Bette wasn’t sure what to expect from being grounded. As it turned out, it was much like her previous existence. She was still restricted to the children’s wing, though now she took her meals in her chambers and attended lessons in her drawing room. Her world had shrunk to simply her rooms, the library (for study purposes), and the little garden in the courtyard beyond her window (for exercise and sunshine).
The schedule was also similar, just accelerated. Bette had little free time now, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. She’d been too much alone with her thoughts during her long convalescence; there were only so many times she could think herself into a panic before it started getting unhealthy. Lycrarose’s idea of a suitable timeline for her six-year-old may have been out-of-line with the training of an average noble, but Lisbette was to be endowed with more power than the average noble. Thus her training should reflect that difference.
Even if every day left her stumbling, bleary-eyed and exhausted, into her bed at the stroke of midnight, Bette was thankful. Lycrarose could have locked her away in a tower or in the dungeon to contemplate her mistakes in isolation. She could have decided that her daughter was no longer a viable candidate for the throne, and began to train Lysander as a replacement.
Instead, she sought to instill in Bette a deeper sense of duty and understanding of her role as the future Duchess. Her every waking moment was filled with instruction, each day packed with tutors handpicked by Lycrarose herself. She learned languages and geography, history and science, and etiquette. So, so much etiquette. Each dukedom had its own set of customs, those long-held traditions passed down since before the Lady of Light brought all of humanity under her banner. Bette, who had only just begun to master Northern noble manners, despaired of ever being able to learn it all.
In the Empire of Light, children were instructed in the basics (writing, reading, history, and basic arithmetic) by the Temples. Members of the clergy were required to spend a certain amount of time on teaching before they could move up in the ranks of the ecclesiastic order. Nobles and wealthy commoners could afford to invite priests into their homes in order to teach their children, and some of the faithful went on to be permanent clerics for their patron families.
Bette had been taught by a Temple priestess for the first four years of her life. She hadn’t particularly liked it. Priestess Zelmaya had been condescending and patronizing— or, well, she had been in Bette’s eyes. Looking back on it, Bette considered she might have seen foundational lessons as condescending in their own right. She had been able to read since she was one, after all! And mathematics weren’t so difficult that she had to have a story told to her about one number and the other number or how many apples Derin gave to Callie!
It was insulting. She was a child but she wasn’t stupid.
Now Lisbette had several tutors; Lycrarose had vetted and hired experts in every field to train her daughter. Some were pleased for the opportunity to educate a future leader, while others seemed to view her tuition as a stepping stone to greater prestige. Bette could see why the Duchess had chosen each one; they were all brilliant and they all had something to teach her.
Whether that something was what they meant to teach was beside the point.
The tutors were each housed in one of the rooms in the corridor off the main hall. They were provided with everything they needed, and they were free to pursue their own agendas when they were “off the clock.” They came to her drawing room when it was time and left her with solo work to do before the next lesson.
Each was clearly used to being respected. Most walked into the room like they expected to be the center of attention. Those who had sought renown had egos to match, she found. Those who had tirelessly pursued the mysteries of their chosen field were often unconcerned with how much, exactly, Bette understood their ramblings.
Bette’s cadre of instructors were as informative in their manner of dress and attitude as they were in their subjects. They came from a wider world that she had yet to experience, and they left her hungry for understanding. The power struggle among the tutors was its own source of education—she wondered if this miniature court was what Lycrarose had intended to show her. It left her with a gnawing hunger she had never known before. She wanted to figure out how the machine worked; she wanted to know which points she could step on and force the whole thing to shudder to a stop.
She soaked up whatever they had to teach her until her mind felt wrung out, and then she practiced swordplay, dancing, and music until her muscles screamed. She went to bed every night with no more energy, thinking she couldn’t possibly wake up and do it again in the morning, only to be disappointed when dawn came and she had to drag her aching self out of bed.
Difficulty aside, she made steady progress. Part of that was her own innate intelligence. Bette knew she was smart and quick-witted. Part of it was Liz.
Liz had not considered herself very smart. Competent, maybe, but intelligent? Probably not. Still, she had attended four schools and taken sixteen years of education. She had picked up bits and pieces of several languages, and although those languages did not serve her in this world, the lessons about how to understand people of different cultures did. Liz was not book smart, but she was socially smart.
She made steady progress in her education. She studied whenever she got the chance, even going so far as to have Tibitha read aloud from one of her books.
