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short-handedness. But how, or when, I have not a single indication.
At last—the entire entourage with the exception of Dizzy and Escoffier quite woebegone—we arrived in Bacio, at a most extraordinary inn (the sign over the door reads THE ALPSBURG BARON'S COUNT'S DUKE'S ARMS —a history book in one weathered marquee!). There, to my astonishment, we were greeted by a dozen servants proffering buckets and blankets and damp, cool cloths. Lady Patience, the first to alight from the carriage (much splattered, I fear, though dusk hid the worst of it), fell into a swoon that was perhaps not entirely wretched given the strapping young man who caught her; the others were similarly assisted indoors. Dizzy, heaven help us, established herself in the stables, unsaddling horses and chattering away with the hostlers. How the staff knew to prepare for a dozen invalids, I cannot imagine. It was assuredly the most comforting reception I have ever met ... but so unnerving!
Your shaken grandmother,
Ben
    Postscriptum: The Duke's Arms includes on its staff one maid whom I suspect is quite comely beneath her headscarf and homespun; certainly she has a pretty smile when not overwhelmed by shyness, and goes about her duties with enviable efficiency. Admiring her handiwork this evening, I commenced scheming how to include her in our retinue. If the task of a lady-in-waiting is to flaunt through beauty and breeding the good taste of our court, we could do worse; certainly no worse than our present ladies, who sprawl prone with their heads in dishpans. No sooner had this notion flitted through my mind, however, than the girl turned to me wide-eyed and said, "But Your Majesty, one is born to the position of lady-in-waiting!" Is that not unbelievable?
     
    Post postscriptum: I apologize for droning on so about our troubles; this is your time, and please do not squander any of it worrying about us. Ruling a country is a most formidable responsibility, and too often dispiriting, particularly for one inclined to doubt her own abilities. You are doing so well, my dear; I beg you believe me on this. The chateau must be blessedly quiet with so much of the court away. Employ this time to spread your wings! Without your butterfly of a sister or goose of a grandmother, you may find your wings stretching very far indeed!
The Supremely Private Diary of Wisdom Dizzy of Montagne

Any Soul Who Contemplates Even Glancing
at the Pages of this Volume Will
Be Transformed into a Toad
Suffer a Most Excruciating Punishment.
On This You Have My Word.
    Wednesday—
     
    When I am ancient & writing my memoirs I shall entitle this chapter "The Puking Path." Or perhaps "The Retching Road"—that's more accurate as the Alpsburg Pass is quite clearly a decent road when it's not full of mud. Or in our case of vomit. The worst part is that no one else found it funny! Which it was! It was horribly amusing but I couldn't laugh—as Nonna Ben is forever repeating, I must strive to present more graciously my innate compassion. Also Mrs. Sprat would have smitten me dead. (Perhaps I could call my memoirs "The Sprats Go Splat.") So I walked with the coachman—he drove & I walked—thank goodness he was healthy or we'd yet be marooned in that godforsaken wilderness—& I found out he knows how to ride bareback! He can even stand at a canter! With no hands! I begged him to show me but he said it wasn't the proper time. Then once we arrived in Bacio everyone was so busy mopping up that we couldn't. Also it was dark by then.
     
    There's a girl who works in the inn here who has the most spectacularly beautiful hair I have ever seen in my life. If I had hair like that I would keep it long & loose & not even bother with clothes because no one would notice the rest of me! This afternoon when we arrived she wore a little kerchief & then when she came to our room tonight she had it hidden by a v. pretty scarf—even I noticed it & I'm dim as a door knocker when it comes to that sort of thing