The other day I was thinking about why The Tinderbox is my favorite fairy tale, and I realized my answer might actually align with Marguerite's character as well. That thought inspired this chapter. Let me know if it makes sense to you.

John had caught flu as well. It was, of course, William's doing. The boy had generously shared both his germs and his books. But unlike William, John's symptoms were lighter, likely owing to age, constitution, and a stubborn refusal to admit weakness, but he still needed to rest. And naturally, Marguerite had taken it upon herself to see that he did just that. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, touching his forehead and cheeks for warmth.

"The fever's done." She said.

"You know," John murmured, "I should've slept in the other room these past few nights. Or at least you should have."

"Don't be ridiculous," Marguerite replied. "I'm your chosen nurse, remember?"

"I just wouldn't want you getting sick as well."

"I won't. If it was going to happen, it would've happened already. Clearly, I have a stronger immune system than all of you."

He watched her as she fussed over the pillows and the blankets around him. She was dressed comfortably, a soft sweater and loose trousers, and her hair was tied back in a low side ponytail, swept over one shoulder. John reached out, touching the end of her ponytail and letting it slip through his hand.

"You look so beautiful," he said.

"You're delirious," she teased.

"Possibly. But that doesn't make me wrong."

She leaned down and kissed him a few times: on the cheek, on the nose, on the edge of his jaw, on the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes, enjoying her touch.

"Sorry," she whispered, pulling back. "I shouldn't wear you out."

"Don't stop. I'm enjoying the treatment."

"Well, don't let it get to your head."

"It already has."

She gave a soft laugh and adjusted the blanket over him. "Try to rest. I'll be right here if you need anything."

He nodded, already drifting. She stayed beside him, watching him fall asleep. For all his strength and stature, in moments like this he seemed almost boyish. How easy it is, she thought, to love this man. Easy now, when ghosts of the past no longer followed. It was a strange and beautiful privilege, to be able to simply relax, love and take care of your loved ones.

The next to fall ill were the twins. Then the nanny followed. She had been moved to the servants' hall, where the maids tended to her. The housekeeper suggested sending for a substitute nanny from the village to help with the girls, but Marguerite refused.

"I'll manage. They'll want me, not a stranger."

And manage she did. The estate could wait. Everything could wait. Even the treasure hunt could wait. The investigation was quietly put on hold. No letters were sent to Mr. Keiller. The family had agreed that nothing would move forward until everyone was well again.

One of those nights was entirely devoted to bathtime and hair-washing. Marguerite let the twins splash around in the tub first, playing with rubber ducks and wooden boats. When the water started to get cool, she stepped in to wash their hair. She knelt beside the tub, rolled up her sleeves, and gently poured warm water over their heads. Then came the soft towel, fluffy as a cloud, then a warm room and the newest marvel of modern technology: the electric hair dryer. Marguerite had insisted they have every convenience of modern life.

Isabelle sat still the whole time, enjoying every stroke of the brush and every gust of the warm air.

Juliette, on the other hand, squirmed like a captured rabbit. "Ooouch! You're pulling! And that thing is so loud!"

Marguerite gave a patient sigh. "Hold still. You act like I'm torturing you."

"You are torturing me."

"Your hair is tangled like a bird's nest," Marguerite replied. "What would you prefer I use instead? A pitchfork?"

"A sword." Isabelle suggested. "If she hates brushing so much, we could simply cut it off. Better to have it short than to look like a hedgehog."

"Absolutely not." Marguerite said. "No one is cutting anything. We're brushing and styling. Like civilized people."

Juliette grinned. "See? Mummy's on my side."

"I'm not on anyone's side. Both of you are perfectly capable of being both lovely and impossible. But right now I must compliment Isabelle, who's sat still the entire time without a single whimper."

"That's because you have the touch of a fairy godmother." Isabelle said, smiling at her.

"What a compliment." Marguerite said. "It will be absolutely rewarded with cocoa."

As soon as Marguerite walked into the nursery that evening, she noticed Pirate's Cove in the corner of the room. It was set up between two chairs and made out of mismatched bedsheets, blankets, and pillows. One of her silk scarves had been turned into a flag (though she had no idea when they managed to snatch it).

