Lila turned to find herself being accosted by a pretty brunette in a puffy parka that went down to her knees. She held a steaming mug of coffee in each hand, which she extended toward the pair of them. It took Lila a moment to process that not only was Ford being offered a hot beverage, but she was, too.

“Here. I’ll take that little darling so you can hold your cup. Jeeves, you said his name was? Oh—or am I still not supposed to touch him?” This question was directed at Lila, who found herself at a continued loss for words.

She didn’t know what it was about these people that threw her so far off-balance, but they did. She was normally able to carry herself well in any situation. All it took was a little authority, a little dignity, and—

“I won’t pet him, see? Just cradle him like this. He’s awfully sweet.” The woman buried her nose in the puppy’s neck and inhaled. It was the exact same thing Lila did whenever presented with a four-legged bundle of joy, so she relaxed a little. “That’s my special brew you’re holding. It has a bit of spice to keep things warm on a morning like this one. I thought you two could use it. My name’s Helen, by the way. You must be Princess Lila.”

All attempts at relaxation fled, some of the special brew sloshing over the edge of Lila’s mug as she reared back. “Oh, I’m not really a—”

Ford coughed heavily and cast a knowing look back over his shoulder. Emily stood in the doorway to the house, a long purple nightgown brushing the tops of her bare feet. It was an ideal opportunity for Lila to assert her position as a woman of good sense, a dog trainer who one time wore a pink dress to a party, but Anya’s praise still hung heavily around her neck.

“I’m not really supposed to talk about my lineage,” she said, resigned to her fate. If getting the Auditory Guild’s seal of approval meant wearing crowns and carrying fairy dust in her pockets, then so be it. Dawn and Sophie were more suited to the post, obviously, but they didn’t have a monopoly on benevolence.

She could do cheery. She could do light. She was even wearing some kind of gold-threaded sweater to prove it. It was the only thing she and Sophie could find that screamed princess pizzazz.

“It’s a secret because of matters of immediate political importance,” she added. “Like, um…” She scanned her memory for the most child-friendly diplomatic issues plaguing the world, but nothing seemed to fit. Chemical warfare reserves seemed a touch dark, as did systemic and concentrated genocide. And she was no expert, but she was pretty sure no kid wanted to hear about capital-gains taxes.