Dublin, Ireland
November 2017
To where the fields were green
"You never told me what you did to convince them to let you in," I remark idly as I stretch out my legs and look out of the window of the UK government's VIP plane.
(Seriously, it's like Air Force One in here! According to Hanson, it even has missile detection!)
Ken looks up from today's Times. "What did I do to convince whom?"
"The Irish," I elaborate. "I was wondering what you did to make them let you in."
He frowns. "We're going to Ireland by invitation of the Taoiseach," he explains. "They approached us to send a representative to the commemoration events for the Anglo-Irish agreement. Teddy was set to go originally, but… well, you know all about that."
Indeed I do. A trip like this would normally have fit well with Teddy's slowly evolving roster of royal duties, but Ken and I took over so he and Amy could leave the royal world behind for a fortnight and go visit her family in Kansas. I expect it will be quite the culture shock for Teddy, but for Amy, I hope a few careless days spent in company of her family will help her recharge and refocus. She's certainly earned a little breather after the year she's had.
But alas, today is not about them.
"I know we were invited," I insist, turning to Ken. "But still. You wouldn't expect the Irish to voluntarily let a British person, much less a British royal person, into their country."
"Because of the Troubles?" Ken asks, still frowning. "That's what we're here for. The Anglo-Irish Agreement was a precursor to the Good Friday Agreement, which put an end to the Troubles."
"Those, and everything else," I reply archly. "Like, you know, the Famine?"
Ken inclines his head to acknowledge my point. "Yes, that wasn't our finest hour."
I snort. "You can say that again! A million people died and what did your… great-great-great-great-grandmother do?" As I speak, I tick off the 'greats' on the fingers of my left hand.
"Not as much as she could have done," he admits. "Though in her defence, the day-to-day ruling of the country was already handled by politicians during her reign."
"Excuses, excuses," I sing-song.
Ken chuckles, shaking his head. "You're very rebellious today."
I shrug. "My Irish ancestors demand it of me."
"Your ancestors on your mother's side," he states, not phrasing it as a question.
"The very same," I confirm anyway. "According to family lore, they did not think too kindly of the British. My grandfather Walter would turn in his grave if he knew I'd accepted your proposal. So says Grandma Bertha, anyway."
"Strictly speaking, I accepted your proposal," Ken points out, grinning.
"I don't think that would placate poor, dead Grandfather Walter," I retort blithely.
Ken laughs. "No, probably not."
"Excuse me?" That's Emmett, leaning over from the other side of the aisle. "I couldn't help overhear… did I understand correctly that you're of Irish ancestry, Ma'am?"
"Partly." I nod. "The majority of my ancestors were Scottish, alas, but they're historically not much more inclined to feel kinship with the English either."
Emmett turns to Arlene sitting by his side. "Do you think we could find a way to launch that information to the press before we land? It might garner us some goodwill in Ireland to have a future queen who is partly Irish."
"They know," Arlene informs him simply.
"They do," I agree. "They took a long, hard look at my hair, did some snooping and proceeded to add 2 and 2 without getting 78."
"Unusually enough," Ken interject jovially.
I silence him with a swat against his arm. "Anyway, the press figured out my ancestry a couple of years ago," I continue in Emmett's direction. "It was right around the time when they accused me of being a secret agent sent to put into effect a most cunning plan to bring about the unification of the two Irelands. Or something."
"A most cunning plan? You never told me!" Ken accuses playfully, feigning surprise. "I could have helped you!"
"In re-unificating Ireland? You're not even allowed to tie your own shoelaces without permission from your father's government, so somehow, I don't think you would have been very helpful," I deadpan. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emmett withdrawing back to his seat on the other side of the aisle, smiling to himself at our banter.
Ken inclines his head thoughtfully. "You might have a point there," he admits, his eyes still dancing with mirth. "But just tell me… are you a secret spy or not?"
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I hold his gaze, smile my most mysterious smile and start to hum quietly.
Low lie the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small free birds fly…
It takes a moment for Ken to catch up, but when he recognises the melody, a wide grin appears on his face.
"Her love in Botany Bay, eh?" he challenges playfully.
"As per the lyrics." I smile innocently.
His grin widens. "Just so you know, if I ever meet that chap in Down Under, I will have no option but to challenge him to a duel."