"Would you like to see inside?" Juliette asked when her hair was done.

"Inside the Pirate's Cove?" Marguerite asked.

"Mhm. Only special people are allowed in." Juliette said.

"No grown-ups have ever been inside." Isabelle added. "Not even the nanny."

Marguerite pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm honoured."

They crawled inside, and everything was soft and cozy there. The entire floor was covered in pillows.

"What do you think?" Juliette asked.

"I think this is the finest hideout I've ever seen," Marguerite said. "Even Captain Hook would be envious. But… How exactly did my silk scarf end up as your flag?"

Isabelle grinned. "Well, every great ship needs something stolen from a queen."

"That's a good answer." Marguerite said. "But the scarf is coming back with me when this ship docks."

"Can we sleep here tonight?" Juliette asked.

Marguerite chuckled and shook her head. "No."

"Why not?" Juliette asked.

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "You know Mummy likes the comfort of bed, silly."

"I actually had the Scarlet Room prepared for us tonight." Marguerite said. "Come on. I want to read to you my favourite fairy tale."

They crawled out and Marguerite reached for the large, thick book of fairy tales. They made their way down the hallway to the Scarlet Room. Once inside, they climbed into the big bed and settled in, Marguerite in the middle, with a daughter on each side. She opened the book and turned to the page with the illustration of three enormous dogs.

One had eyes as big as saucers.
The second one had eyes as big as mill wheels.
And the last had eyes as big as towers.

It was The Tinderbox, by Hans Christian Andersen.

"Is it a scary story?" Isabelle asked.

"Don't worry. It's not scary." Marguerite said. "This was my favourite fairy tale… No—actually, it was the only fairy tale I loved as a child. Because back then… I didn't really like fairy tales."

Both girls looked up at her in surprise. "Why not?" They asked at the same time.

Marguerite paused. In her mind, the words came easily: Because they're just pretty lies meant to distract you from the truth. And the truth is—no one is coming. No one is coming to save you. If you want to survive, you have to save yourself. But she didn't say it aloud. They were too young to understand and she didn't want to make them sad.

So instead, she smiled and said, "It doesn't matter. I was wrong. Over time, I learned that true love does exist. And happy endings too. And noble knights as well. They may not always come with shining armor, and they may not arrive on time… but they do come."

"Does that mean you like fairy tales now?" Juliette asked.

"Now I do. I think I truly began to love them the day I became your mother. Suddenly, all the things I never believed in started to feel real. You made me believe in magic. Because every night I kiss you goodnight, I think—maybe the stories were right, after all."

Both girls wrapped their arms around her at once, warm and wordless. Marguerite closed her eyes for a moment and held them close, her heart full.

"But even back then," she said, "when I didn't care much for fairy tales… I loved this one. The Tinderbox. That's why I want to read it to you. It's a little different from the others but I think you'll like it. Shall we begin?"

The girls nodded and Marguerite began:

"A soldier came marching along the high road: "Left, right—left, right." He had his knapsack on his back, and a sword at his side; he had been to the wars, and was now returning home..."

When the story ended, the girls were enchanted. Isabelle was most taken with the soldier. He wasn't a typical hero. He didn't follow the rules, and he certainly didn't make all the right choices. But Isabelle had always had a soft spot for mischief. Juliette, on the other hand, adored the dogs. She hadn't found them frightening at all. In fact, she wanted them as pets. All three of them.

And Marguerite was once again reminded why she had always loved this particular story. She remembered how deeply it had struck her when she first stumbled upon it, on a quiet day, long time ago. She, too, loved the soldier. He was someone she could relate to. He wasn't noble, or kind, or "worthy". He was cunning. Opportunistic. Dangerous. He found the magical tinderbox, and didn't hesitate to use it. He didn't flinch, even when it meant coldly killing the witch who had led him to it. No guilt, no second thoughts, just survival. And through the tinderbox, he gained command over three monstrous, magnificent dogs. With them, he claimed everything: protection, freedom, wealth beyond imagining.