That is, if the girl was not otherwise occupied with her own re-training.
More and more often, the spot beside her was empty, and the solitude pressed down on her like a physical weight. It was a reminder. Every time Tibby’s absence pricked her, it reminded her of the consequences that would befall anyone who served a Lisbette Drakuhl who was ‘less-than’. It reminded her to be thoughtful, to consider every action from multiple perspectives. If she skips sword-training to practice calligraphy, how does that reflect upon her servants? Upon her house?
The emptiness stirred Bette into motion, demanding she fill it.
Her first addition was Lysander.
The man moved himself into the children’s wing at her request. He seemed more than willing, if only to avoid the temptation to cheat his sister’s ruling from his previous quarters in the guard’s tower.
Until then, it had not dawned on her that Lysander was a scholar before he was a soldier.
He brought his own collection of treatises and tomes on magical phenomena into her library. He had articulated models of the current understanding of the structure of basic mana forms, which he proudly displayed like other noble men displayed hunting trophies. He took up multiple rooms in the children’s wing, converting them into workshops and laboratories as he pleased.
Lisbette found herself enthralled by his work.
Lysander, like her, had difficulty sleeping through the night. They wound up in his lab or on her balcony, discussing mana and magic and myths.
It was here, in the hours between late at night and early morning, that Bette revealed to him the bizarre nature of her own mana.
“Uncle… is it possible that someone could be born with an affinity for all types of mana?” She asked one night, fiddling with one of the smaller models he had.
It collapsed into the runic symbol for fire, then the complex pieces opened on pinpoint hinges, forming a vaguely spherical collections of intertwined shapes and lines. It was perfectly constructed—and still it was only a representation. A model of something that scholars like Lysander believed was actually beyond their ability to map, something that folded in on itself in ways humans did not and could not understand.
‘Magic is an abstraction of mana’, wrote one of Lysander’s contemporaries in the field of magical study. ‘It is the way human understanding influences the natural state of mana through the very attempt at observation. Magic is as close as humanity can get to simulating the divine.’
Little by little she was coming to understand why answers about magic were so few and far between.
“Hm,” he hummed, leaning back in her wicker chair and nursing his now lukewarm tea. Clearly he was treating this as an intellectual question. That made her palms prickle nervously where they cupped the subtle heat of her own tea. “I can tell you that we’ve never observed a human with such an affinity, but is it possible? I can honestly say that I don’t know. It should be. We’ve seen people with two affinities before, and while it would be unlikely, I can’t say it would never happen.”
“Would- would that be useful, do you think, in your studies? Someone with that sort of affinity?”
“Oh certainly. A lot of the issues with modern magic theory can be traced back to the fact that the researchers themselves are mainly studying small subsets of the available natural data. Even just the idea of someone with multiple affinities is interesting, theoretically. Why do you ask? Did you have a thought?”
Bette concentrated on her teacup, examining the delicate blue lines forming a lace-like pattern on the rim.
“I… think that I may not have an affinity,” she said finally, squeezing the handle. “Or perhaps I have many affinities.”
Lysander was quiet for a moment. When she chanced a peek at her uncle, she found him studying her with an unreadable expression.
Her stomach felt sick.
“Why do you say so?”
How did she explain something that seemed so natural to her and yet apparently wasn’t?
“I- ever since I was- for as long as I can remember,” she struggled to find the right opening, “I have felt. Energy. Motion in the world. Through the world. I thought it was normal, and that Tibby only didn’t understand because she couldn’t use magic, but then I began learning from you and-“
Lysander didn’t interrupt her, though she stumbled and faltered. It was frustrating, lacking the vocabulary she needed to explain herself. Lacking the understanding of what was happening to her enough to share with someone. She realized, horrified, that tears were welling up in her eyes.
“I realized that you didn’t understand it either. You didn’t feel it like I did.”
“Feel what, Betsy?” His voice was soft, coaxing.
“Everything! There’s… it’s everywhere, in everything! And I know that you know that, but you don’t know it like I do! It’s… when the air moves, even though you can’t see it, you can feel it moving. When the air moves, I can feel it, but it’s not over. I feel an echo of energy, mana.”
“That sounds like an air affinity,” he observed, not unkindly.
