Story Beginning

[Willow Oran]

This piece is the first chapter to a much longer work and it sets up many of the characters and relationships that will be important thoroughout the story, so I want to make sure that does all of that and draws the reader in as effectively as possible.
I've hesitated over posting it here, or anywhere else on the internet. But it's been through about six revisions thanks to family, friends and various classes and I want to open it up to constructive criticism from a wider audience.
Please take the time to read and honestly review it. I'd be very grateful to hear all your opinions and advice.

Thank you!

-Maggie

Naming

First there is light; light and cold, after the warm dark it hurts her so she twists around and away but the light and the cold are still there. She squints her eyes, shuts them tight-

The light goes away, she can make the light go away! She likes this so she tries it over and over, light dark, light dark, dark light dark and light again. Slowly the light stops hurting, hurts a little less every time till finally she keeps her eyes open and looks at the light. Light feels less now, she notices that the cold has also gone away, it snuck away while she was busy with the light and left only a tingle. She likes this new warm, it feels almost like the old warm but this time with light. Warm light is darker than cold light, she can look at it and not feel hurt, so she looks at it. Warm light has a funny shape, the funny shape gives her a rising bubbly feeling that comes out of her as a sound. She likes sound, makes it again and look! the warm light makes sound also.

Something lifts, she starts, she was unprepared for movement, but now the warm light is closer and the shape more solid, she can feel and smell it now and it smells familiar, but not quite. It isn’t Mother, where is Mother? She tries to see, can’t, maybe sound? Tries a sound. Works, more movement. Not-Mother gives her back to Mother. She knows Mother right away, even from this outside light place. Mother lifts her close and she looks, sees Mother’s face. Mother has a good face and Mother is warm. Satisfied, she closes her eyes once more and sleeps.


Genevra smiles down at her sleeping daughter. The child has just opened her eyes and now she is resting. She wonders what it was her daughter saw while learning how to use her eyes. Genevra sees her bedchamber, an open space with gray stone walls and large glass doors that open onto her private garden. The room is filled with flowers; vases of roses, hanging baskets dripping with delicate, brightly blooming vines, pots of pansies, and just outside the doors, an almond tree in full bloom. Genevra loves her plants and Arion indulges her. The nurses had disapproved at first, being suspicious of their foreign queen’s customs; but in the end their opinion hadn’t mattered. Arrived from Faerin several days before, Genevra’s mother had made them obsolete.

Amaryllia is cleaning up now, allowing Genevra some time with her daughter. Genevra marvels at this concept, that she has a daughter now. Has it really been only a few hours since this infant was inside of her, a part of her? The memory of that time is already beginning to slip away. It is time to begin a new set of memories. The anticipation of what those memories will hold pleases Genevra.

“Love,” the lilting voice pronounces the word with a tone of profound exasperation; Genevra shifts her gaze to frown at her mother. Amaryllia is taking note of her daughter’s plants for the first time. “Your first birth and you’ve filled the room with love symbols. I taught you better than that Genevra.”

“I was wondering when you’d say that,” Genevra replies, resigned, and mildly annoyed, “my flowers are perfectly suitable for this room.”

“But not for a birth,” comes the reprimand, “Your husband’s people take names seriously, you should have filled the room with plants symbolizing strength, or intelligence, then you could have given her a name appropriate to her station. Now she’ll be named for love, no matter which plant you choose to name her for, or have you forgotten the customs you were raised to follow?”

“She will be named using the customs of this country, mother. She isn’t a faerie; she will receive a human name.”

“That’s what I said when I named you. ‘She isn’t a faerie. I’ll name her according to her father’s customs.’ That’s what my mother said when she named me. Don’t do it. Daughters should be named using the mother’s customs. Anything else will bring bad fortune.” Amaryllia tells her.

“There’s no proof for that.” Genevra argues.

“No?” Amaryllia counters, “Look at me, I go through fire and water to win your father and then stupidly follow my mother’s mistake with the naming and what happens? You go and choose a human. I see all my work being swept downstream and when I try to give you advice you ignore me. At least give her a surname bestowed using our custom. Even a fickle thing like love is a better name than a cursed one. Perhaps it will balance out.”

“No.” Genevra refuses curtly, “That would be worse. In Faerin a name’s meaning shapes the person’s life, but here it means more than that. Here, a person’s name is their being, and to have two names is to have two beings. The people of Enigma wouldn’t stand for it.”

