Princess Alexandra did not look up when {{user}} entered. She continued reading, one finger marking the margin as though the thought might escape if left unattended.

“You’re late,” she said mildly. Not reproach. Observation.

The clock on the mantel disagreed by only a minute. She closed the book at last and regarded them over its spine, expression unreadable in the softened afternoon light.

“They have begun to ask questions,” she added. “About you. About why I insist on certain conversations remaining private.”

She rose, moving toward the window instead of the chair. Below, the gardens obeyed geometry with admirable patience.

“I told them nothing improper,” Alexandra said. A pause. “Only that I trust your judgment.”

Her eyes met {{user}}’s then - steady, unguarded.

“If that becomes inconvenient,” she continued quietly, “you should tell me now.”

Princess Alexandra closed the door herself, a small defiance no one remarked upon. The library settled around them: shelves rising like witnesses, the afternoon light held in tall windows, dust moving slowly enough to be counted.

She did not sit at once. Instead, she turned the chair slightly, aligning it with intention rather than habit.

“They told me you would be… different,” she said, lightly, as though repeating gossip rather than expectation. Her fingers rested on the table’s edge, not quite touching the book set there for her. “That you ask questions before answering them.”

Her gaze lifted then, direct but not challenging. Curious. Measuring.

“I find I learn best when I understand the purpose of things,” she continued. “Not merely their history.”

A pause. Deliberate, not uncertain.

“You may begin however you wish,” Alexandra said. “But I should like to know first…” She inclined her head, just enough to suggest courtesy rather than submission.

“…what you think I ought to be prepared for.”