would please Mum.

Di whistled softly as she looks around the room. "There's certainly an advantage to having friends in high places," she remarks, but with no vitriol in her voice.

I shrug. "It's incredibly nice of Rolly and Genie to let me live here."

"It sure is," agrees Joy.

Nan, meanwhile, has already crossed the room and opened the door to the terrace, peering outside. "This is lovely!" she declares. "It's south-facing, too, isn't it? Imagine the tan you'll get here in summer!"

"Topless, preferably?" asks Di sarcastically.

I grin. "Absolutely. If I ever decide there should be more photographs of me in the papers, I'll be sure to do that."

Nan sticks out her tongue first at Di, then at me and lastly at Joy. (Probably for good measure.) But when the rest of us just laugh, she joins in easily.

"Come on, let's go bring our stuff upstairs and then look into making dinner," suggests Joy once we've quieted again. It's a most sensible suggestion indeed, so it's exactly what we end up doing.

Thus, an hour and a shopping trip later, we're gathered downstairs. Joy has commandeered the kitchen, so the twins and I are left to sit at the dining table and watch Joy whirl around in preparation for some undoubtedly delicious dish. Even George has deigned to come downstairs, now lying spread out on the dining table and accepting strokes from Nan and ear scratches from Di.

"– this group of female students in Winnipeg who've been pretty vocal about the prejudices women and girls face for decisions and actions that should be none of anybody's business," Di is in the process of explaining. "They used the media treatment of you as an example and went on the record as saying they support you and would like you to know they stand behind you. It's pretty sweet."

"How nice of them!" exclaims Nan.

"Very good cause," confirms Joy. "Girls have to stand up for each other."

True words.

Di looks at me. "I know you can't publicly endorse them, but if it's okay, I thought I could get in touch with them. Not as an intermediate, but just as me, telling them they're doing a good job."

"You do that," I agree. Then, making a quick decision, I add, "And you know what? I'll write them an email, too. Not just because it's sweet of them to support me, but because they're spreading an important truth. If I could somehow support them back, I'd like that."

"Are you allowed to do that?" asks Nan, frowning.

I shrug. "Who's to forbid it? Not the royal family for sure. And if the press doesn't like it, well… they can go to hell. Politely."

"Of course they can." Di grins widely. "There's the spir– Whatever is the matter with that cat?"

Taken aback, she looks at George who has raised his head, listening intently, and is now jumping off the table in a flash and darting towards the front door.

I don't answer. Because I know there's just one single person George would greet like that. (Except for me, that is.)

Rushing after him, I reach the door just when the bell starts to ring. When I wrench the door open, Ken still has his finger on the button.

"Hello love," he greets cheerfully.

I stare at him for the fraction of a second, before launching myself at him, wrapping both arms around his neck and pressing my face into his shoulder. His arms come up to encircle my waist and I feel him burrow his nose in my hair.

"I'm happy to see you, too," he murmurs. "So, so happy."

"What are you doing here?" I ask, voice muffled.

"I'm in town for the weekend. I wanted to surprise you," he replies and I know he's smiling.

It's a good surprise, too. In fact, it's an excellent surprise. He's gotten much better at keeping in touch and checking up on me, but I haven't seen him since that fateful day in February. That day when, after Leslie's confession and a somewhat awkward lunch with his parents, Ken insisted on installing me at Wren House personally. We spent the night there, holding one another and talking into the early hours of the morning, about his past and my present and about how we both struggled – and still do, at times. It was possibly the hardest conversation I ever had, but it cleared up so much. It also rekindled that special understanding we had lost and ever since then, I've felt closer to him than in a long time, despite the physical distance.

All of which is to say, I am very, very, very happy to see him.

When he tips up my head and kisses me, I melt into the kiss, only too ready to forget everything around me that isn't him and his touch and his –

"Ahem."

Ken freezes. I silently curse my sisters to hell and back.