“It’s not just the air, though! There’s an echo in the water that runs in my bath! In the snow, and the candles, and the ground!” She proclaimed, frustration making her voice harsh and sentences clipped. “It flows through the world and if I focus, I can follow it. It– I can’t find any reference to something similar from another human mage!”
She met his eyes, desperate and pleading. “Is it just my delusion? Am I missing something, Uncle? Am I… is there something wrong with me?”
The question burned her throat and scorched her tongue. It left her feeling feverish, fearful.
Lysander reached out for her hand. He did it slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted. She let him take it. In his large, calloused palms, her hand looked like a small, cowering white bird.
“Lisbette, sweet girl, look at me,” he said. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. His face was warm and open. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with you, and there was nothing wrong with your mother when she was young. You two are just… different from other people. That’s not a bad thing.”
Her mother?
“Did mother feel this as well? The way the world moves?”
“Not exactly. It’s the opposite, in fact,” he told her. “Lycrarose… I’m not sure entirely but it seems like she doesn’t have an affinity. She can’t sense mana. Her mana cannot be moved too far from her body without destabilizing and dissipating into the atmosphere. Once it leaves her, she loses control of it.”
She had known that her mother didn’t use spells, though she had magic, but she hadn’t thought about why that was the case.
“When she was your age, everyone said it was a shame. They said she was born wrong and wouldn’t be a good sovereign. But Lycrarose never gave up. Her mana is highly condensed, and her system is widespread throughout her physical form. Rather than using it like most people do, she decided to turn something others thought was a weakness into her biggest strength. Her monstrous strength—“ Bette flinched at the word. Lysander smoothly corrected himself— “her prodigious strength is the result of her training and hard work. Now, instead of a weak mage, she’s a powerhouse in an entirely new branch of magic.”
Duchess Lycrarose was amazing, Bette thought, to think of that when the world told her she was weak and worthless.
Stolen story; please report.
Her vision blurred and she sniffled, rubbing her face with her nightgown’s sleeve.
“You’re not broken, Bette. Just like your mother, you’re a little different, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. That doesn’t mean you can’t shine just like she does, our little northern star.”
She blushed. That was her mother’s title, not hers. But it made her feel warm inside.
“I need to find my own strength. I have to figure out how to use what I’ve been given,” she whispered. Lysander’s hand stroked her hair. “Will you help me, Uncle?”
Lysander slid from his seat and knelt in front of her, fist pressed to his heart. It was silly—she was in a nightgown and he was in his own pajamas, but his face was serious and kind and she felt the moment had a gravity to it.
“Lisbette Drakuhl, my niece. My liege. I swear upon the name and blood we share, upon my life and my honor, I will serve you faithfully. I will assist you in any way I can.”
Bette was crying now, but she placed her hand upon his head. “I accept your oath, Lysander Drakuhl. Serve me faithfully and guide me on my path. I am in your capable hands.”
The formality of the moment fell away when he grinned at her. She flung herself off the chair, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Thank the gods that she had him. She wondered if that other Lisbette, the one in the game, ever had her Uncle had her side. She couldn’t imagine Lysander letting her be used and abused like she was. Had she lost him? Had he left her?
She tightened her grip, fists twisted up in the fabric of his shirt. He picked her up and she allowed it, walking with her to her chambers and setting her down on her bed.
“I love you, Bette,” he told her. His voice sounded wet, choked with emotion. “I will never let you get hurt again.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn't speak for fear of sobbing, but she nodded and clutched his sleeve, trying to convey what words could not.
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Her lessons in magic changed after that. Lysander had clearly thrown the old playbook out and was now flying by instinct. His first lesson in the new way was more of a discovery session, trying to figure out how Bette had accomplished what no air mage had managed before.
Bette tried to explain force and lift, though without the vocabulary she’d had long ago as Liz, she ended up sounding a little strange. Lysander dutifully followed her explanation, though, and asked questions when she was unclear or unsure.
He wrote upon a large board tacked on the wall. Numbers and symbols flowed from his pen, strange and spiraling in ways she didn’t understand, but they were slowly coalescing into familiar mathematical formulas. Bette watched, awestruck, as Lysander pulled together his knowledge and her mutterings and made something beautiful—something whole.
“I think we can safely say that your trip through the sky was a result of your mana-well nature,” he said, tapping pen against his chin. It left wet ink dots there. He didn’t notice. “Though the rate of intake is inexplicable. I’ve never heard of anything like it. More like a vortex or whirlpool than a mere well.
