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She knocked thrice on the intricately carved oak door. "Susan?" she called, and opened the door just enough to let her voice carry inside. "May I come in?"
Her siblings were always complaining that she never knocked before entering their bedchambers, so she was making a conscious effort to be more respectful of their personal space. It still felt a little weird, to be separated from them like this — from Susan, especially. Lucy's chamber was on the Eastern side, with a beautiful view of the sea and plenty of sunlight. It was very comfortable and pretty, but sometimes she missed their small shared bedroom in Finchley.
"Of course, Lu," Susan was sitting at her dressing table, putting on lipstick. “But make it quick, I want to look in on the kitchens before the banquet starts, make sure they remembered the Ambassador is allergic to raisins.”
Her crown glimmered in the candlelight, and Lucy couldn't help but marvel at how grown-up she looked. In some ways, she thought, her sister adapted to their new life even better than her. Susan examined her reflection, turning her head this way and that and, being satisfied, looked at Lucy through the mirror. "Everything alright?"
"Yes," she sat on the bed, and traced the flowers and vines embroidered on the bedspread. Purple asters, white daisies, yellow jasmines… It had been a birthday gift from Mrs. Beaver. Lucy wondered if the flowers she chose carried some hidden meaning.
Her sister turned to regard her. "Well, then?" She prompted, not unkindly.
Lucy felt a little silly, but she'd come all this way, she might as well ask. "Will you braid my hair, Su?"
Susan hesitated for half a heartbeat. They had maids to help them with this manner of thing, now — to lace them in their dresses, style their hair and generally make them presentable for balls and banquets. Lucy braced herself for a refusal, but instead her sister patted the velvet vanity stool and said, "Sure, come here."
She stood, mother-of-pearl hairbrush in hand, while Lucy sat down and then started brushing her length carefully, untangling the nods in a practised way.
“You might have combed it some beforehand, it’s like a bird’s nest back here,” she complained.
Even though the same couldn't be said of her words, her sister's hands, at least, were always gentle. It was good to feel them in her hair again. She remembered a time when Susan was the only one Lucy would allow to come next to her with a brush. When she started going away to school, their mother had to cut Lucy’s hair short.
"What type of braid would you like?" Susan asked when Lucy’s hair was smooth and shiny. "Nothing too fancy, I’m out of practice and we have to be downstairs in a bit!"
"Just a French braid, straight down.”
"Alright,” she said, a slight smile on her lips. “I think I can still manage that."
Lucy had no doubt she could.