London, England
June 2014

Into this house we're born

"… and I don't know what to do!" wails Sophie.

I switch the phone from one ear to the other and take a deep breath.

Sophie, in addition to having great taste in shoes, is one of my nicest colleagues. She's also certainly the most creative one (I've seen her create the most beautiful decorations out of a wad of Kleenex, some pipe cleaners and body glitter), but planning isn't her greatest talent and she's utterly lost in a crisis.

"Sophie? Soph. First of all, breathe," I instruct. "This is not the end of the world. We'll figure this out. But to do that, you must keep breathing, because you won't accomplish anything if you drop dead from asphyxiation."

On the other end of the phone, I can hear Sophie try to control her breathing.

"Okay," she says after a moment. "I am breathing." She does, indeed, sound like she's not hyperventilating anymore.

"Great. Now tell me what's the matter. But slowly." I make a point to stress the last word.

"The smoked salmon has gone bad, the harpist went into labour early and the goat ate the bride's flowers!" By the end of her list, Sophie sounds like she's close to hyperventilating again.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to come up with solutions. After a few seconds, I raise my head again. "Okay, here's what you'll do. First, you sent someone to the nearest Waitrose and have them buy all their smoked salmon. How about that new intern? Debbie, wasn't it? Send Debbie."

"But won't the guests notice it's supermarket-bought salmon?" asks Sophie and even without seeing her, I know she's wide-eyed at the idea.

"I wouldn't notice," I reply. "Would you?"

"Nu-huh," answers Sophie after a moment of pause.

"Great." I nod at the empty room. "Next, you call Asafa and ask him to play tonight. Offer him double the usual wage, if necessary."

Sophie makes a squeaking sound. "But the bride wanted a harpist for her wedding dance!" she protests.

I brush the argument aside. "That's because the bride has never tried dancing to a harp. Asafa is an amazing pianist and it'll be much easier to dance to his piano than to whatever that heavily-pregnant harpist could have produced."

"Hmm… you might be right," Sophie agrees slowly.

"Sometimes, I am," I remark, smiling. "I know I'm right this time. Just remember to have someone pick up Asafa. He has no car, remember? Send Debbie when she's back with the salmon."

Poor Debbie will be driving around quite a bit today, it seems.

"Got that." I can hear that Sophie is growing calmer, the longer I speak.

"Good. And as for the flowers…" I trail off.

To be honest, I'm half-tempted to have Sophie tell the bride that to have her flowers eaten is a hazard of having a goat as a ring bearer, but that would be unprofessional and Pamela is too good a boss for her employees to be acting unprofessionally. (In fact, Pamela is a pretty great boss. She's much more accommodating about me dating a prince than she has to be, giving me whatever day off I need. Whenever I try to apologise, she simply points out that Steve told her how it is, and that's that.)

I shall be professional, then.

"As for the flowers," I repeat, "just pick her some new ones. I bet you'll do a better job of putting together a bouquet than the florist did."

"Will they let me?" asks Sophie timidly. (The 'they' in this case being the owners of the country house where today's wedding is taking place.)

"Their gardens are so big, I highly doubt they'll miss some tulips or whatever," I reply and shrug. "And we'll pay for them, of course.

"Of course," parrots Sophie.

She is, I notice, breathing normally again. I take this as a good sign.

"So, salmon from Waitrose, Asaf to play the piano and freshly-picked flowers," I summarise. "Can you do that?"

"I can," confirms Sophie, her voice reassuringly strong.

"Great. And if anything else happens, give me a call, alright?" I ask.

There's a moment of hesitation, before Sophie replies, "But won't I disturb anything?"

"No, it's fine," I assure her. "I might not be there with you in person, but we're doing this together."

Truth is, I should be there. It's my job as well as Sophie's and normally, I'd be with her at the country house, overseeing the wedding and making sure everything goes according to plan (or, if not, improvising a new plan). It's just that today, I have something even more important planned.

