“So when will you get married?” Ian asks, digging into the huge pile of pancakes that Ian’s private chef places in front of him. The chef smiles at the boys, thrilled to be cooking something besides rare steak and salad.
I fall silent, looking between the boys, suspicious. Victor, less prepared, blushes.
“We,” he says, gesturing between the two of us, “are not going to be married. In fact, there’s someone very special I want you to meet – my mate. Her name is Amelia. I’m going to marry her.”
Alvin’s fork clatters to his plate of eggs and his eyes fill with tears, his little lip starting to tremble.
“No, no,” Victor says, and I can see his heart in his eyes, devastated to have made his son cry. “It’s a good thing – it’s all very good –“
“Silly rabbits,” I say, smilin
