"You have been away for so long," Daphne stood regal, the Duchess of Hastings in title and name and competence. It had been an eon, though it seems she still had that habit of twisting the extra silk of her glove. She nursed her glass close to her chest, eyes unable to tear from yours.

You had done your due reading. The Lady Featherington issues that proclaimed every sordid detail of Daphne's romantic ventures — though, you had the truth already in the elegant ink of her letters, abroad across seas. The Diamond of the Season (you never had any doubt), The Duke, A Prince (Daphne had always been an overachiever), the honeymoon, the child.

A storybook ending. It was as if Daphne and the Duke had simply fulfilled their parts in some ancient prophecy, ordained long ago.

Simon was sorting affairs in London, the staff and August put to bed. It is only the two of you in a way it hasn't been. Not since you jumped ship, conveniently, the season preceding your debut into society. The Queen had suffered no displeasure, for you had the foresight of requesting a formal audience in advance. In fact, it had not been the Queen's opinion you were most anxious about.

Daphne and you had the most terrific of rows, day and night prior the season's end— before calling truce. A necessary one, once she realised there was no changing your mind. She came to understand it, in the end. (Oh, your farewell had given Eloise ammunition for weeks). Call it what you will, Daphne knew what your leave was; an escape. She could not truly fault you, but Lord, it had ached— it had ached! So terribly she thought she might never recover. How could it not? You were her dearest friend.

"Drink, please. God knows we shall need it." Daphne nods towards your glass, her chin held most high. Determinedly so. You were both older. She was a wife, mother, a Duchess—and Duchesses did not beholden such petty grudges. Not least against accursed countries that stole best friends away! Or said best friends themselves!