Because today is Trooping the Colour.

Ending the call with Sophie, I step closer to the window and peer outside. The entire Mall is flagged with Union Jacks and there are crowds of people lining the street. In the distance, I can see the first carriage coming up from Horse Guards Parade. Drawn by a pair of grey horses, I know it to be Leslie and Persis's. Behind them are two carriages with brown horses, one holding Aunt Kimberly, Chris, Katie and Ashley, the other occupied by Aunt Mary, Uncle Bob and Great-Aunt Tanya. (Aunt Mary's grown up sons don't ride in the procession, but I can hear them talking loudly in the room next door, waiting for the balcony appearance.)

My phone beeps and I look down, expecting it to be Sophie again, with some new disaster. (Perhaps the best man spit into the soup?) Instead, it's Seraphina's name popping up on the screen. Quickly scrolling through the message, I am dismayed to find that the man she's been seeing turned out to be just as much of a cad as Nia predicted. (She has a radar for cads, Nia has.)

I send a supportive response, only to receive a frustrated text back within seconds. Knowing that the whole ceremony outside will go on for a while, I settle back into a (surprisingly uncomfortable) chair, and type out a long message telling Seraphina that she's fabulous and that he didn't deserve her anyhow. It leads us right into an exchange that has me being uplifting and soothing and her wailing at men in general and Travis specifically.

After some minutes of texting, I hear more commotion in the Centre Room next door and know that most of the family has returned, ready to walk out on the balcony. Briefly turning back to the window, I see a group of especially fancy riders coming up the Mall, surrounded by hundreds of military troops and accompanied by marching bands playing upbeat military music. The riders are too small to recognise, but I know them to be Owen followed by the three Royal Dukes – Ken, Teddy and Uncle Al. (Or, as they are in this, the Colonels of the Welsh Guards, the Scots Guards and the Irish Guards. I did my homework!)

The itinerary I was given by Melissa said that after this, there's another march past outside the palace gates, followed by the King and the Dukes joining the rest of the family on the balcony to watch the flypast and accept the adulation of the masses. There's easily another half an hour scheduled for this, so I try to find a more comfortable spot in the armchair and type out another message for Seraphina. With this done, I quickly confirm a lunch date with some colleagues on Wednesday, assure Mum that I'll call her later today and weigh in on the discussion between Dev and Lucy about which movie the three of us want to go see next weekend.

(Surprisingly, there's not a peep from Sophie. Looks like things are working out at that wedding.)

Above me, there's an absolutely deafening sound as the military aircrafts thunder overhead. It even briefly drowns out the cheering of the people outside. A look out of the window tells me they now fill the space immediately in front of the palace, having swarmed around Queen Victoria, who's steadfastly standing guard in their middle.

It's… quite a sight.

Standing behind the curtain, I watch the people down on the street as they wave and point at the royal family standing on the balcony to my left. I know they're out there, but a big pillar prevents me from seeing them, so it's only when the waving and cheering slowly dies down that I realise that the family must have gone back inside.

Moments later, the door opens and Ken enters.

"Hello you," he greets me, smiling.

He's still wearing what I call his Disney Prince Uniform, but unfortunately without the ridiculous tall fur hat.

"You took off the hat!" I accuse.

"It's heavy and it's itchy," he defends himself. "But if you insist, I'll put it back on later, just for you."

"Can I take pictures?" I ask, walking up to him and slipping my arms around his neck.

He bends down to give me a quick kiss. "Depends. Will you sell them to the papers?"

"I have better pictures to sell to the papers," I remind him, before ducking away, laughing.

"Minx," he replies good-naturedly.

I grin naughtily. Ken shakes his head at me, but he's smiling as he does it.

Then, pointing behind himself, he asks, "Are you ready to meet them?"

If his intention was to wipe the grin off my face, he succeeds immediately. Instead, I nervously wring my hand together, all the cheer gone.

"As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose," I answer, trying to squelch the fluttering feeling in my chest.