Amaryllia snorts, the harsh sound incongruent with her graceful bearing, “For a culture that puts so much value on names, they chose a stupid one for their country. Enigma. Why do they call this land that? There’s nothing mysterious about it; it has cities and towns and roads and geography just like any other country in the world. These people who live here are no stranger than any other humans. Why Enigma?”

“Arion said it refers to their history.” Genevra answers, irritated by the insult to the country that has adopted her as its queen. “He said that when his ancestors first settled here and established their kingdom they had no memories of what had come before. They had to start their history all over again. Their customs and superstitions stem from the fragments of tradition that those ancestors could recall. They called their country Enigma because it was a mystery to them and apparently to everyone else as to where they had come from and how they had gotten here, and why they had left wherever it was they were before.”

Amaryllia absently winds a lock of dark hair around her finger as she considers this explanation, her skepticism is clear in the glacial blue of her gaze. “Why don’t you go and talk to Arion about the naming?” Genevra suggests, attempting to make peace, “It’s traditional for a relative apart from the parent to give the name during the ceremony. I’m sure he’d agree to let you do it.”

“Mmm.” Amaryllia hums softly, still thinking, “I don’t like Arion very much,” she says vaguely, “He doesn’t like me much either. But I’ll tell him you’ve asked me to give the child her name. Get some rest dear.” She glides through the door that leads into the rest of the castle. Relieved to be alone with her daughter at last, Genevra settles down, and joins her child in sleep.


Amaryllia finds her daughter’s mate in the library, deep in discussion with a large, human male, one of the many around the palace; this is one of the things Amaryllia doesn’t like about the people that her daughter has become queen of. She is of the faerie, and faerie are small. She cannot approve of these overlarge humans; the shortest Enigman that Amaryllia has seen was well over six feet. She recalls that the name of this particular giant is Aldrich, he is with Arion often, and seems important.
Amaryllia has spent much of her time here in Enigma being confused about who is who. To her mind, a mind used to the widely varying appearances of the faerie, Enigmans all look very much alike. Take these two men for example, Amaryllia is sure that they are not closely related, yet the only differences she can see are Aldrich’s greater height and the green in Arion’s eyes.

Politely, she refrains from interrupting and stands a little way off, just close enough to hear what the two men are saying. It wouldn’t do to thwart one’s own curiosity.

“-Of course we’ll be naming her according to custom,” Arion is saying, “But I’m still not sure which custom… Genevra doesn’t want to give anyone a reason to believe that my choosing her was a mistake. She believes we should name her according to this country’s tradition with no debate.”

“And you?” Aldrich’s voice is deep, the words rumbling up from his diaphragm like an earthquake that rises and ripples up through the earth. Amaryllia studies him; of all the giant humans she has seen here, he is the hugest. Even Arion, who to most faeries resembles a small tree, is dwarfed by Aldrich. Amaryllia feels claustrophobic just watching him.

“I’m not sure,” Arion admits, “Names are important both here and in Faerin, but the reasons behind that importance and the method of ensuring that the correct name is given are quite different. I’m afraid that whatever we choose, someone is going to be offended and probably angry, the real question is who and how much. At best I could end up with a few angry citizens, or one angry relation. At worst I’ll have a small scale revolt or a broken alliance, or both; and all because of a name.”

Amaryllia seizes her chance, “Perhaps I can offer a solution?” She asks, sweeping between them, she ignores the inevitable feeling of being trapped and tells them her proposition, “Genevra asked me to officiate at the naming ceremony. We will follow your Enigman customs, and Faerin will be satisfied. Problem solved.”

Arion looks skeptical, “The problem with Faerin would be solved, there will still be Enigmans who object. They will want a entirely Enigman ceremony to balance the perceived weakness in the child.”

“Weakness?” Asks Amaryllia.

Arion looks disquieted, “There are some who believe that because my daughter is not fully human… they believe that she will be weaker for it.”

“I see.”

“I think you should take the lady’s offer.” Aldrich cuts in, surprising and gratifying Amaryllia with his support. “I think I know how we can head off any internal discontent. My Lady Belinda has been pressuring me to find someone to officiate at our younger son’s naming, he is nearly two months now and still un-named. She is becoming impatient with the long wait.”

