Lily holds my hand and trots along beside me, perfectly happy, completely unaware that her nanny is having mental breakdown.
Holy hell.
How am I to be expected to behave like that male does not affect me in the least for the nextyear?
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and keep walking.
It islate afternoon when I find out the real reason why Viktor did not show up at breakfast that morning.
While Lily is napping I wander down to the kitchen to refill my water, eat a lovely snack, and chat with the staff.
Madam Petrova is at the long wooden table, sorting silver into a cloth-lined drawer.
I pull out my notebook, pretending to be highly concerned with Lily’s schedule. “Can you please remind me what time dinner is?”
She does not look up from her sorting. “Princess Lily’s evening meal is at six o’clock in the nursery.”
“In the nursery?”
She glances over at me, puzzled. “Yes. As you’ve been doing.”
It’s true that for the last five days Madam Petrova has been bringing Lily’s meals up on a small wheeled cart at six o’clock, and Lily and I have been eating together at the small lacquered table in her playroom. I had assumed this was a temporary arrangement until Viktor came home.
“And the prince? When does he take dinner?”
“His Highness dines in his study at half past eight.”
“In his study.”
“Yes.”
I blink. “Why do they eat separately?”
She shrugs. “This is the custom. Krovenian royal children do not share the table with their parents until they are old enough for state duties. Usually around thirteen or fourteen. Princess Lily will join the formal table at dinnertime when she is older. She is eating breakfast in the large dining room only starting this year, so she can begin to learn her manners.”
“But, that means she eats alone, with her nanny and not with her father…”
“And when her mother was alive she didn’t eat with her either. This is the way.”
My lips purse. “But now that her mother has passed, shouldn’t she be allowed to eat with her only remaining parent?”
“Royal customs are not easily questioned. The prince was raised this way. It is how it has always been done.”
I take a slow breath. Well, at least I know now that Viktor is not a man neglecting his child. He is following a centuries-old custom that he was handed at birth and never thought to question, that his family has practiced for generations.
I think about Lily this morning, her face when Viktor didn’t come to breakfast. The little hopeful lift of her chin and then the careful, learned composure when she realized he wasn’t coming. The way she lit up when she heard his voice in the study.
A custom can be wrong, even a custom that was made with good intentions, by people who loved their children, can be wrong for a particular child in a particular moment. Tradition does not get to override a grieving four-year-old. Not on my watch.
I close my notebook, tuck it into my pocket and straighten.
“Thank you, Madam Petrova.”
“Hazel.” Her voice is gentle, knowing. “What are you about to do?”
“I’ve got to do something, even if it’s wrong,” I respond. “I can’t just do nothing.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, her lined face crinkles into the smallest, knowing smile. “Take this with you.” She slides a small plate toward me. On it sits a single buttery shortbread cookie. “He likes them at this hour. They soften the conversation.”