“You said you were ‘drawing lines’?”
“Yes, I pictured it like a line in the sand, filling with water.”
“Hmm,” he hummed, wandering over to the shelf that was now host to his collection of tomes rather than the encyclopedias it had held before. He plucked a book from the shelf, glanced at the inside, then replaced it. He grabbed another book and did the same. At the third, he seemed to find what he was looking for.
“So, the nature of runes: you know that they’re just lines, right? A bunch of lines all put together to make a magic effect happen?”
She nodded, hesitantly.
“Well, the reason that happens is because the lines direct the flow of mana!” He said brightly, opening the book to a point in the middle and setting it down between them. Rather than the text of the book, Lysander pointed to his own notes crammed into the margins. Before her were the runic symbols for the four major elements, drowning in Lysander-scratch.
“Runes are a formulist tool,” he said.
She gave him a look.
“Oh, right. Uh, formulism is… well, its a school of thought, kind of. The main idea is that magic is a result of the structures that mana forms in the physical world. It has some variation but, for the most part, formulists believe that the way we shape our mana is important in how we do magic. We provide the form, through a rune or a magic circle or the like, and the mana that takes that shape accomplishes the magic we intend.”
Like writing a computer program, she thought.
“If it’s a school of thought, are there other schools?”
He reached over and ruffled her hair.
She resisted the urge to smack him.
“You’re so clever, Betsy! Yes, there’s a couple of schools. The main opposition to the formulation theory is intentionism. Intentionists believe that mana is shaped by will. The intent of the user produces the effect. The structure formed is incidental; perhaps even indicative of an underlying human conception.”
He tapped the figure for water. “The others are more abstract, but the water rune is a good example. Formulists would say that this shape is the form of mana when it consists of water nature. All water-based spells are elaborations on this basic form. But an intentionist would tell you that this symbol represents water because we think it does. The form the mana takes, for them, is because of the imprint of our will upon it.”
“So, it is much like the chicken and the egg,” she concluded. “Is it the egg that hatches the chicken or the chicken that lays the egg? Are the symbols what make the mana, or is the mana made into the symbol?”
He smiled.
“There are a couple of other theories, but those are the main ones you’ll encounter. Of course, each has points in their favor. But the reason I bring them up is… well, can you guess?”
She really hated the way he danced around saying what he meant.
“You think I was creating a kind of rune,” she said. “Forming a structure or imposing my will upon the mana to make a form I needed. Something like that?”
He reached out to her head again. She jabbed the pencil she held in his direction, warning him off. He laughed, standing up and going back to the board.
He went on to detail some other schools. There were the naturalists, who believed that the best way to manipulate mana was merely to take and direct natural mana. The human mind could not create a more perfect shape than that of the gods, so the best way to use magic was channeling the will of the gods, in a sense. This fell in line with formulism, but stood a bit to the side.
On the other side was a school of intentionists who saw mana on the physical plane as imperfect copies of mana on a higher level. They believed that the physical plane was ‘tainted’ by human will, and that the divine nature of mana at a higher level was such that it lacked affinity.
That was particularly interesting to Bette. If mana could lack affinity, that might explain why her mana sense could pick up all kinds of mana. Perhaps her attunement was not to an affinity but to a higher form of mana.
Lysander and Lisbette experimented with her mana and with different forms of magic. Bette looked forward to his lessons—she was having fun, much as she was loathe to admit it to anyone. She didn’t want anyone to think she was not taking her education seriously.
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There was not much break in the monotony of routine.
She occasionally got to visit the Zenith Temple where Windale and their great-uncle were being housed. The uncle was still fragile, sleeping more often than not, but Windale looked less tense every time she came. He was improving, slowly, under the watch of the Temple healers and physicians provided by the ducal house. Windale and his great-uncle had saved her life after all. They were due the best Drakuhl could provide.
They were always cagey when Bette asked what they were planning to do once their great-uncle recovered sufficiently. She wanted to know but she refused to pry into the beastkin’s business, so her curiosity remained unfed.
She saw her mother, occasionally. She came to the courtyard when Lisbette was practicing swordplay with Denever, with that level gaze and neutral face. Bette always felt self-conscious when Lycrarose came and she found herself making silly mistakes. Whenever Bette finished, her mother was already gone. It made Bette squirm in shame.