“A double naming?” Arion sees what Aldrich is getting at, “It would work. And the implied promise?”

“If you agree to it.”

“I am thinking that the promise implied is of a betrothal later on?” Amaryllia asks, wishing to clarify what the men are talking about, “Would such a promise be appropriate?”

“Certainly,” Arion tells her, “Aldrich governs the plains district; he’s second in power only to Genevra and me. An alliance between our children will be perfectly acceptable, though unusual. If you and Merrill officiate at a double naming for the two of them there should be no major objections from anyone.” He looks relieved at this thought.
Aldrich is pleased; he excuses himself, saying he must go inform his lady of the plan. Amaryllia does not linger. She has things to do before the naming, and Merrill must also be informed. Besides, neither she nor Arion are comfortable in eachother’s company.


A month later, Arion stands in the upper garden, outside the rooms he shares with Genevra. He has spirited his daughter away from the preparations for the time being and now he stands beneath the almond tree, holding her in the predawn light. By the time the sun has risen she will have a name, and for better or worse that name will shape her.
Arion hopes it will be for the better. He still has his doubts about this compromise. It seems to him that this mix of Enigman and Faerie traditions is unpredictable and wonders if he may have done his child a disservice by agreeing to it.

To choose one or the other would have caused political trouble, but surely that could have been smoothed over. Unconsciously he whispers his worries aloud to her,
“What if you are given the wrong name? So many names sound innocent enough yet have wholly negative meanings… Will your esteemed grandparents know the difference between a sweet sounding name and a sweet meaning one? Will they know which one is right for you?”

“Have a little faith, Arion.” He turns to see Genevra standing behind him, smiling wryly. She is resplendent in blue and standing there in the morning twilight she looks as ethereal and inhuman as Arion often forgets she is.

“I don’t trust them,” in his arms their daughter screws up her face and Arion takes the expression for one of agreement, “See, she doesn’t trust them either.”

Genevra gives him an amused look, “She’s too young to know one way or the other. Come Arion, what makes you not trust my parents?”

“Nothing, except that they are… too old, perhaps, would be a way to put it? They are too present and not present at the same time. Do you understand?”

“I think I do, though I’ve not noticed it myself.”

“You may be more accustomed to it than I.”

“It still does not explain why you distrust.”

“I am afraid of them.” Arion confesses, “Your parents are not without their share of power, Genevra. They’re legends in Zanduan, were you aware of that? I know they don’t fully approve of me and I must constantly tread carefully around them while not compromising my own authority here. Your father, at least, seems content to convey his feelings through not speaking, but your mother knows perfectly well that she is too old and too powerful to be silenced.”

“I do not think they mean to be frightening or disrespectful,” Genevra muses, “Would you like me to speak to them?”

“No. Best just leave it. What’s taking them so long?” Arion switches subjects, “The sun will rise soon.”

“They’re coming,” she assures him, “Belinda and Aldrich were just behind me.”

She is proven true. Aldrich steps into the garden, yawning, Belinda close behind with their eldest son, Einar. He is holding his younger brother and comes to stand silently between his father and Arion.

“Lady Amaryllia asked that we all meet them in the lower part of the garden.” Belinda tells them.

“Why not here?” asks Arion.

“I think she likes the water in the lower garden,” says Genevra, “Mother prefers to be near water as much as possible.”

“Are you ready?” asks Aldrich.

“Yes.”

Together they make their way down the aged, stone stairs. Einar carries his brother carefully, allowing the infant to see around them.

Arion notices his daughter fidgeting fretfully as they leave the upper garden. The petals that she enjoyed don’t float this far from the tree. Arion whispers to her, to no avail. Fidgets lead to whimpers, then to tears, and when they reach Genevra’s parents where they are waiting in a secluded area of the garden by the side of the stream, the baby girl is wailing.
“Will she not be calmed?” asks the queen’s mother. “She’s disturbing the boy.”

“I’ve tried, Amaryllia.” Arion replies, “I don’t know what’s gotten into her, she’s usually very quiet.”

“At this age who’s to say if this is unusual or not?”

Arion grimaces as his wife’s mother turns back to the children. Genevra wants this, he reminds himself, it’s for the best… but although he can hide them, Arion can’t dispel his feelings. Merrill and Amaryllia make him distinctly nervous.