Ken extends his arms and I step into them again. "It'll be fine. They're nice people, on the whole, and I'll be there with you every step. You don't need to be nervous," he soothes me. "But if you are, we can always do this some other time."

His embrace calms me and gives me enough confidence to shake my head and decline his offer. "No, we'll do this. It's what I'm here for, after all."

Since Trooping the Colour marks one of the rare occasions when the entire family gathers together, it was deemed a good opportunity for me to meet them. And meet them I will, no matter how nervous the prospect makes me feel. (Maybe there's something to be said for the surprise meetings as orchestrated by Owen.)

"That's my girl!" Kissing my temple, Ken turns us around towards the door, one of my hands securely wrapped in his.

In the adjoining Centre Room, with its Chinese design and flower-shaped chandelier, the entire royal family has gathered, as descended from the late Queen Alexandra.

Befitting their status, my gaze falls on Owen and Leslie first. I've had breakfast with them and their children this morning, meaning there's no need for a formal greeting, so Owen just nods encouragingly and Leslie gives me a smile. Next to them, Persis and Teddy both wave at me and I raise my hand as well, before letting my eyes drift to where Katie and Chris are standing, him as extravagantly and her as understatedly dressed as always.

The familiar faces make me feel a little calmer, so when Ken steers me towards a couple to our right, I square my shoulders and raise my chin. I've got this.

"Rilla, these are my Uncle Albert and Aunt Kimberly, The Duke and Duchess of Hereford," Ken introduces the couple. "Al, Kim, please meet Rilla Blythe."

The man is obviously nearing his sixties. He's rather portly and lacking a chin, but doesn't look all that scary. The woman is a good twenty years younger, has an enviable figure and impeccably styled hair, but seems rather fidgety, as if she's not quite able to relax here. (If I have my dates right, she married into the family eleven years ago. That she's still uneasy doesn't bode too well, to be honest.)

"Hello," I greet politely and bob into a small curtsey. "It's an honour to meet you."

"Marvellous, marvellous," drones Uncle Al and pats my shoulder. "Just marvellous."

Well… I hope so?

Aunt Kimberly extends a hand towards me. "I'm Kim. I love your outfit."

Automatically, I shake her hand, but my attention is drawn down towards my clothes, just to check whether she sees something in them I don't. Because when I dressed this morning, my main concern was to look respectable and inoffensive. I'm wearing a simple white blouse and a blue-and-yellow tartan skirt and the combination screams 'school uniform' much more than 'fashion'.

Looking back up, I meet Kimberly's eyes and realise that she's simply trying to say something nice.

"Thank you," I reply, trying to think of something to compliment in return. "Your… your shoes are very cute."

She is wearing simple grey court shoes. They are serviceable but also rather dull – just like my clothes.

Kimberly inclines her head. "Thank you. That is very nice of you to say."

"Marvellous, marvellous," agrees Uncle Al and pats his wife's shoulder.

Out of the corner of my eye, I look at Ken. He keeps a straight face, but I feel him squeeze my hand encouragingly.

Unfortunately, we seem to have exhausted our topics of conversation and for a moment, silence settles. (As I look around frantically for something to talk about, I spot a girl of about ten darting by behind Uncle Al and Aunt Kimberly. I take her to be their daughter, the unfortunately-named Princess Ashley.) In the end, I think we're all a little relieved when Uncle Al gets bumped to the side by three identically-looking men in their late twenties to early thirties.

"You're Rilla!" declares one of them, while Uncle Al and Aunt Kimberly melt into the background.

"You exist!" exclaims the second man.

"For real!" adds the last one.

Um…

"I do?" It comes out as more of a question.

Next to me, Ken rolls his eyes. "Yes, she exists," he informs the three men with a long-suffering expression. To me, he explains, "These three morons are my Oldwick cousins, the sons of Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob."

"Thomas Oldwick, Viscount Launceston," the first man announces, grabbing my hand and pumping it up and down.