"I was counting on it," I tell him casually. "Maybe you'll get your chance when we tour Australia next year?"
That reliably wipes the grin off Ken's face, to be replaced by a look of surprise. "How… I mean, when…"
I laugh and pat his cheek. "I, too, can occasionally put 2 and 2 together without getting 78."
"I never doubted that," he replies quickly. "I just… I mean, I wanted to wait and see how the weekend went before discussing any possible plans of longer tours…"
"As I said, I can put 2 and 2 together," I repeat, shrugging. "It's Owen's Silver Jubilee next year and it makes sense to send someone to visit the Commonwealth countries. Leslie would never allow Owen to do a big royal tour anymore, so it's obviously on the rest of the family. And since Australia is one of the big ones, it's logical to have us go there. I always wanted to visit, too, so it's quite convenient, if you ask me. Of course, we'll dress you up as a giant kangaroo at some point and – ooh, maybe they'll let me pet a baby wombat! Or one of the things with the beaks! They look funny."
Ken blinks, stares and blinks again. Then he shakes his head, laughing softly. "And here I was, thinking I'd break it to you gently after we returned from Ireland."
"I beat you to it," I inform him matter-of-factly. "Now, spill. What are the plans?"
"They're preliminary and I want to stress that it all depends on whether you're up for it, but the idea was to have the two of us cover the Commonwealth Realms and send other family members to various Commonwealth countries that did away with the monarchy," Ken explains. "For us, that would mean three tours spread out over the year. First, a tour of the Caribbean and West Indies in spring, followed by Canada in early summer, possibly with a short detour to the States."
"If they let me in," I pipe up and pull a comical grimace.
"Diplomat's pass," Ken points out simply and smiles.
I nod, considering his words. He's probably right. Whatever my history with US immigration, they're unlikely to deny me entry when I show them a shiny diplomat's pass that has 'princess' printed inside it.
"Very well." I wave a hand in the air. "Continue."
"Right." Ken nods. "So, Canada and possibly the US in early summer, since we're there already. Afterwards, there'll mostly be events in the UK and then in autumn, we'll go down under. Australia, New Zealand, Papua-New Guinea, Tuvalu and the Solomon Islands."
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. "I've never heard of the latter two. Are you sure you didn't just make them up?"
He laughs. "Positive. They're nice places. Very idyllic. I went there a few years ago."
"Then I'll count on you to show me around," I decide.
"I will," he agrees. "Maybe we'll even be able to wrangle a few days for ourselves afterwards. The beaches are divine."
"I'd like that." I smile at him, remembering our time at the private island near Belize earlier this year. From the warm smile appearing on Ken's face, I know he remembers, too.
As I look at him, a suddenly thought strikes me. Maybe this is the perfect opportunity to…
"Perhaps there's even a chance we'll go there before next year?" I suggest slyly.
Ken needs a moment to realise what I mean, before he laughs loudly, shaking his head. "Not a chance! I'm not telling you about the honeymoon yet. It's a surprise."
I pout. "I dislike surprises," I inform him.
"You'll like this one," he promises, still chuckling, and leans forward to kiss my cheek.
I'm not quite ready to give up yet, but before I get a chance to needle him some more about possible honeymoon destinations, I see Oliver coming up the aisle. "Sir, Ma'am, we'll land in a few minutes," he tells us.
Right. Now that he mentions it, this plane is clearly descending. But no matter. I can always bug Ken about the honeymoon some other time. There are two more weeks left to annoy him about it, so there'll be plenty of opportunities.
Turning towards the window (Ken, as usual, took the aisle seat), I peer outside. We're much further down than I thought and I can make out little houses on the ground and even littler cars zooming around. And could those white dots be cows? Or sheep, possibly? They do have sheep in Ireland, right?
Cows and sheep notwithstanding though, it's mostly a vast expanse of green stretching out below us and I reflect idly that it's no wonder they call Ireland the Emerald Isle. (Obviously, I packed clothes to match.) Pulling my phone from my handbag, I quickly snap a photo through the airplane window (one of the advantages of private planes is that the windows are not nearly as gross!) and post it on the Blythe Family Group Chat with the caption, 'Ireland, here we come!'
And come we do – in style.
After landing at Dublin Airport, our plane rolls to what appears to be a cordoned-off part of the tarmac. I stay close to the window to watch what's going on outside – before sharply turning towards Ken.