Turning my head slightly to look over my shoulder, I see all three of them standing in the hallway, showing near-identical grins of smugness. Damn them! Can't they… I don't know… spontaneously disappear?

"That… that is next week, isn't it?" asks Ken, somewhat feebly, as he looks at my grinning sisters.

"No," Di informs him blithely, "that is this week."

Ken sighs. "Drat. Sorry. I got my dates confused. I didn't want to muscle in on your sister week."

He's not planning on leaving, is he? (I tighten my hold on him a little, just to be sure.)

"I'll just… I'll go and stay at KP," Ken continues, sounding in equal parts resigned and apologetic. "Forget I ever came."

No. Not happening.

"Nonsense," Joy protests quickly. "You can stay. The more, the merrier."

(On second thought, Joy might not have to go to hell after all.)

"Yeah," adds Di. "This place has, like, 2000 square feet or something. It's not like we're short of space."

(And Di gets to stay out of hell, too. Good for her.)

"Really, Ken. You must stay," insists Nan. "We'll just pop Joy into the pantry and then we're all set."

(And Nan makes the set. No-one bound for hell anymore. How nice.)

"The… the pantry?" echoes Ken, knitting his brows in confusion.

"I'll show you later," I placate him, smiling. "It's not as bad as it sounds."

"I should hope so," he mutters, shaking his head slightly.

Behind me, I hear shuffling and turn just in time to see my sisters return to the kitchen. Nan carries George who, obviously indignant at not having been greeted first, gives Ken and me his best glare.

"We'll leave you two to your greeting," Joy announces, grinning widely. "Dinner should be done in about fifteen minutes."

(Okay. Looks like Joy's bound for hell again.)

In light of such cheek, I briefly consider going after her and retaliating, but then Ken raises a hand to my face and gently turns me back towards him and I decide to let it slide. I can always hit Joy over the head some other time.

The lack of a door between the kitchen and the hall means there's limited privacy, but we make the best with what we have. After the weeks of separation and considering the difficult circumstances surrounding our last meeting, I think neither of us can get enough of the other.

In fact, at some point, I feel myself compelled to caution, "I have to warn you –"

Ken stills, his shoulders tensing slightly.

"– there will be, under no circumstances, any sex for you while my sisters are sleeping downstairs," I finish.

A moment passes, before I feel his body relaxing again, his laugh rumbling through him. "Serves me right for getting the dates confused, I guess," he remarks, clearly amused.

Then, not giving me a chance to reply, he kisses me again, a kiss so slow and sensual that I very nearly regret the boundaries I put up. (The kiss is designed to do just that, as I'm fully aware.) But I also know without a doubt that if they so much as hear a peep from us tonight, my sisters won't stop teasing me for the entire week, so I stand firm. (Or, you know, don't walk back on my resolution openly.)

His point sufficiently made, Ken leans back a little and looks down at me, smiling. "Dinner?" He asks, nodding toward the opening leading to the kitchen.

"Dinner," I agree. Turning, I grasp his hand and pull him with me.

(I wonder if I will ever again see Ken in a kitchen without remembering that his interest in cooking only came about because he escaped to the palace kitchen when things were particularly tough during his childhood. It was there that their cook first showed him the basic rules of meal prepping, which is equal parts touching and sad.)

Shaking my head, I push the thought aside.

"Joy is cooking for us tonight," I tell Ken as we enter the room where Joy is, indeed, back to weaving her culinary magic. Nan and Di are seated at the dinner table again, while George sits next to his bowl, munching on something that I'm sure wasn't part of his diet plan. (Six months of being scooped up in a small apartment weren't good for his figure. Neither is Rolly Faversham.)

"Smells good," remarks Ken, coming up behind me to wrap his arms around my waist. "Presumably, the kitchen is getting used for the first time tonight?"

Di snorts with laughter.

"I'll have you know that I use this kitchen plenty," I announce haughtily.