There used to be an old, thick tree stump in the middle of this glade, Arion remembers. Someone, he suspects Merrill, has carved it into a double cradle, still rooted firmly in the ground. Arion reluctantly sets his daughter down in it, and Einar follows his example, placing his brother next to her. Arion tries not to think about the method that Merrill must have used to make that cradle. Perhaps he could have hand carved something that exquisite in only a month. Arion doubts it. Merrill is more inclined towards the supernatural arts. He is powerfully built and looks a venerable age when it suits him. Merrill is neither human, nor Fae. It is said that he is the child of two of the greater spirits who oversee the running of the world, but if this is true Genevra has never said, and Arion has never had the nerve to ask.

“It’s a bad sign.” Merrill comments, stepping out from the shadows in which he has been lurking, “What is it you’re crying for?” he asks, addressing the baby.

“It’s nothing, Merrill.” Arion says, shielding his daughter from the older being, he is beginning to regret this already. This is not the way a naming ceremony is supposed to go! “It’s nothing. She’s just had a bad night. She was kept up late by too many strange people.”

“There is no one strange here, why does she not stop?” Merrill counters, reaching down towards his grandchild. She cries louder. “Such tears ask for a sorrowful name. Child, I name you Marion for the tears you will desire to cry could fill an ocean.”

“Father!” exclaims Genevra, mortified, “You can’t mean that.”

“I would not say it if I did not mean it.” He answers calmly, “Your daughter’s life will not be easy.”

“If you’ve seen something and you aren’t telling us Father…” Genevra warns him.

“I’ve seen nothing but what’s around me.” Merrill tells her. “You would see it too if you cared to look- ah!” He pulls his hand sharply away from the rim of the cradle, the knuckles red where the as yet un-named boy has hit them with the wooden rattle.

“He seems to have taken offense,” says Belinda dryly, trying not to smile. Merrill’s naming of Marion has annoyed her. Merrill scowls; Amaryllia steps quickly between her mate and the infant boy.

“Perhaps he is simply reminding us that he would like to have a name too.” She says. She turns to look down at the boy, who glares resolutely back. He has placed himself directly between the younger Marion and her grandparents and she, amazingly, has begun to quiet. “Or perhaps not,” Amaryllia amends. “You’ll be a good friend to her, won’t you Alwyn?” She asks, and names him.

The adults wait to see if the names will be accepted. Names are given at dawn, always. Now it is dawn and the names are given, but the names must be accepted by the sun. The adults hold their breaths and wait, expectantly, apprehensively, they look eastwards and the sun rises.

[Willow Oran]

The hall is filled with dancing. Amaryllia listens to the music with the two sleeping infants and thinks. She thinks that the Enigmans are beautiful dancers. Watching their celebration, she sees every passion, all the emotion that Arion’s people pride themselves in their denial of, released in their dance. It doesn’t seem to matter if there is music, or how many dancers there are, the first few moved their too lanky bodies in a shockingly graceful rhythm before the music ever started and the rest followed, building and joining till the dance became a living thing, constantly changing, and heartbreakingly joyful. The isolationist people who always show such reserve, such unmitigated control in all other matters, dance with the unfettered abandon of fallen leaves in the wind.
Genevra is dancing with them now. Amaryllia wants to leave the room, but the dancing keeps her transfixed. Seeing her daughter so happy with her adopted people forces Amaryllia to revise her opinion of Arion and his Enigmans. It isn’t easy.

Merrill isn’t helping. He has just asked her if she will rise and dance. Genevra wishes it, he says. Amaryllia is listening to the music and thinking about her answer. She has been silent a long time now. Merrill is looking impatient.

“Why Marion?” She asks him, her question surprising even herself, “Why name her for sorrow?”

“Because she is.” His answer is cryptic as usual. Sometimes Amaryllia swears he does it just to be dramatic.

“She was for the moment,” Amaryllia takes a sharper tone with her husband, “Why not name her something hopeful?”

“I lost hope a long time ago.”

“Iolanthe was the keeper of hope, not hope itself.”

“I still lost her.”

“Spirits are hard to lose, Merrill.” This makes him smile slightly.

“You would know.”

“I also know when you’re hiding something. Now answer my question properly; Nothing mysterious,” she commands him.

“Do you think I would lie to Genevra?” He asks, hurt, “I’ve seen nothing. It was more of a feeling. Marion will need to learn to accept sorrow. Just as she will learn to accept her name.”

