Her father was not a quiet person, but he did not speak freely like her mother did. He spoke either quite seriously or in a silly voice, and he repeated things often. He had catchphrases, many of which, she would learn later, were from the television shows and movies of his youth. One that she liked to join in on was “You are a P-I-G pig!” delivered in something suggesting a southern accent. She liked repetition. She liked to watch the same videos again and again until she had memorized them and could mouth along with what the characters on the screen were saying. Then she could reenact her favorite scenes quietly to herself while she lay in bed trying to fall asleep. Sometimes she would sleep in Philip’s room, in the bunk bed, and he would tell her stories, often featuring the characters she liked best from her videos. She enjoyed his attention, and so she tried not to complain too much when the actions of the characters deviated from what they’d actually done in the real version. She told herself that Philip’s stories (not in these words exactly at the time) would have no bearing on the canon whose truth she could always return to later.

What she loved most of all was when her father told her and Philip stories before bed. Her father was not, she learned as she grew older, a naturally creative person, which made his modest efforts more impressive in retrospect. (Their mother, the more serious reader, served as the amanuensis for their diaries when it was her turn to put them to bed—if they’d been trying to raise writers, which they hadn’t been, consciously, they would have been hard-pressed to come up with a better plan.) Her father would tell stories about Prince Philip and Princess Cassandra and their court, which was made up of their real-life friends and family members. The content of the stories consisted almost entirely of long lists of names, and if any was left off, Cassie made sure to inquire after them, for fear that someone had died or been banished. But they were all present, all fine. Philip would occasionally betray an impatience to get to the narrative portion of the story, which usually consisted of a fairly rote dragon slaying or the rescuing of the princess from a vague but diabolical kidnapper. Their father was, she could see now, helped along greatly by his children’s pestering desire for more information, forcing him to provide details he hadn’t thought necessary. Where did the dragon come from? Well … the lake. Was it a deep lake? Yes. How deep? Four thousand feet. Whoa, that’s really deep. Are there other dragons down there?… No, just the one. The other ones died?… No. They moved away. Like we moved to England. But there was one that didn’t want to move. And that’s why he kidnapped the princess. Ohhhh.