Within seconds, his brother has elbowed him aside. "The Honourable Richard Oldwick," he introduces himself. "No fancy Viscount title needed."

"Henry," chimes in the last one and snatches my hand from his brother. "Also Oldwick, also Honourable, also no Viscount."

Right.

"Or you can just call them Tom, Dick and Harry," Ken informs me, shaking his head at his cousins.

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwait.

They are not seriously called Tom, Dick and Harry, are they? Are they?

I open my mouth, then shut it again.

Thomas, Richard and Henry.

Tom, Dick and Harry.

This is for real, right?

"We never could figure out whether it was intentional," Ken tells me conspiratorially, obviously having read my thoughts. "Aunt Mary refuses to answer questions on the matter."

The three Oldwicks nod simultaneously.

"Old Mumsy is not very forthcoming with information," announces Tom.

"Not at all," agrees Dick.

"Very tight-lipped," adds Harry.

I stare at them. Then I stare some more.

Ken, meanwhile, cranes his neck to look at something behind his cousins. "Your mother is also coming here," he warns them. "If you want to, now would be the time to disappear."

And disappear they do, with a wave and a bow and a wide grin each. As they shuffle to the side, they reveal a woman walking toward me, followed by a man whose similarity to the Oldwick brothers is so striking that he can only be their father. Both Uncle Bob and Aunt Mary look to be in their sixties and neither of them looks like much fun.

Next to me, I feel Ken stand up straighter.

"Aunt Mary, Uncle Bob, may I present Rilla Blythe?" he asks. Leaning closer to me, he introduces, "My aunt and uncle, The Earl and Countess of Eltham."

I bob into my curtsey again, making sure to go deeper and keep it for longer this time. Aunt Mary's insistence on formality has been suitably impressed on me, which is also why I make a point to greet her first (because precedence). "Your Royal Highness, Your Lordship."

Uncle Bob mumbles something incomprehensible. Aunt Mary considers me through slightly narrowed eyes.

"So, you're Kenneth's American girlfriend," she remarks. Her voice is impossibly posh.

"Rilla is from Canada, Aunt Mary," Ken corrects immediately.

A look of annoyance ripples over Aunt Mary's face. When she turns her gaze back to me, it's clear that she considers it my fault for daring to not be American.

"Are you quite certain?" she asks and though she's looking at me, the question is directed at Ken.

"Very sure," he answers. His hand squeezes mine tighter.

(Uncle Bob, meanwhile, looks around the room with a mildly surprised expression on his face, like he's not even part of this conversation.)

Aunt Mary tuts – whether at Ken or me or both of us, I don't know. "Between Albert and you, one cannot be expected to keep track of all the foreigners you bring here," she informs Ken, clearly disdainful.

All the foreigners?

Excuse me?

"Aunt Mary…" begins Ken and there's a warning note in his tone that is lost on neither Aunt Mary nor me.

Her eyes immediately turn to slits.

Deciding quickly, I tug at Ken's hand, willing him to be quiet. I appreciate him wanting to defend me, but I know without a doubt that Aunt Mary would just end up blaming me. Having him argue with his aunt is hardly the way I want to be introduced to the family.

"Kimberly and I are both from North America," I therefore chime in, before Ken can say anything else. "Maybe that makes it a little easier?"

Aunt Mary stares at me, clearly aghast that I dare to address her directly. A long, loaded moment passes (during which I squeeze Ken's hand painfully tight to keep him quiet), before she curtly nods her head. "Maybe."

I take a deep breath. Beside me, I feel Ken growing even tenser, but I don't let go of my grip on his hand. I don't want an argument. And besides, didn't I decide that I've got this?

"It's an honour to meet you, Your Royal Highness," I tell Aunt Mary, procuring my politest smile for her. With a nod at the absent-minded Uncle Bob, I add, "Your Lordship."