"Is that a red carpet?" I hiss.
Ken leans around me to catch a glimpse through the window. "It would appear so," he confirms calmly.
"Why is there a red carpet?" I demand to know. "This isn't… I don't know… the freaking Oscars!"
"Perhaps so we won't get our feet wet on the tarmac?" Ken suggests.
I give him a withering look. "For one, that's why clever people invented shoes! And for another, if someone felt there was a need for a carpet, did they have to make it red? Couldn't they make it… green, perhaps? They like green, the Irish do, don't they? All those shamrocks and leprechauns and whatnot…"
"They certainly use it a lot," Ken agrees. "And so do you." He nods at the dark green skirt I'm wearing with matching shoes, a white lace-y blouse and a light grey wool coat that's so soft I can't stop touching it.
"It's called diplomatic dressing," I inform him archly. "Katie told me all about it. I'm wearing green because they like green."
"And because it goes well with your hair," Ken adds, grinning.
It earns him another withering look, but he remains unimpressed. Getting up from his seat, he briefly leans over me to kiss the top of my head and sneak another look through the window.
"From this angle, the carpet looks more orange than red," he muses. "With your skirt and shirt, we have all the colours of the Irish flag covered."
"I told you!" I insist. "It's diplomatic dressing!"
And it's probably just as well that the carpet took one for the team and provided the orange, because if there's one colour I could never make work with my hair, it's orange! I've worn shapes of reds and pinks to success (if, perhaps, not hot pink), but orange just looks all kinds of garish on me.
As I get up and slide from the aisle, Melissa comes towards us from the front of the plane. "Do you want to go over the itinerary again?" she asks, brandishing a clipboard.
I shake my head. "I think I know it. Let's see… We'll be greeted at the airport by officials from the Irish government and the British embassy. Next, we'll be moving on to the Garden of Remembrance to meet the Taoiseach and together commemorate the people who died in the Anglo-Irish conflict by laying a wreath, before accompanying the Taoiseach back to the Government Buildings for tea. In the late afternoon, we'll visit a charity supporting homeless children and teenagers and in the evening, there's a garden party at the British embassy."
The garden party is a cocktail event, much to the disappointment of Great-Aunt Tanya. She tried to convince me to wear a tiara anyway – and produced a huge kokoshnik with emeralds the size of quail's eggs to entice me. When I politely declined, she handed over a pair of emerald earrings instead that have to be worn with wires over the ear so as not to tear one's earlobes in two. They're gorgeous, but if I'm being totally honest, I'm just a tiny bit apprehensive about the weight of them.
"Tomorrow," I continue while picking up my handbag, "we start out by meeting the president at his home with the complicated Irish name, where we'll be photographed ringing the Peace Bell. There will also be dogs involved. This is followed by a visit to the Famine Memorial, and just to be ironic, lunch is had at a traditional Irish pub immediately afterwards in the company of inhabitants of a local care home. In the afternoon, there are the events surrounding the Anglo-Irish Agreement, including the opening of the special exhibition at Kilmainham Gaol and a visit to Talbot Memorial Bridge and Custom House to pay respect to the Irish fighters who died there during the War of Independence. The evening is spent at a reception hosted by the Irish government at the National Gallery in the presence of local artists exhibiting their works."
This, too, is merely a black tie event and again, I had to deal with the disappointment of Great-Aunt Tanya when I, again, declined use of the huge emerald kokoshnik. She sniffed and proceeded to inform me that in her day, they wore tiaras just to go to the theatre, but then relented and handed over a sapphire demi-parure, consisting of necklace of earrings, cleverly citing St. Patrick's Blue as the inspiration. Looks like not everything I wear this weekend has to be green by default!
"The final day," I tell Melissa and her clipboard, "begins with a visit to a brewery and a meeting with local business owners, before we head to Croke Park to play a sport called hurling with local children, which will inevitably result in me making a fool of myself. To garner approval with my mother, we will then move on to Trinity College, where we'll be shown around the Library's Long Room by a group of students and see the Proclamation of the Irish Republic and the Book of Kells. Before we leave the country, there's a final meeting with the two chambers of the Oireachtas at Leinster House." I pause briefly, thinking. "Did anyone know the design of the White House was based on Leinster House?"
