"There you are, young Bertie." came the booming voice of my Aunt Dahlia. There seemed to be an enormous amount of aunts wandering the corridors and appearing out of the woodwork since Father passed on.
Passed on. What a silly phrase. I was sick of being treated like a baby. I was sick of being ordered around. I was tired of everything.
When my nanny came to dress me in dark Lord Fauntelroy suit Aunt Agatha had gifted me for my birthday a few months earlier, I stuck my chin up and declared in no uncertain terms I refused to don such ridiculous pieces of fabric.