By the time we were sixteen, Oscara had basically become my sister. She stayed over so often my mother had bought her her own pyjamas and toothbrush. However, it was strange how my mother always reminded us to be safe and let her know if we needed anything.

Oscara was also rather childish about it all. If I told her she couldn’t sleep in my bed, she looked so sad that my heart hurt, so I only said that when she was being too pushy and never actually made her sleep elsewhere. I often wished I did, though, as she insisted on hugging me when she slept, leaving me to wonder how she managed to sleep at home.

We would go out together most weekends, perhaps to see flower gardens if the season and weather were right, sometimes to simply walk along a high street, talking about the clothes in the windows—mostly her saying how cute I would look wearing some dress.

At school, we had more free time now, only needing to study a few subjects. She made a schedule with both our classes on it so we could see when we were both free, those periods often spent together in the library or, if the weather was nice, sitting outside somewhere. I didn’t know why she insisted we read together, because it surely must have annoyed her waiting so long for me to finish every page. Not to mention we had to sit so close that, really, I sometimes had the urge to just put her on my lap to make things easier—not that I ever did.

Anyway, all of that felt like more of what we had always done. A nice way to spend the school year.

When the summer holidays began, I thought she would near enough move in, expecting to spend every day curled up on my bed, a book between us.

However, that wasn’t the case. The first day, she turned up early in the morning—far too early for a holiday—and I stood there pouting, ready to complain about how she didn’t have to be so eager.

“I have some work to do, but I’ll see you later.” She said those words with a little smile, then hugged me and left with a kiss on my cheek, close to the corner of my mouth.

Every day for the first week, she did that, only turning up after dinner and only for an hour or two of cuddling as we read.

Then the weekend came and instead of those words, she said to me—far too early for a weekend—“Can you get ready? I want to take you somewhere.”

Well, I thought that, if she was waking me up so early, then there must have been a good reason. So I grumbled to myself and changed clothes and brushed my teeth. When I came back, she still hugged me and kissed my cheek, then took me by the hand to a bus stop nearby. I often told her my mother would be happy to drive us wherever she wanted to go, but she always said she wasn’t in a rush—and neither was I.

It took a good hour to reach her destination, first going to town and then to the city. The way we walked, talking of the shops we passed, I wondered if this was it, both a little disappointed and yet still happy to spend time with her, feeling somewhat neglected after the week.

Then she took me into a shop.

I didn’t know why at first, neither of us having money for jewellery. It wasn’t a shop for children either, the displays littered with pictures of weddings, so I couldn’t imagine we would be welcome.

Oscara had other ideas. She went straight to the counter and, putting a slip of paper on the counter, she asked, “Excuse me, are the rings ready?”

Not escaping my notice, the middle-aged lady’s smile looked better after realising Oscara was a customer. Reading the slip, she said, “I’ll fetch them for you now.”

“Thank you.”

While she swapped with another lady to go into the back, I asked Oscara in our language, “Is this a chore?”

She giggled. “Far from it,” she said, but said no more despite me pestering her.

Soon, the lady came back with a small box. She placed it on the counter and opened it, showing two rather simple rings—bands, really—silver in colour. “Would you like us to engrave them now or do you need to try them on first?”

“Now, please.”

“Wonderful. We have your number, so we will let you know as soon as they’re finished.”

Rather confused by all this, I held my tongue until Oscara led me out, only to find she still wouldn’t tell me. “One of the books we read was made into a movie. I know you don’t like TV, but can we see it?”

I shook my head, sometimes feeling that, despite coming from the same world, she was beyond comprehension. “Fine, if that is what you wish. I can always have a nap.” No matter how annoying the movie would be, it was worth being annoyed to see her smile, and she showed me such a beautiful smile now, finishing with a kiss on my cheek.

Still, I tried to watch it with her. Noisy and bright and the dreadful smell of stale popcorn, I struggled not to retch, but gradually settled down. It helped having her hand to hold and she brought over her other one to stroke my arm, rather calming. And when I felt a headache coming on, I turned and looked at her, watched her gentle smile, the little laughs that coloured her lips from time to time, the moments where a tear wet her eyes, glistening countless colours as the movie reflected therein.

I dare say that sight was more moving than whatever movie played.