Uncle Bob, thus addressed, starts out of his reverie. Looking at me with an expression of puzzlement, he again mumbles something inaudible, before letting his gaze drift sideways again.

Aunt Mary, on the other hand, considers me with very alert eyes. "I suppose it was not to be avoided," she finally declares.

I take a calming breath. (Beside me, I think I can hear Ken gnash his teeth.)

"Kenneth." Aunt Mary nods curtly. "Miss Blythe."

She doesn't wait for a reply, instead turning on her sensible court heel and striding to the other side of the room, her somewhat befuddled-looking husband in tow.

For a moment, both Ken and I stare after her, before he raises our still tightly clenched hands and kisses my knuckles. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He looks almost contrite.

"It's okay," I assure him (and, to be honest, myself). "You warned me that she might be this way. It's nothing personal, right?"

"She is… very grand." Ken is obviously choosing his words carefully. "It's no excuse for being this rude though."

"It isn't," I agree. "But there's no changing some people."

He frowns. "There might be. I'm certainly going to have a word with her after this. I know you didn't want a scene and I respect that, but just because Al allows her to treat Kim this way doesn't mean she can do the same to you."

"That's sweet of you," I tell him, giving him a smile. I didn't want a scene, but that I also wouldn't mind not having a repetition of that situation just there. If Ken talking to Aunt Mary makes our next meeting more civil, I'm all for it.

"It's the least I can do," he assures me. "I want you to feel welcome and Aunt Mary didn't help that."

"No," I acknowledge. "I hope you can talk her around. And while you're at it, you might also explain to her the difference between Canada and the US." This in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"We know the difference, dear," chimes in another voice from behind us.

Startled, I turn around and find myself confronted with an ancient little woman sitting on a sofa. She watches me with intelligent, slightly amused eyes and I wonder how much she heard.

Ken slips an arm around my waist. "Great-Aunt Tanya," he tells me, nodding at the little woman on the sofa.

"We know the difference," Great-Aunt Tanya emphasises. "After all, we own Canada. As for those Yankees…" She shakes her head mournfully.

Uh…

What does she mean, they own Canada?

Daring a quick look at Ken, I see him suppress a smile. "I'm not sure that's how it works, Great-Aunt Tanya."

She clucks her tongue. "Canada is part of the Commonwealth and your father owns the Commonwealth. Thus, we own Canada," she reasons.

"Yeah, I'm not sure that's quite how it works either," replies Ken, now distinctly amused.

"Fiddlesticks!" Great-Aunt Tanya brushes his objection aside with a surprisingly decisive movement of her hand. "Are you telling me I'm wrong, young man?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Great-Aunt Tanya," Ken assures solemnly and leans down to kiss her cheek. (As he straightens again, he winks at me and I have to hide a smile as well.)

"There's a good boy," declares Great-Aunt Tanya. "Now, shoo. Let me talk to this young lady in private."

Ken hesitates, looking from me to his great-aunt and back again. No matter how assertive she is, I know he won't leave until I tell him to. He's learned his lessons about that, I think.

For a moment, I consider Great-Aunt Tanya. She looks… not exactly harmless, but… there's something reassuring about her twinkling eyes and her almost impish smile. I might be wrong, but I think I can trust her. I find myself wanting to trust her.

Turning to Ken, I make a shooing motion with both hands. "You heard your aunt. Give us some privacy."

Great-Aunt Tanya laughs delightedly. Ken gives me an expression that is outwardly exasperated, but beneath that, shows fondness and even something that might be admiration. "Great-aunt," he corrects, but then leans forward to give me a quick kiss and leaves as instructed (though, I can't help noticing, not very far).

Great-Aunt Tanya pats the sofa next to her. "Sit down, dear, sit down."

Once I've done as told, she looks at me closely, but unlike Aunt Mary's gaze, hers doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. I sit still until she settles back again, seemingly satisfied.

"You handled Mary well," she commends. "She is a bit grand, poor little Mary."

