Alfie arrives at my door four hours later. It’s a quarter past seven, the sun sinking behind a horizon of clouds in a rosy‑gold wash.
“Your Highness,” he says with a bow.
“Alfie, it’s Maryelle. And please—don’t do that. I’m not a royal, and it’s strange when you bow for me. Really awkward.”
He smiles, nodding, then opens the car door with a flourish before circling to his own seat. “I hear you’re an excellent sprinter. I hope you do well with the rest of your training. I’m rooting for you.”
His words catch me off guard. “You are? Why?”
“Your will, determination, and strength remind me of a queen’s. And… this is the happiest I’ve seen young Phantom since his father’s passing.”
“What? Phantom’s father is dead? He never told me that.”
Alfie chuckles nervously, rubbing the