Time moved forward, as it always did. Spring blossomed into summer, which wilted into autumn, and then froze into winter. Bette learned at the heels of the most renowned scholars, trained with Denever and Lysander, and did her own research into others worthy of entering her retinue.
Her birthdays passed one by one, barely remarked upon. She received gifts from Zenith and abroad, but they were offerings to a future sovereign, not to Bette herself. She treasured instead the ribbons or journals that Tibitha sent to her, the little wooden models Lysander was slowly filling her shelves with, and the equipment Denever provided for her.
All too soon, her entrance into society was upon her.
The coming of age ceremony was a tradition among Northern nobles, and for the one and only heir of the Duchess Drakuhl, hers would be a cause for celebration. Nobles from all over the Empire had sent word of their intended attendance. Rumor had it even one of the Empress’s children was planning to attend, though none of her sources seemed sure which it was.
Tibitha’s coming of age had been before Bette turned six, but a few months after her own ninth birthday, the young woman turned sixteen and was obligated to be presented to the court in the Capital, as a noble lady. Her social debut was upon her.
Bette hated it. She didn’t want Tibitha to leave. More than that, she didn’t want Tibitha to go to the Capital. She still had no idea why Lisbette had been targeted by the Archduke in the original game. She couldn’t instruct Tibby on how to avoid his attention. The most she could do was give Tibitha a task and pray it kept her out of the limelight. Tibby promised to keep her ear to the ground and find anyone who could become an ally to her mistress.
Two years after Tibby had gone to the Capital, she had yet to return. She sent letters frequently. They were rambling mishmashes of intelligence report, gossip rag, and tourist brochure, and Bette read them over and over again. She searched for anything hidden in the words, anything that told her Tibitha was in trouble.
Well, Tibitha got into lots of trouble, but nothing she couldn’t handle.
Bette fretted nonetheless.
At least Tibitha would be home for Lisbette’s coming of age ceremony.
Because Bette had been born in the dead of winter and the pass would be blocked off for at least a month on either end, it was decided that her coming of age ceremony would take place in the spring. Her actual birthday would be a smaller affair for friends and family with a dash of rehearsal thrown in for good measure.
Of course, “small affair” was a relative term. A small affair for the young Duchess-in-training still meant three weeks of preparation for the palace staff. The dress Bette would wear would take three times that long, and the order had been placed with Marta a year in advance.
Marta was the seamstress Lisbette had stolen from under that pompous leather-maker nearly six years ago. She had a special place in Bette’s heart, being the first member of her retinue that the young girl had chosen for herself. Tibitha and Lysander were dear to her, but they were ultimately gifts from the Duchess. She could not rely on Lycrarose forever. She needed people whom she had chosen and cultivated, those who would be loyal to her first and foremost. She needed people who could keep her secrets and guard her weaknesses.
Marta was the first person Bette had invited into her drawing room after her punishment was handed down when she was six. The woman was rotund and bespectacled, with fingers as nimble as dragonflies that fluttered to and fro in an anxious dance. Her nerves had been obvious even in the split second before Bette had entered and alerted her to her presence.
Then she saw Lisbette, standing there in her child’s dress and her tiny ballet slippers, looking for all the world like a little doll instead of a princess. Marta had melted, taking her in with a maternal eye and asking what kind of clothes she’d like to have. Though she had no formal training in making children’s clothes, her years of practice with her children’s shone through. Her designs were beautiful, but always had an eye on practicality, which suited Bette.
Bette made sure to offer her tuition for her children’s schooling, and a promise of sponsorship should they prove themselves capable artisans in their own rights.
“Your Highness, please, turn this way,” Marta said from somewhere behind her. Bette made an awkward shuffle, attempting to comply even while her arms were still up in the air and her sides were being assaulted by a dozen or so maids and seamstresses.
“I don’t know how it’s possible but ye seem to have shot up another few inches, my Lady.”
She grimaced. That meant she’d have to be re-fitted for her dress next week to ensure it still fit properly after they made the needed adjustments. Three apprentices were busily taking out darts and ripping seams while a fourth made detailed notes about any changes in her anatomy.
Bette scowled, turning her face away. She had endured this for twelve years already, but there was something very embarrassing about someone else knowing every inch of her awkward growth spurts.
“That’s half a head since the last fitting,” the note-taker remarked.
