“Of course not. If your father or I am with you, then you are not running away.”
“And Mama?”
Genevieve couldn’t stop the sudden intake of breath. “What about your mama?”
“If she comes, is it running away if I go with her?”
Genevieve closed her eyes and squared her shoulders. She took Frances’s hands in her own and looked into the girl’sbrandy eyes behind the spectacles. “Frances, remember we talked about how my father passed away?”
Frances nodded.
“When someone passes away—when they die—one of the hard things for those of us who are still living is that we don’t see them again. I missed my father so very much when he died. I wanted to see him again, but that just isn’t possible. When someone dies, like your mother died, we don’t see them again. Your mother will not come to take you away with her because she died.”
Genevieve braced herself for tears and even anger, but Frances simply pursed her lips. “I understand,” she said.
Genevieve blinked. “You do?”
Frances nodded.
“Do you want to talk more about it? I understand if you want to cry. I still feel like crying sometimes when I think about my papa. I still miss him.”
“I miss Mama,” Frances said. “But it’s different than with your papa.”
“Of course it is. I only meant that if you talk to me about how you feel, I will try to understand how you are feeling. I know you are sad. If you are feeling sad and want to cry, that’s understandable.”
“I’m not sad.”
Genevieve blinked. “Good,” she said slowly. “If you ever do feel sad, you can tell me.”
“I do feel sad sometimes,” Frances said. “Because I miss Mama, but it won’t be long now before she comes for me.” She hopped off the bench. “May we go play now?”
“Frances, I told you that when someone passes away they don’t come back. Your mother cannot come for you because…sweetheart”—Genevieve reached for her hands—“she’s dead.”
“No, she’s not. I told you, she had to go to her kingdom far away. She will be back for me because I am the princess. I need only wait. A queen has many responsibilities, but she will come back for me.”
Genevieve shook her head. “Frances, no. Your mother is not in another kingdom. She—”
“Yes, she is!” Frances stamped her foot. “She is!” she yelled.
“Frances.”
She put her hands over her ears. “She is! She is! She is!” The girl crumpled to the ground and began to sob.
Genevieve slid down beside her and pulled her into her arms. “Shh. I’m here,” she murmured, not sure what else to say. Clearly, Frances needed to believe her mother was still alive. It seemed cruel to keep reiterating that her mama was dead. Certainly, Genevieve had said enough today. She would give it a few days and then, when the moment was right, bring it up again. Perhaps she could find a way to do so that was gentler.
“Do you know, I think we have had enough of serious conversations for now,” she said. “Shall we go to the nursery and have a silly conversation with our dolls?”
Frances looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. “A silly conversation?”
“Yes. We can talk about how pink the sky is or how orange the water of the trout stream looked.”
Frances stared at her. “Thatissilly. What if the trees had purple leaves?”
“And the grass was blue?”
“And was soft as a blanket!”
“What if the grass was an enormous blanket, and we could lie down, pull it over us, and nap under the clouds and the sky?”