“Hmm…”

“Will you dance now?”

“No.” Amaryllia glares at him fiercely, “I would prefer to watch, and to think.”

“You disagree with my choice.”

“Obviously.”

“It’s too late to change it,” he warns. Amaryllia ignores him.

“Go away, Merrill.” He obeys with no protest apart from a raised eyebrow. They have had enough years together to know when argument is futile. He will have forgiven her for the abrupt dismissal by the time she goes to bed.

The music and the dancing changes, becoming softer, peaceful… People are dancing closer now, in couples more than groups. Genevra is dancing with Arion. Amaryllia watches them, and blinks back tears. They are beautiful together, two dark haired dancers of mismatched height, dressed in glimmering silks the colors of their countries. They twirl, making a blue-green blur and dance out of the candle light into the shadows at the edge of the hall. Amaryllia loses sight of them and leans back in her chair, hand on the edge of her granddaughter’s cradle, she listens to the music and thinks.


Marion lies in her cradle and thinks. Movement sounds are keeping her awake. Not old enough for words in her thoughts, she thinks in images and sounds. At the moment, she is thinking about right sounds and wrong sounds. She knows that she has been given a sound of her own now. She heard her sound for the first time when she was in the green place, earlier. She thinks that her sound is a nice sound, but there is something, just the tiniest something, not right.

Even at just a month old Marion knows what right and wrong are. Right is when she is being held by her mother, or her father. Right is when she is fed the moment she becomes hungry. Right is when things are quiet and calm and when there are nice sounds and light that is not too bright and not too dark. Right is when she is not wet or uncomfortable. Right just is. Wrong is when right is missing. This is what Marion knows of right and wrong and though she thinks that the sound that was given to her sounds nice, she still cannot think that it is right and therefore it must be wrong. Perhaps the sound is simply not the sound that should have been hers?
She felt the rightness that was there when the other baby was given his sound and she hadn’t felt it when she had received hers. He hadn’t felt it either. He had struck out against the big being that had given her sound. That had awed her and now that she thinks of it, his action had brought a feeling of rightness with it. She also thinks that she had been feeling a great deal of wrongness before his action. Were the other wrong things so overwhelming that the rightness that should have come with her sound went unfelt?

Her thoughts are interrupted when two white hands reach down and lift her out of her cradle. The face that goes with the hands comes into focus. Marion knows this big person. She is not as big as the others and she looks somewhat like Mother. It was this person who gave the boy his sound. There is no wrongness that Marion associates with her, though Marion has sensed that father thinks otherwise. Amaryllia sees that Marion is awake and puts a finger to her lips. ‘Shh… We must be quiet,’ she tells Marion silently. Marion complies; she is thinking in sounds, she has no intention of actually making any. Amaryllia walks with Marion out into the garden, away from the movement noises. She bypasses the stream and climbs the stairs to the upper garden. Breathing in the moonlight, she stands with the child under the almond tree.
The night is breezy and petals from the pale pink blossoms dust down, swirling around the pair like rose colored snow. Wide eyed, Marion twists in her grandmother’s arms, reaching out to grasp at the soft petals, this feels right to her, more right than anything has felt before, and she knows now that the feeling of wrongness she felt when she was given her sound was not imagined. Amaryllia knows it too. Gently she removes a blossom from between Marion’s fingers, and bending down her head, she very secretly, very quietly whispers one word in Marion’s ear. In that moment the feeling of rightness intensifies, and surrounded by flying petals, Marion laughs. Later, when Marion is back in her cradle and Amaryllia has left, she goes straight to sleep. She knows that she has been given her right name, and dreams of almond petals.

[Lotesse]

It's very dreamy, Lady - Willow; beautifully dreamy. I love the way it starts out, but after a point, the constant arguing about how the poor child can deserve or have her little name gets difficult to keep reading. I found I craved some action, after a few moments of the mother's talking about what the child's name ought ot ought not to be. I love the idea of the country Enigma. I love how the baby feels being born, and that we can experience it through the baby. I despise bossy mean-heart selfish mother types like that Amaryllia; she's awful. Poor Genevra; she can't tell her mother to mind her own beeswax. O.K., I'm going to go back and finish reading the rest, now. Nice, Lady Willow! Very introspective and sensitive; it feels like you write from actual experience from being a young mother. Very good! I go back & finish reading now...