I can't help noticing that Ken used the same word to describe his aunt.

"Poor Albert is, too," continues Great-Aunt Tanya thoughtfully. "He isn't very bright, so we mustn't blame him. Kimberly puts up with a lot, bless her. Now, Mary is clever, but she's no beauty. That's why she settled for Robert, too. She was afraid of staying on the shelf. He was just the third son of a viscount before my sister gave him his shiny new earldom."

Um…

"Is that so?" I ask, unsure of what else to say.

"Quite, quite," answers Great-Aunt Tanya cheerfully. "Poor Mary was already twenty-six when she married."

Already twenty-six?

"I was twenty when I married my first husband," Great-Aunt Tanya tells me and it's clear that for a moment, she's lost in memories. "Such a strapping man he was, too. He died fighting the Nazis."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I reply quickly.

But Great-Aunt Tanya just waves my condolences aside. "It was a long time ago. I was married three more times after him. All four of my husbands were so rude as to die on me. I thought about taking a fifth one, but took pity on the poor chap."

At her words and her naughty grin, a surprised burst of laughter escapes me.

"That's more like it," declares Great-Aunt Tanya, satisfied. "Of course, I never had any children of my own. My sister Alice – that's Queen Alexandra to you – was a bit mad when she realised she'd have to marry herself to keep the line going. She thought about emulating Queen Bess and remaining unmarried, but she couldn't risk the throne passing to Uncle Francis. When my second marriage didn't produce off-spring either, she picked herself a handsome younger son for purposes of reproduction."

"That would be… Ken's grandfather?" I ask, trying to keep the family ties straight in my head. (I've never heard of Uncle Francis, I think. He'd be… Great-Great-Uncle Francis to Ken, right?)

"Theodore, yes," confirms Great-Aunt Tanya. "Bless his soul. Alice was very fond of him. I think she even grew to love him. She didn't want him to die so soon."

I… should have hoped so?

"Of course, when she was young, she carried a torch for his older brother, but Owen Whitworth never came back from the war, so she turned to Theodore instead," Great-Aunt Tanya tells me conversationally.

(So, that's where Owen's name comes from, isn't it? How… odd.)

I must admit to being rather surprised at this frankness which with the family history is laid out for me. It appears to show on my face, because Great-Aunt Tanya reaches out to pat my cheek reassuringly.

"Don't be shocked, dear," she tells me soothingly. "We're moving with the times, if slowly. Remember that Owen was allowed to marry the woman he loved, when two generations previously, my own parents were quite miserable with each other."

"Miserable?" I repeat. "How come?"

"They were ill-suited," explains Great-Aunt Tanya, raising her shoulders in a dainty shrug. "My mother was earnest and very innocent when she married. My father was what they call a playboy. In addition, my mother was homesick. There was that pesky war – the Great War – that prevented her from seeing her family. Of course, by the end of it, they were all dead."

All… dead?

I blink at this sudden turn of events.

"Did they… die in the war?" I ask carefully.

"Goodness, no!" Great-Aunt Tanya laughs at my cluelessness. "No, no. They were murdered by the Reds."

The Reds?

That's… the communists? Right?

"My mother never got over their deaths. I have no memories of her, but Alice sad she was always sad. She never felt at home in England and her husband was off parading around battlefields in fancy uniforms or careening with his mistress, so he was quite useless, as men are. I was just a toddler when my mother died. They say it was because of complications to do with the birth of my brother, but Alice maintained that she died of a broken heart. She never got over her family being murdered and losing her new-born son was the final blow." For the first time in our conversation, Great-Aunt Tanya looks a bit wistful.

I frown, trying to get her story straight. "Why were they murdered? Her family?"

"Oh, the Bolsheviks did it," answers Great-Aunt Tanya, rather matter-of-factly. "My grandfather was the last Russian tsar and they didn't much fancy keeping him alive.

The… the last Russian tsar?