Evidently, everyone does know – or else, no-one cares – because the moment I finish my recitation of this weekend's schedule, there's a sudden movement in our little group, probably prompted by the front door of the plane opening.
Ken offers me a hand. "It's good to know that if I ever forget where we're supposed to go next, you'll have me covered," he teases lightly.
"Oliver would never let you go anywhere where you're not supposed to be," I point out blithely.
"I wouldn't," Oliver chimes in from behind us.
"No," agrees Ken, deadpan. "Previous experience has indeed shown that you definitely wouldn't."
I glance over my shoulder at Oliver and wink at him. He, knowing that Ken is merely joking, flashes a smile back at me.
Still, there ought to be repercussions to teasing one's employees, so I turn to Ken and, smiling sweetly, inform him, "I meant to tell you that Dev expects us for cake tasting when we're back from Dublin."
Immediately, he stops dead in his tracks and a look for horror crosses his face. "D – Dev?" he stutters. "For… cake… tasting?"
"Uh-huh. For the wedding cake," I confirm casually. "Dev has prepared several possible fillings for us to try. We already settled most other decisions, except for the flavours for the filling. My vote is that we just use them all, but Dev argued that we should also ask what you think." I deliberately give my voice a doubtful undertone to indicate that I might not totally agree with Dev about giving Ken a say.
"Dev's tastes are… a bit unique though, aren't they?" Ken asks carefully.
"So?" I ask blithely.
Ken eyes me cautiously. "It just comes… unexpected."
"We agreed I'd handle the wedding cake," I remind him. "And Dev is already working very hard on the cake!"
"We certainly did," Ken is quick to assure. "And I like Dev and everything, but… the flavours he picks might not agree with all of our guests. Some of them are a bit… traditionally minded."
I hide a smile at his valiant attempt to prevent a caramel-herring-jalapeno-flavoured cake without hurting my feelings by insulting one of my friends. The truth is that when Dev offered his services (or rather, begged me to pick him to bake my wedding cakes), I made him swear on his favourite ice cream that they would be edible for normal people. He seemed to think my request a bit boring, but complied easily enough and while Dev certainly has unique taste, he's also a man of his word.
"Well, I'm not having fruitcake and besides, I'm sure Dev will come up with something extra special for our wedding. The samples I've already tried were certainly very edible!" I promise Ken jovially.
Taking a step towards the airplane door and adopting an especially cheerful demeanour, I ask, "Shall we? Ireland awaits a visit by its old oppressors, I think."
"It would appear so," Ken agrees and even without looking at him, I know he's both smiling and rolling his eyes at my 'rebelliousness'.
The moment we appear at the door of the plane, the assembled photographers outside click away on their cameras. I put on my best smile and, with my right hand still clasped inside Ken's, I raise my left to wave at them. The flashing immediately intensifies. By my side, Ken follows suit, offering a wave and a smile to the reporters and all the other people standing outside on the tarmac, waiting for us to make an appearance.
After giving the photographers a moment to capture sufficient pictures of us standing in the door of the plane, Ken and I climb down the stairs and proceed to shake hands with all the official people that were sent to welcome us. Luckily, the preparation material put together by Anisa and Bilal included photos and cliff notes on all the people we're meeting on this trip. Having studied it for the umpteenth time on the flight here, I manage to greet almost everyone by name and even ask some inoffensive questions about their lives and families.
It does feel the tiniest bit like running the gauntlet, only in a non-painful way, and I'm a bit relieved once we've made it to the waiting car without me stumbling over my feet or accidentally confusing some undersecretary of the Irish government with an equerry at the British embassy. With a sigh, I sink into the plush seats of the car.
"First hurdle successfully taken," Ken remarks with a smile.
"First of how many?" I ask. "Forty-three?"
"Just about," he confirms. "Now, for the Garden of Remembrance."
Our car glides smoothly through the streets of Dublin. I watch my surroundings curiously through the window and it takes me a moment to notice that said streets appear to be suspiciously empty of other vehicles.
"Did they close the streets?" I wonder, turning to look at Ken.
He shrugs. "Closed streets, armoured vehicles, special police forces, drains welded shut to prevent explosives placed into them… this is Ireland and as you correctly pointed out, we're British royals. Looking at history, it's a bit of a marvel that we can come here at all, but it does require special security measures."
Explosives?
What the…?
