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“Your aunt was French?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“But your mother wasn’t French?”

Philippa felt panic, but managed to keep her invention aloft. “My aunt is on my father’s side, that is, she was raised in a French convent, then joined him in England sometime later.”

“How unusual,” Mr. Berwick said after a short pause. “I was under the impression that convents generally raised young ladies. Not that I mean to imply that your family has come down in the world, Miss Damson.”

“Oh, we have,” Philippa said madly. “Terribly far down. I have to find a position, you see. Because we’ve—because we’re so far down.”

“How far?” Mr. Berwick asked, with interest.

She stopped, as much to catch her breath as to glare at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you do sound a bit like a heroine in a melodrama,” he pointed out, stepping in front of her to push open the door.

“You shouldn’t mock our hardship. It’s been heartbreaking for my family!” she snapped, feeling a surge of virtuous anger before remembering that the family in question didn’t exist.

He looked down at her, and she saw something in his eyes that made her blink. “You must feel neither fish nor fowl.”

Philippa swallowed. What she felt was something no young lady should be feeling. “Precisely,” she said. “Fowl, fish, who knows what I am?”

“You are Jonas’s nursemaid,” he said, with a lightning smile as he held open the door.

She walked through, thinking about what he had just said: she had secured a position in the castle.

And now she had a position, she wasn’t a lady anymore. It felt rather peculiar. Her father never employed many servants, but of course there were some. She had grown up with Quirbles and a footman to answer the door, the kitchen staff, the upstairs maid and the downstairs maid, and a boy to do all the rest. And now she had joined their ranks. She was one of them, rather than a lady.

When they reached the nursery door, she instinctively waited for Mr. Berwick to open it for her, but instead he pushed it open and preceded her. She blinked at his broad back for a moment before realizing that the butler always preceded a nursemaid.

“Kate,” he was saying, “the new nursemaid is very sensible. She knew that Jonas needed water, and she boiled it before giving it to him.”

Philippa stepped out from behind him. Jonas’s mother sat in a chair, the baby clasped in her arms. The princess had the same battered, terrified expression that Philippa had seen on other mothers’ faces when her uncle paid his visits. Instinctively, she went over to her and knelt next to the chair. “Jonas will live,” she said as forcefully as she could. “He will not die.”

“Of course he will not,” Her Highness said. But her eyes were haunted.

“This is Miss Damson,” Mr. Berwick said. “Jonas’s new nursemaid.”

The princess seemed not to hear him. She looked up, and asked, “Wick, who is this person, and where did she come from?”

“This is your new nursemaid, from Manchester,” Mr. Berwick said, without a second’s hesitation, though he’d never asked Philippa where she lived. “Miss Damson came with the highest references from esteemed doctors. I know she looks young, but her charges have been special cases, not ordinary infants.”

The princess looked sideways at Philippa, still kneeling by her chair. “Sick babies,” she breathed. “You deal with sick babies.” A tear ran down her cheek. “Do you know what’s the matter with my son?”

“He has colic,” Philippa said. “I’m almost certain that it’s just colic. I can’t give him a miracle medicine, because there isn’t any. And my—that is, the esteemed doctors with whom I worked in Manchester feel strongly that colic is simply something that a baby must outgrow.”

The princess looked down at her son. “Are you sure? The doctor who was here said that Jonas was too hot to have colic. He does seem to get a fever now and then. And then he screams so much after nursing that it seems he can hardly breathe. If you even touch his belly after he drinks, he cries and cries.”

“He has a bad case. But it’s still just colic. He will outgrow it.”

“And doctors are on their way from Manchester who will confirm everything she says,” Mr. Berwick stated.

Philippa felt a tingle of alarm. Her uncle was rather unorthodox in his ideas, and she had the impression that Manchester doctors were likely to be far more interested in doling out medicines. Her uncle was of the firm conviction that medicines did more harm than good, no matter what the disease might be.

“But my milk,” the princess said. Then she blinked and looked at Mr. Berwick. “Shoo.” He disappeared through the door in a flash.

It was all a bit odd. Philippa was very fond of their family butler, as was her father. But she would never say shoo to Quirbles. It simply wouldn’t be appropriate, and she might offend him.