Great-Aunt Tanya laughs at my expression. (To be fair, I'm betting it's utterly dumbstruck. I'm feeling utterly dumbstruck, anyway.)

"Didn't Owen or Kenneth tell you that we're descended from the Romanovs?" asks Great-Aunt Tanya, tutting at their omission. "My mother was Grand Duchess Olga of Russia, eldest daughter of Tsar Nicholas II. When she and my father married in 1914, it was the last heyday of the European monarchies before the pesky war toppled half of them."

"Including your grandfather's," I remark slowly, trying to wrap my mind around this new information.

"Grandfather Nicholas's empire fell in 1917, yes," confirms Great-Aunt Tanya. "I was born before he abdicated though, and for a short while, I was the granddaughter of two emperors, who, together, ruled over 40 per cent of the earth and a third of the people in it."

That's… that's nearly too much to comprehend.

"As you can see," continues Great-Aunt Tanya, sounding pleased, "I'm by far the most royal person in this room and thus, the one most qualified to judge people, no matter what airs poor little Mary puts on."

She leans forward again too peer closer at me, before raising a finger and tapping my cheek once. "And you, my dear" she says decisively, "you'll fit in nicely."


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Riders on the Storm' (written by John Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek and Jim Morrison, released by The Doors in 1971).


A/N:
My lovely beta reader, Alinyaalethia, told me last week that she has some exciting new creative projects planned, which unforunately mean she won't be able to proofread for me anymore. Instead of looking for a new beta reader, I've decided to wing it on my own, so from next chapter onwards, I will be the only person proofreading this story. I promise to do my best and take as much care as possible, but ask you to forgive any typos that slip by. If there's an expression that sounds wrong or odd to you, feel free to send me a PM and I'll look into it. Thanks for your understanding!


To JoAnna:
I imagine his children are often pretty annoyed with Owen insisting on surprising people and then piling them with trivia about his homes ;). But as someone whose life is planned out so completely, these little surprises delight him a lot, plus he's still able to set people at ease, so the outcome is usually a good one. Ken has been through a lifetime of this, so he wasn't very surprised by his father showing up (neither was Rilla, once it happened). I think he's alright with it, too, since it's not his first time meeting Rilla's sister, so it doesn't feel like his parents are muscling in on an important meeting. Plus, he really had to research all these facts about the palace, which means he might be relieved at Owen taking over ;).
I think that for the past few years, Ken's relationship with his parents was somewhat formal and business-like, but he's had bursts of trying to connect with them - Leslie especially - on a more emotional level, too. I think in some way, all three longed to bridge the gap between them and made attempts to do it, but ultimately, they didn't know and don't know how to repair the fractures permanently. Ken telling Leslie about Rilla was him trying to do something he considers part of a
normal parent-child relationship and Leslie giving advice was her responding to it, but neither of them knew how to transfer that to their every day relationship. So, it's a sign that they want to connect, but don't really know how to.
You know me well enough to know that there will be difficult times after the happy ones and yes, Leslie going through a dark phase will be part of that. Therefore, I can promise that you will see how Ken deals - or
not deals - with that.
This corona thing is crazy, isn't it? I understand drastic measures are in order and that social distancing is vital, but I desperately hope they won't put us on full lockdown. People will go mad being locked up like that for weeks on end!

To Mammu:
No problem at all. The world really gives us a lot to mull on these days, so I completely understand. I hope that despite everything, you're doing well :).
Yes, I went to Buckingham Palace in the summer of 2019. I've also been to Kensington Palace twice and visited Windsor Castle with a fanfiction friend last May. It was very helpful to see these places in person, plus I picked up their very helpful guidebooks that have pictures and floor plans and lots of useful trivia information. So, yes, everything described here does exist and I'm glad I managed to make it feel like the reader was present :).
There will indeed be darker times again, but we won't focus in that right now. Before they happen, we have lots of light, happy, frothy chapters waiting for us, which I think is jut what everyone needs right now.s