Page 119 of Tabloid Princess

Eventually, the path ended at an ancient brick wall. History wasn’t my thing, but it looked to be an older building than the palace itself. A small aged wooden door with an old-fashioned handle sat in the otherwise blank wall.

Oliver must have read my mind. “One of the requisitions of the dissolution was that a lot of the old monasteries got handed to the crown. St Mark’s is built on one of the sites, much like that graveyard where we sat the second time we met,” he explained.

I swallowed. That moment in the graveyard had changed my entire existence.

“Some of the older outer walls are still the same, and within the palace itself there are still original pieces that have been built onto. The chapel is original, and quite beautiful. It’s one of my favourite places.”

I knew of course about St Edwin’s chapel; everyone knew of it, but no one had seen it. Whilst The Royal Family attended church in the Welsh moorlands when visiting the big royal estate at times like Christmas, the chapel itself with St Mark’s was strictly private.

“Where is the princess’ garden?” Daisy asked, obviously flummoxed by our walk hitting a literal brick wall. Oliver pulled a key from his pocket.

“This has been here a long time. My great grandmother had it as a gift for her fifth birthday, and it’s been added to over the years. My own sister Isabella used to play here too.” His voice hardened. We hadn’t spoken much about his family, apart from of course what John had done, but I remembered his words about his family wishing Isabella wasn’t high or drunk all the time. I reached out and squeezed his arm.

He flashed me a smile and then bent down to Daisy. “So, this in here is a royal secret. Many princesses have had parties in here for generations, while all the people outside never knew what happened in here.”

Daisy almost vibrated with excitement. Oliver straightened up and turned the key in the lock.

He pushed open the door, the surrounding ivy swayed with the movement. I jumped back, fearing an eight-legged attack. Oliver laughed and reached for my hand. Daisy peered in and then stepped over the boundary, gasping loudly. I went to follow but Oliver held me back, his lips landing on mine, stealing a moment while Daisy had her attention captured.

When he finally released me, he turned and held out his hand. “Come on, Princess Leia.”

I growled. “You know, I hate my mum for many things, but my name has to be the worst at the moment.”

He chuckled and tucked me into his side. “I like it.”

I rolled my eyes, but any rebuke evaporated from my lips. “Oh my god.” I stared at the scene in front of me utterly open mouthed. I couldn’t control my surprise. Through the old wall and ancient door lay a secret garden. I’d never seen anything so magical.

A fairy secret garden. Sculpted flower fairies sat in wildflowers—wildflowers that were all beautifully trained to creep and twine where needed. The flowerbeds were awash with pinks and purples despite the end of summer. Toadstools and arches lined small pathways and in the middle was a playhouse that wasn’t a playhouse at all. It was a castle, gleaming and white; a miniature version of St Mark’s Palace.

The garden was enclosed, with high walls along every edge, but inside the magical atmosphere made it light and airy. Fountains glittered water droplets, and glass ornaments reflected the sun, so the droplets turned to rainbows.

“I don’t know who likes it more, you or Daisy.” His voice licked along my insides.

I turned to him, almost breathless.

“Why are you crying?” He wiped at my cheek, alarm darting across his face.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” I whispered truthfully, but then he smiled and it topped it all.

“Come.” He reached for Daisy’s hand, utterly natural. “We have a princess tea set up under the pergola.”

He led us to a structure covered in dense planting full of small, white flowers—it smelled heavenly—and settled Daisy on a white wrought-iron chair before holding one out for me. Once we were settled, he turned for Daisy. Keeping his face beautifully serious, he said, “I believe every princess needs a ballgown.”

He handed her a garment bag. This was no supermarket rushed purchase. She stared at me utterly speechless holding it toward me for help. I wiggled the zip, helping her discover the contents. Then I cried again as we pulled out a silver dress, the exact replica of the one Emilia had made for me to wear to the birthday ball. “Mummy, it’s like yours.”

“It sure is. I think it’s flouncier though.” I looked at the skirts and Oliver chuckled.

“I took license with the flounce.”

Daisy turned to me; her expression dead serious. “See, Mummy. He’s a prince. He understands the importance of flouncing.”

Oliver howled with laughter as I slipped the dress on over her head. It had been made beautifully, but with a little bit of growing room.

“And,” Oliver called her attention again. “All princesses need a tiara too.”

He handed her a small cardboard box. Inside nestled a gorgeous little tiara—again not from the dress up aisle of Tesco.

She squealed and plopped it on her head and then ran around swirling her dress.