Nan fails miserably at stifling her laugh.

"To make cereal?" asks Ken innocently and drops a kiss on the back of my neck.

"Yes." I nod proudly. "And to make coffee." This with a fond look at my very plain, very reliable drip coffee maker. It might be horrible old-fashioned but it only has one single button and that's an unbeatable point in its favour.

"Coffee. Of course." Laughing softly, Ken pulls me a little closer and nestles his face into the crook of my neck.

He's not usually so affectionate when we're in company and I'm not usually so ready to accept his affections when we aren't alone, but today… with everything that's happened, I guess today, the usual rules just don't apply.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak a look at my sister. Di might roll her eyes a little and Nan might look a bit wistful and Joy might have her eyebrows halfway raised, but they're also all of them smiling fondly at us, which is… nice. (I know there will still be teasing later. I just don't really care.)

Looking at them, I am suddenly struck by an idea. A splendid idea, if I may say so myself.

"Hey, Ken." I reach up to tap a finger against the back of his head. "Remember how you promised me a tour of Buckingham Palace, oh, three years ago?"

Ken raises his head and straightens a little, but without removing his arms from around my waist. (Not that I want him to.) "I did promise that," he acknowledges. "But for one, I'd bet good money that my father long beat me to giving you a tour and for another, you're there once or twice a week for dinner with my parents anyway. You don't need a tour."

Well, no. I really don't. But this isn't about me anyway, is it.

"I don't," I stress. "But they might like one." I indicate my sisters, who are following our exchange with interest. Joy even briefly seems to have stopped with the culinary magic-weaving.

"We would like a tour very much," confirms Nan, appearing very taken with the idea. Di makes a show of looking unimpressed, but she, too, is nodding. Joy clanks some plates together in what I suppose is agreement.

Ken looks at them, then shrugs. "Sure, if you'd like to. Private Buckingham Palace tour coming up tomorrow afternoon. Would you fancy dinner afterwards?"

Really! As if anyone was saying no to that!


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'I Want It All' (written by Brian May, released by Queen in 1989).


To JoAnna:
Oh, yes, Rilla is in a much ok-er situation now than she was before. Better job, better home, better protection - and even, in a way, a better boyfriend, because someone is making an effort! He's still himself and won't get everything right, but he did try to listen to Rilla and he is trying to do better now. As you said, he needs to work on his trauma and he needs to overcome it to properly face a new future, but he's taking steps in that direction. We shall watch him closely to see how that work out for him, yes? ;)
I'm glad you agree with Rilla's (and my) decision not to have her move into Kensington Palace permanently. Of course, she and Ken lived together in Oxford, but that had much less pressure attached. Living in a palace is a major thing, regardless who you're living
with, and for the time being, Rilla needs peace and quiet, more than anything. At her own place, she can relax in a way she probably couldn't at one of the palaces, which is good for her. (Also, this is the first time in a while that she's made a decision for herself instead of following the path of least resistance and there's quite some significance to that.)
Now, as for Dev and his ice cream... if I'm being honest, that's just because I find it amusing ;).

To Mammu:
I promised things would be looking up, didn't I? ;) I shall even promise things will continue to look up for quite some time. I've written ahead a bit and I haven't yet reached the point where it all goes catawampus again, so right now, everything is jolly nice for everyone. And if 'lightly' isn't a word, it absolutely should be one!
Ken answering the phone so quickly probably involves him telling a little lie to his superiors. "My girlfriend is calling" won't fly with them, but "this is my father on the phone - you know, my father the
King" should do the trick. He's using some of those royals perks of his and it's about time.
The apartment will indeed do them good, both because it provides Rilla with a place she can unwind, but also because Ken gets a bolthole again. He's facing some of his demons and we will see him make an effort with his parents, so he's due a safe place, too. Plus, it always does him good to be told No once in a while and while Rilla did it nicely, she did tell him No here. And we're all for Rilla asserting herself!