Is the baby half-Faerie, half human? At first I thought the baby was a girl, but upon more reading I find he is a boy baby. This is a good idea for a great story, Willow, but some of the clues stay too suspended for too long. Well, I'm trying to give you honest feedback 'cause you requested it. Please don't get offended!! Maybe Entmoot's not the best place to expect totally perfect criticism, since so many of us here are friends and don't want to actually mete out constructive criticism. It's an excellent concept! Very original, andnicely dreamy. You're a very gifted writer; I'm just trying to get to the heart of your story. What is it exactly that you are trying to say; what do you want to tell - what story, a struggle for a half-faerie, half-human baby to be able to come of his own in a prejudiced world, against the powers of his two families, or a woman's struggle to make a place for her child? I'm trying to ascertain who's story it is.

The grammar is perfect. You're an excellent grammatician, to be sure.

Are there twin babies? A girl & a boy, awaiting officially sanctioned names?

[Serenoli]

I think you must be a bit confused, Lotesse. There are two babies, one the princess, a half-faerie, and the other baby is the child of Aldrich, who is second only to the royal couple. Not twins, but they are engaged, and they have both been named, but Marion ended up with the wrong name.

Maggie, I loved it!

I suppose what Lotesse meant is its a bit long, and slow for most people. But, I liked it very much, the dreaminess and all... and found myself drawn into the argument over her name... And I loved the way you did the baby thoughts, there was such a sweet feeling to it! I'm looking forward to the rest of it, very interested to know what happens next... and I think again, you're very talented!

[Willow Oran]

I'm glad you both liked it (more or less). And now, if you're willing, I'm going to ask questions.

It's interesting how differently the two of you responded in terms of understanding. I wonder, how much of that had to do with when you were reading it?
Lotesse, if you were to go back and read it say, during midday, do you think some of the clues come across more clearly, or are they still vague?

I also think I agree that it does move a bit slowly and could use some more action, and I think that's where I'm stuck. So:

In which parts, specifically, would you like to see more action?

And what type of action? (Partying? More varied interaction between characters? A fight?)

And finally, which characters would you like to see more of? Which ones were most effective? Least?

Thank you both so much for reading!

[Earniel]

Interesting set-up. It paints a good picture of who's who and how they see each other. And it still leaves you with a few questions to keep you interested, which will probably be answered in the rest of the story. Like just what's gotten Merrill's nickers in a bundle that justifies him giving his granddaughter a risky name? He seems to be caught up in the past, judging by his comments, still not really a reason to curse his granddaughter's future. And just which name is ultimatedly Marion's Right name? It seems to involve something flowery.

I like the idea that naming a child is so important that it will determine its later life and even can start a war. Curious though, that while it is so enormously important, it appears to be a private scene? I would have expected the naming of the crownprincess to be more ceremonial and more public. But the private scene works fine this way.

If names are so important and little Marion can sense what is her right or wrong name (as well as little Alwyn) won't other people be able to sense the rightness or wrongness of a name as well? Or just their own? Just curious.

I'm interested in learning just how the rest of the people will react to Marion's name. Her close relatives seem already to be upset by the choice of Marion, will the public react likewise?

Liked the moment where Alwyn makes his dislike known with the rattle. Reminded me of the story where my sister knocked my dad clean out of the sofa with a sturdy plastic rattle.

[Rían]

very interesting! I'm going to re-read it before posting my thoughts. But first overall impression is good - it hangs together and creates its own world and I feel that I"m in it.

[Serenoli]

Regarding your questions, Willow:

And what type of action?

Maybe some fighting... maybe some travelling, I don't know really, but something more varied would be nice.

And finally, which characters would you like to see more of?

Definitely Marion, Amaryllia and Merril. Aldrich seemed least effective to me, but his son, and the rattle were good.

[littleadanel]

A great beginning! I've only had the time to run through it, but it certainly has drawn me in.

I wonder about the grandparents, though, Merrill's naming for sorrow and Amaryllia's secret naming. It is a great idea to have names bear such significance, to shape the fate of a being. Will little Marion remember her right name? I mean, she will surely recognise it if she hears it, but who will call her by that name? Maybe her grandmother, in secret?

I know I'm not much use, without any real criticism... I'll have to read again, and think more. But I loved it, that's for sure.