"Hey." Ken, noticing my probably horrified expression, leans over and gently touches my cheek. "It's okay. These are just precautionary measures. The Irish know what they're doing and in case you haven't noticed, Hanson, McMillan and Beaverstock are sticking close to you as well. There's no need to worry."
Part of me would like to point out that if there was no cause for worry, no-one would think it necessary to weld any drains shut, but it's probably a moot point. We're here now and there's nothing for it but to trust that the Irish police does know what they're doing.
"This wasn't in the preparation material," I point out anyway, a little sullenly.
"No, it usually isn't. Details of security measures isn't something they normally bother us with," Ken explains.
"And yet, you know." I jab a finger at him, feeling a bit put out that I was kept in the dark about something he was informed about.
"I asked," he replies simply, shrugging.
I narrow my eyes. "Why did you if it's not something you're usually told about?"
Ken doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he picks up my hand and carefully treads his fingers through mine. When he finally speaks, he does so while looking at our intertwined hands. "I promised you once that you'd always be safe with me and I nearly broke that promise mere hours later. Can you blame me for wanting to ensure that all possible measures for your protection have been taken, at any time and anywhere?"
For a moment, I don't know what to say in response.
I didn't know… I didn't know this was something that was bothering him. I mean, I guess I did know, in an abstract way, but not that this was something he had tangible concerns about.
"It's not your job to protect me," I finally tell him, keeping my voice quiet.
He looks up, smiling wryly. "No, perhaps not. And yet, I'll try."
In response, because words would fail me anyway, I just have time to raise our hands and press the back of his to my cheek. He smiles, his thumb briefly stroking over my cheekbone, before lowering our hands again just as the car comes to a stop. This, then, will have to be a conversation for another time.
For now, it appears the second hurdle is just in front of us. And what a hurdle it is! Suffice to say the Garden of Remembrance is not an uncontroversial place to be for a British prince.
When we get out of the car, there's already a phalanx of Irish officials waiting, led by the Taoiseach, who's the head of government. He walks towards us with a welcoming smile and his hand outstretched, while the cameras of the dozens of reporters merrily click away.
"Welcome to Ireland, Miss Blythe, Your Royal Highness," the Taoiseach greets us, shaking first my hand and then Ken's.
"Thank you for the invitation," Ken replies easily, his impeccable manners as ever on show.
"It's such an honour to be here," I add, not to be outdone. "I'm really looking forward to getting to know Ireland and her people in the upcoming days.
"And they're looking forward to seeing you," remarks the Taoiseach, nodding at where at least a couple of hundred spectators have gathered further up the street, being held back by barriers and policemen. "It's been a while since I've seen such a crowd."
"It's all her," Ken tells him, while slipping an arm around my waist,
I roll my eyes at him. "A future British King visiting the Republic of Ireland on a friendly and peaceful mission is an important historical event with hopefully a lot of political impact."
"Uh-huh." Ken grins. "True as all of that may be, they're still here to see you." Looking over my head, he conspiratorially tells the Taoiseach, "It's like that everywhere we go. I might as well not be there. In fact, sometimes I'm not so sure anyone would notice if didn't turn up at all."
"You're being ridiculous," I inform him briskly. (But when I raise a hand and wave at the assembled crowd, a cheer goes up that belies my attempts to downplay the role of my presence.)
The Taoiseach laughs. "I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris, and I have enjoyed it," he quotes.
"I certainly know what JFK felt like," agrees Ken cheerfully. "I shall, from now on, forever be in her shadow." He points his thumb at me.
"Don't be melodramatic," I chide him, resisting the urge to roll my eyes once again and instead swatting his hand away.
"And how does it feel to live in the shadow of your wife-to-be?" the Taoiseach asks, clearly enjoying the conversation.
"Best thing in the world," Ken answers with a wide grin. "If the world loves her as much as I do, it couldn't be enough."
"Now," I tell him breezily, "you're just being cheesy."
Both men laugh, the cameras click and I silently reflect that it looks like we're off to a good start.
The following wreath-laying ceremony is a well-practiced event with lots of protocol to hang on to, as common for military occasions such as these. Once the Taoiseach, Ken and I reach our positions in front of the Children of Lir sculpture, here's a lot of heel snapping, trumpeting, gun presenting and a brass band even proceeds to play God Save the King (which is probably correct protocol, but does feel a little tone deaf). Some soldiers bring two large green wreaths, one of them with a pre-prepared message signed by both Ken and me attached, and, after placing it at the foot of the stature, all three of us remain standing for a moment, heads bowed, to pay our respects.
