Gwen let herself into the Bainbridge house in Kensington as quietly as she could. It was after eleven, and she doubted that anyone would still be awake to greet her. She was mistaken. Agnes, Little Ronnie’s governess, came to the top of the main staircase, her dressing gown wrapped tightly over her nightgown.

Gwen’s heart gave a quick leap of concern when she saw Agnes waiting up, but Agnes quickly smiled and put a finger to her lips, allaying Gwen’s fears.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered. “He’s fine. He’s been asleep, but he made me promise I’d wait up for you.”

“Why?” Gwen whispered back as she climbed the stairs.

“Come,” said Agnes, beckoning.

She led Gwen to her room, which was next to Ronnie’s. She went in to retrieve a piece of paper.

“He was very excited that Mummy was going to be in a panto,” said Agnes, handing the paper to her.

Gwen held it up to the light. It was a drawing of a woman dressed up as a cat on a stage with red curtains all around her. Triangular black ears jutted out of a yellow mane of hair.

“Is that me?” asked Gwen in delight.

“Yes, Mrs. Bainbridge,” said Agnes. “You as Puss in Boots.”

“And there’s Sir Oswald the Narwhal in the audience,” said Gwen, laughing. Sir Oswald was Little Ronnie’s creation, a heroic narwhal who battled Nazis on and under the seas. “He’s wearing a little top hat!”

“What else would a narwhal wear to the theatre?” replied Agnes.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” said Gwen. “Thank you for waiting up for me.”

“You’re more than welcome, Mrs. Bainbridge,” said Agnes. “He is a treasure. I hope he stays in London for his schooling.”

“Ah, so you’ve heard about that battle,” said Gwen.

“Lord Bainbridge wants him to hew to the family tradition and go off to St. Frideswide’s. I know its reputation. It’s an antiquated institution that propagates antiquated thinking. We need our Ronnie to save the world from his ancestors, not run it aground on their behalf.”

“I agree, but don’t spout off like that where anyone else can hear you,” said Gwen.

“I know better than that,” said Agnes. “Good night, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

“Good night, Agnes.”

The governess glided through her door and closed it silently behind her.

Gwen tiptoed into her son’s room and sat by his bed, gazing down at him fondly as he slept. He was so much a copy of his father. She sometimes wondered what of her was in him. She couldn’t see any features that echoed any from her reflection, but he was still six. She didn’t need to re-create herself; she had herself. Or used to—she was still working on getting that woman back.

And then getting her son back. Lord and Lady Bainbridge had seized legal custody after the news of Gwen’s husband’s death had sent her to the sanatorium. Her current regimen with the psychiatrist was not merely a medical necessity, but a legal one to complete before she could even begin the process of regaining custody of him. Lady Carolyne and she had reached an uneasy rapprochement recently, but Lord Bainbridge was the rigid one. The anticipated eruption over Little Ronnie’s schooling, which Gwen naturally wanted to take place in London, was a daily source of consternation.