To most, it was strange. To Marguerite, it was clarity. She didn't want a crown or a prince. She didn't want someone to fall in love with her and take her away. She wanted the three monstrous dogs who could appear the moment she snapped her fingers: to guard her, to carry out her will, to burn down the world if it ever tried to cage her. And she wanted, like the soldier, to never worry about a coin again. To have all the copper, silver, and gold she would ever need.

So that's why she loved The Tinderbox. It didn't lie to her. It didn't preach. It simply told the truth: Sometimes, the only magic is what you dare to claim for yourself. She carried that lesson with her wherever she went, even years later, when she had become a woman of instinct and wit.

A name whispered in coded files.
A rumor passed at diplomatic tables.
A phantom in velvet gloves.

Meanwhile, in Oxford, William had begun spending more and more time with Professor Carnahan. The professor entrusted him with small errands, like fetching books from the library, organizing scholarly correspondence, and cataloging artifacts.

One afternoon, William found himself sorting through a stack of peculiar weather reports.

"Manchester: Rain expected. Move with caution."

"Dover: Fog over by morning. Winds expected to shift. Maintain discretion."

"Paris: Front advancing. Movement not recommended."

"Berlin: Conditions stable. Hold position."

"Cairo—"

Carnahan finally looked up, reached out, and plucked the slip from William's hand. "Thank you. That will be all for now."

William gazed at him suspiciously. "Professor, these don't sound like regular weather reports."

"Oh? Why do you mean?"

"I mean… I read the weather reports every day in the newspaper. They don't sound like this at all."

Carnahan studied William for a moment. "You're very observant," he said at last.

William waited. But no explanation followed. Then his eyes drifted to an unopened envelope on the desk. He reached for it and read the name of the sender.

"Professor... you know Mr. Alexander Keiller?"

"Yes. Quite well, in fact. We've worked together on a number of excavations over the years. He has a sharp eye for terrain, I'll give him that. We also crossed paths often in academic circles. He's not a scholar in the formal sense, but he has more field experience than most of the men who sit behind desks writing about it."

William nodded. "Archaeology's always fascinated me. It would be a great honour to meet Mr. Keiller in person."

"Well, since you've been such a great help to me here, I don't see why I shouldn't return the favour. If you like, we could go tomorrow. Spend the day there. Be back by evening."

William blinked. "You mean… skip school?"

"Yes," Carnahan said calmly. "You wouldn't attend your regular lessons, but I daresay this field trip would be one large lesson in itself."

"That would be amazing," William said, his eyes lighting up. Then he frowned. "But I don't think my parents would let me. Or my form master. Or my Latin teacher. We're supposed to have a test tomorrow."

"I'll speak to your form master—Mr. Ashcombe, isn't it? I'm sure he'll understand. And as for your Latin teacher, Professor Mallory, I've already spoken to him. I told him you've been assisting me with something that involves quite a bit of Latin, which is true enough. He's already given you an A. Now, as for your parents—whether you choose to tell them, and what you choose to tell them—that's entirely your affair. I don't get involved between children and their parents."

"So if I choose not to tell them… they wouldn't hear it from you?"

"Correct. I don't make a habit of reporting my pupils to their families. My dealings are with minds, not household management."

William grinned. "That is marvelous! You are definitely my favourite teacher."

Carnahan chuckled. "Yes, I hear that often from students. Less so from my colleagues."

William tilted his head, teasing. "Well, you do seem a bit odd. Suspicious, even. At first glance, it's like you have some hidden agenda."

"I do have an agenda, but it's not hidden. It's as clear as day. I want to gather a circle of talented pupils around me. But not just any talented pupils. I have no use for those who blindly follow every rule. Who never question anything. Who never look beyond the surface." He leaned forward slightly. "No… I want students who are willing to break the rules."

"Why particularly?" William asked.

"Because those are the ones I can trust. In time, certain opportunities will arise. Doors that only open to a particular kind of mind. And when they do, I like to know whom I can rely on."

He glanced over his shoulder at William. "It's always wise to recognize potential early."