I cry when I remember what happened next. We slipped out into the corridor that led to the
Great Entrance. We ran down the stone steps and into the fresh air. We laughed with glee and
danced in the bed of Mother’s prize turnips. We jumped down the steps that led down the hill to
the lake. And then we charged into it, laughing and singing and crying with joy and pretending
that there was no war, that everything was fine, that we were happy. We swam races - I won
every time, as I always had before - we hunted for shells, and we kayaked in the same bumpy
wooden tubs he had built for us so many years ago. And then we saw the wooden hut and we ran
out of the water, dripping wet and exhilarated, and climbed up the sandy bank to -
And then the shots rang out.
And in the chaos that happened next all I remember is me bursting into tears and my brother
desperately clinging on to me, even though he knew, and I knew, that it was too late.
The days, weeks, and months that followed that fateful day were grim.
I was still never allowed out onto the lake. But one day - one wet, wild, cold day - I slipped
out of the palace and ran down the great steps to the scene of so many happy moments and one
overpoweringly sad one.
I hunted for shells.
I kayaked in the wooden boats.
I swam races with myself - I still won.
And I tried to forget my brother, tried to think of something cheerful, tried to pretend that
there was no war, that I was happy, that everything was fine.
But I couldn’t.
* * *