A long movie, the shop had already messaged when we left, so we headed back. Still so secretive, she thanked the lady and dragged me off for lunch. I thought it would be a fast food place, but no, it was an Italian restaurant. It had pizza, so I didn’t need to see the menu—she knew my favourite toppings.

Despite the time of day, it was dimly lit. Soft music played in the background. A small restaurant, each table was sort of sectioned off, giving some privacy. It rather felt like somewhere my father would take us for dinner—he shared my dislike of bright, noisy places and things.

While our chairs were placed opposite each other, she moved hers to my side. I didn’t ask why. When our food arrived, it proved rather useful as we shared the pizza.

After my first bite, I had to cover my mouth and say, “Oh my, it is rather delicious.”

She giggled. “I read a lot of reviews.”

“Well, it was worth it,” I said before taking another bite.

So quietly I barely heard, she whispered, “It was.”

As large as the pizza was, I held myself back to make sure she had enough. Oh she kept telling me to have as much as I wanted, but how boorish it would be to leave the host hungry, so I ended up feeding her the last slice. Of course, she didn’t dare resist.

Although I told her I didn’t need a dessert, we ended up with a frozen yoghurt that had two spoons stuck into it. I fed myself out of worry she would repay me for the pizza.

Once we finished that, she ordered two teas and we waited at the table in a satisfied silence. I had really enjoyed the day. Yet, even if we had done nothing, I would have been happy as long as we could have done nothing together. So I really appreciated that she had planned something more elaborate than nothing.

Before I could tell her that, though, she took out the ring box. “These are promise rings,” she said.

When I saw the engravings, I frowned, something strange—then it clicked. Our names, in our language. “No princes,” I whispered, that promise we’d made.

It didn’t seem like she had heard me, but she picked up the one with her name on it and brought it to my fingertip, then her gaze sought mine, waiting. I gently nodded. Her smile bloomed and my heart raced.

Once she slid “my” ring on, I did the same for her. It felt rather childish to renew our old vow. However, it made her happy, so it made me happy. That said, I found myself drawn to my ring, idly turning it around my finger when our teas arrived.

That was not the end of the day’s excitement, though.

The journey back took just as long and she walked me up to the front door of my house. I thought it went without saying that she would join me inside, the two of us spending the day lazing about, reading whatever book she’d found this time.

But she stopped me from putting my key in, keeping us outside. I turned to her with a questioning look, only to grow more confused at her expression, so tender and soft, yet I knew her so well, had studied her face so closely, that I saw the brittleness to her beauty. I thought that stemmed from her being about to excuse herself.

It turned out, I was wrong.

“Duchess,” she whispered, her hand moving from my arm to my cheek.

A confusing thing to hear without context, but something else nagged at me until I realised. “Our language?” I asked.

Her smile deepened and she gently nodded.

Never in this life had I heard her speak our old language, never before that day had she even written it for me. However, my confusion-turned-ecstasy then turned to bemused amusement. “I am a duke’s daughter, no more, and no more,” I said.

“Do you hate me calling you that?” she asked—sadly not in our language.

Her question wasn’t really difficult to answer: I had no particular dislike for the title and I loved hearing her speak our language. Of course, that she wanted to meant I wanted to indulge her. “I do not hate it.”

“Duchess, would you hate it if I kissed you?”

It seemed rather late to ask after all this time, but I realised that, since she was asking this time, she wished to kiss me in a different way. Well, whatever way she wished to, I didn’t mind if it was her.

“I would not.”

Her smile took on a shade I hadn’t seen before, a mature shade. A woman’s smile. It lasted but a second, giving way to the slight parting of her lips as she drew close. I closed my eyes. Her lips touched me, touched mine. Our breath mingled, her hand on my cheek sliding to the back of my head, her other hand supporting my elbow.

And everywhere we touched, everywhere we mixed, I felt tingles. A drunkenness blanketed my mind, leaving only a sense of mild exhilaration. There was no fear, though, if anything a sense of safety, her touches so reassuring.

I couldn’t say how long she kissed me for, but never could it have been long enough.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Duchess,” she whispered, still so close I felt her words touch my wet lips.

As I watched her leave, I idly touched my ring, thinking it would be nice if we could stay such close friends forever.