“Oh dear,” Marta fretted, wiping her sweating brow with a handkerchief. “Ye’ll have grown out of most of your clothes by the end of the year, my Lady. I’ll get my girls to work on a new set of essentials right away.”
I can’t help it, she wanted to say, both my mother and father are giants. She kept her mouth firmly closed. She had already known she’d be tall. Lisbette was one of the tallest characters in the game, according to the group shot in the pamphlet.
Over the years, Bette had transcribed what she could remember of the game series Tales of Jor and the original Blades of Jor game in a personal journal she kept at the back of her bookshelf. It was done in shorthand, and it was encrypted with a cypher, but she wasn’t overly worried about anyone finding it. The brief points and interjections she’d scribbled in the margins of the notes had made it nigh illegible. Now she only used it to refresh her memory.
“Your Highness,” Amanda called from the other side of the room, a safe distance from the chaos surrounding Bette. “You have a visitor. I have brought them to your drawing room and left them with sweets and tea.”
Bette resisted the urge to groan. She’d been up since three in the morning with a bevy of maids passing her back and forth between the bath and the wardrobe. She was already exhausted and the day hadn’t even really started.
Still she said, “Very good, Amanda. Inform them I will join them promptly.”
Amanda bowed from the waist, then retreated before another maid could box her in to help.
“Marta,” Bette said.
The little woman looked up at her from her crouching position where she was inspecting a seam. She looked puzzled for a moment, then realization dawned.
“Ah, yes, your Highness. Ladies, gentlemen, let’s unwrap our Princess and get her into some real clothes!”
Her voice was not very loud or commanding, but the rest leapt to work nonetheless. Pins were pulled and latches unlatched. They peeled the elaborate garment off of her in pieces, as much of the seams had to be redone. The day dress went on much more quickly, and with three maids already there to help, her hair was done up elegantly in twist.
Marta curtsied to Bette. “We will have the dress resized and fitted by tonight, your Highness.”
“Of course, Marta,” Bette said. “You have my absolute confidence.”
With that, she bid farewell to the gaggle of seamsters and maids.
Though Bette had an inkling of who might be waiting for her behind her drawing room door, she still wasn’t prepared for the sight: Tibitha Camerie Carroll, Bette’s dearest confidante, home at last. Dressed in a sun-gold gown and a simple crown of fabric flowers, she was the brightest and most radiant thing in the room. It almost brought tears to her eyes, but she held herself back.
“Lady Tibitha,” Bette greeted her. “You are welcome in the embrace of the North.”
The young woman turned to face her.
For a moment, Bette felt unsure. She hadn’t seen Tibby since she left for her social debut when she was sixteen, nearly two years ago. So much time had passed and so much had changed. Tibitha might be a stranger by now, metamorphosed by the glitz and glamor of the Capital.
Then, Tibby’s face broke into a grin, and the woman pulled Bette into a bone-crushing embrace, picking her up and spinning with her, as if they were still six and twelve. Bette nearly melted in relief.
“Princess! I missed you so much!” Tibitha cried.
“Tibitha, put me down,” Lisbette scolded, though she couldn’t keep the fond undertone from her voice.
Tibitha gently set her back on the hardwood floor of the drawing room and took a step back to look her up and down. She paced a circle around the younger girl, face screwed up in a mask of concentration. Bette obliged her by holding still under the inspection.
“You know, you’re head-and-shoulders taller than I was at your age,” Tibby told her suddenly. “You’re almost up to my shoulders now, and I’ve gone through puberty! I think that’s really unfair.”
“Such is the curse of having a father and mother of normal stature.”
“So true,” she sighed. “The Duke stole all the height before the others even got a chance, least of all Mama.”
Bette found in their banter immense relief.
Even at eighteen, Tibitha had changed remarkably little in personality. If anything, she’d grown to be more “Tibby” than ever before. Now that she understood the rules of society, she seemed to take great pleasure in stomping all over them. Certainly she could hold her graces better among those whose respect she wished for, but no one else had ever tamed her.
“How have you been since the last letter?” Bette asked her. “Has there been anything you could not share in a letter?”
She grinned, taking her hand. It was brash, a low noble taking her Highness’s hand, but it was Tibby. It was just how she was.
“No idea! Can’t remember anything I wrote you, honestly. Let’s just talk, I’m sure I’ll share it all eventually.”
Lisbette laughed and Tibby glowed with satisfaction.
They walked, hand-in-hand, to the garden.