So far, so good.
The Taoiseach says a few kind, welcoming words that are well-received by the assembled guests. It's only when Ken steps up to the podium that I can feel a slight undercurrent of excitement as everyone waits what he has to say. This is most definitely a fine line to walk for him and there's no room for error.
"We came here today to remember those who suffered because of the troubled and too often painful history shared by our countries. My family, my fiancée and I have the greatest sympathy for anyone who has died or was injured as a result of it," Ken begins, his voice made steady and sure by years of public speaking. "When we look at the past, we wish that many things had been done differently, or, better yet, not at all. For those of us who we are here today, it's our duty to remember those who experienced pain and loss, but it's also our duty to remember the past and learn from it. That I'm standing here before you today may seem like a miracle but is, in truth, the result of many people working diligently to build bridges between our countries. These bridges are based on respect and understanding and, I hope, forgiveness and it is my dear wish that we can use those bridges to overcome the past without forgetting it."
As he steps back, there are appreciative murmurs in the audience (this, after all, is no place for applause), but Ken doesn't acknowledge them. Instead, he seeks my gaze, his expression questioning. 'Are you up for it?' he seems to ask.
I take a deep breath. Then, not giving myself another moment to think, I nod and carefully take the place behind the podium.
I wasn't scheduled to speak and I can see surprise on the faces looking up at me. Seeing them, my heart flutters nervously, but I don't back down. This is something that Ken – English to the core – couldn't possibly do, but that I – not really English at all and with Irish ancestors to boot – might just be able to pull off.
Briefly, I close my eyes and recall the many hours I spend on Skype with Grandma Bertha in preparation for this, trying to get the pronunciation just right. When I open my eyes again, I don't look down at the audience, instead focusing on a spot in the distance as I carefully recite the words I know to be written on the stone wall behind me.
"An Aisling…"
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The River' (written by Bruce Springsteen, released by him in 1981).
To DogMonday:
The last chapter was pre-written, as are all others, but I must admit that when reading your previous review, I thought, 'Well, I have just the chapter to address those points!' It was very good timing ;). It's true that in the public eye, Rilla is still somewhat of an attachment to Ken, but she's looking at how to carve her own role that's separate from him but also connected to him. Picking charity causes (and, based on that, actual charities) to support is one step towards that and I hope that today's chapter shows how they're planning to go forward as a team of equals in public as well. Ken is the future monarch, so he naturally handles the more political side, but he recognises that there are tasks Rilla is more suited for and he's glad to have her share the work and put her own mark on it as well.
I'm glad you approve of Rilla's pick of causes. I wanted her to chose causes that actually interest her and are close to her heart, while also enabling her to make a true difference. I don't see this being a final list either, just something to start with as she eases into royal life. It's definitely possible that she takes on other causes such as racism and homophobia along the line. She has people around her who can educate her about it and her fame could definitely help in helping others learn as well.
As for Amy, I think she's actually doing most of the work herself as well, which is as it should be. Rilla summarises Amy's possible causes for her, but she arrives there mostly on her own (with some gentle guidance). With regards to acting as one cause, I certainly agree that Amy is not a good actress (as most student acting in school plays aren't), but it's not so much about her own talents than about her interests. No-one will asks her to star in any plays of her own or direct anyone else, so in my opinion, it really doesn't matter how good an actress she is. What matters is that she's interested in acting and willing to get involved with the cause, so there's no reason why she can't lend her support to actors and actresses despite not being very talented herself. It's not so different from Rilla supporting the elderly at not yet 30 years of age, is it?
Amy is definitely still a bit nervous around Ken. He's been friendly to her in the past, but they haven't interacted all that much, so she doesn't know him well. He can also be a bit intimidating, which is why she thinks he has it all figured out and why she doesn't want him to see her as a failure. That's why, to me, him opening up about his struggles and assuring her that it's okay to get help is more effective than if Rilla or Teddy had done it. If it's alright for Ken to get help, it's alright for Amy to get help, too. And yes, I think she will take up his advice and that it will be good for her =).
To Guest:
Yes, as you can see, I did update today ;). What's more, I don't expect any more breaks for this story either.
