London, England. August 31st, 1982

Isabella had never been on a plane before, let alone on an international flight. You can imagine her shock when she was seated in first class. She knew it wasn't an act of her aunt and uncle, but rather the 31-year-old British woman she was now under guardianship of.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are to prepare for landing very shortly," announced a flight attendant with a quintessential English accent. "To help assist us, we ask that you please put your seats in an upright position, and ensure your trays are flipped upwards. We also ask that you please put away your..."

Isabella began to tune the announcement out, and fidgeted with the lanyard around her neck which served to alert staff that she was under the age of sixteen and flying alone. Her hands shook slightly as she then buckled her seatbelt, not at all afraid of the landing for all the usual reasons. In an act of self-preservation, she refused to let herself think of anyone in London beyond Mary Austin.

Isabella had noticed that Gina and Tom hadn't mentioned Freddie a single time. This was cause for alarm. Isabella was incredibly sensitive and observed everything. To her, not mentioning the man who actually lived in and owned the house she'd be moving into was as if they knew something she did not. Something not worth mentioning.

Just lay low, and act like everything is fine, Isabella reminded herself as the plane began to descend, a repetitive mantra in her head. Smile, be grateful. The faster you convince her you're happy, the quicker you get to go home...

The plane jolted her around for a few seconds as its wheels touched the ground. Isabella had expected to see rain and an overcast sky out her window, as all she'd ever heard was how rainy London was. The fact that it was sunny outside made her situation feel even more surreal.

Isabella stood up, and before she could attempt to take her purple backpack out of the overhead compartment, a middle-aged man sitting across from her grabbed it.

"I'll take that for you, young lady," He smiled cheerfully, a large gap between his pearly white teeth. "There you go."

"Thanks," Isabella squeaked, remembering her manners despite having to take a moment to find her voice.

Right outside the plane exit door was a British Airways staff member waiting for Isabella and a few other under sixteen's who had flown on the plane too. She was a young woman, and Isabella mused that she couldn't have been any older than twenty.

"Name, please?"

"Isabella Johnson."

"That's lovely," she replied, writing something down on her notepad. "Thank you."

You won't be bored with the details of how Isabella was taken through border patrol on a six-month tourist visa and then through customs and then baggage claim. Isabella could barely fill a large suitcase with her things, as everything she had previously owned was lost to the fire. Her aunt and uncle were slightly wealthier than her own parents were, but not by too much.

"Now that you all have your luggage," the staff member stated, looking at Isabella and the other group of kids. "I'm going to bring you out to a designated area where those who are picking you up have been told to stand. If you don't see your guardian, that's alright, I'll be here until you're seen off safely. Just please let me know when you do see them so I can confirm their identification before you leave."

Isabella ran a hand nervously through her hair. She was absolutely exhausted, the red-eye flight having taken more energy out of her than she even thought she had in her. The airline had served macaroni and cheese with mint, a combination that even her un-fussy pallet could not stomach. She also was too nervous to get up to pee, so she had barely drunk any water.

All in all, she could feel herself fading fast. She longed desperately for her bed.

The one back at home, that is.

A few moments after the kind staff member brought the group over to the adults waiting for them, Isabella forced her eyes to look up. There were only three adults waiting there, an elderly man with a newspaper tucked under his arm, a smiley pregnant woman with her hand pressed against her lower back, and a blonde with blue eyes and her hands clasped up at her chest against the cloth of her light-yellow dress.

All Isabella could do in that moment was walk slowly towards the yellow-clad woman, death-gripping her suitcase.

One foot in front of the other, she said in her head. Don't trip.

Isabella couldn't explain what she felt at that moment other than pure and utter embarrassment. Mary absolutely was not looking at her like she was something to be pitied, but she sure felt like it.

The hustle and bustle of arrivals at Heathrow Airport continued all around her. She waited for Mary to speak first.

"Hello, Isabella, let me take that," she kindly reached for the suitcase. "How was your flight? Any turbulence?"

"Uh it was really n-nice," Isabella mumbled, feeling her cheeks grow pink as the first sentence she spoke was a stutter.  "Bit shaky but once we were an hour in, it was fine."

She turned to wave over the airport worker, who walked over and exchanged information with Mary. Once that was finished, Mary's attention was on her again.

"Did you sleep at all? You must be exhausted," Mary spoke gently, and began to lead the way towards the exit. "Terry's just outside with the car. He's Freddie's driver, a very quiet but nice man nonetheless. I'm sure you'll become well acquainted with him yourself soon."

Isabella nodded, and continued focusing on her own once white, now stained Converse shoes as she walked. Mary and Isabella walked towards a tan Lincoln town car parked among a few airport shuttle busses and a plethora of other cars waiting for their passengers to arrive.

They had barely touched the back of the car when Terry jumped out of the driver's seat. He was a tall, burly man dressed in a plain white t-shirt and green cargo pants. He had dirty blonde hair that curled a bit at the edges and blue eyes.

"Hello, I'm Terry," the man said quickly, grabbing at Isabella's suitcase and lifting it into the trunk. "I'll put this right here in the boot, then."

The boot? Isabella's brows knitted together just slightly.

"Isabella," Mary put her manicured hand on the young girl's shoulder. Isabella tried not to flinch. "Why don't you sit in the front seat for the ride home? It's not the most gorgeous sight until we get further into London, but once we do I think you'll want the best seat for it. We won't get into the touristy bits, but parts of residential west London can be rather lovely."

"Okay sure, thanks." Isabella looked up at Mary and put on the best smile she could muster. She felt herself stifle a yawn, and as kind as Mary was to offer this, she longed to lean her head against the window in the backseat and knock out.

The late August beat down as Isabella walked around the car and went to open the passenger door. She could already feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead. The back of her neck was damp as curls clung to it.

"Oh wait, that's not the passenger side!" Mary laughed lightly. "Other way around."

"Right..." Isabella's cheeks burned as she halted, and made her way around to the other side.

Mary had been right, there wasn't much to see at all for the first bit of the drive, it was mostly highways and rows of houses that all looked the same. 

"Ok, now we're passing through Chiswick, and soon, Hammersmith and Fulham," Terry finally spoke up. "About twenty more minutes if traffic continues to be good to us."

The ride had been relatively silent, with Mary having asked Isabella a few questions about her flight. They were attempts at small talk that weren't too intrusive, not requiring long-form answers. Isabella was very grateful. A Stevie Wonder tape was playing the car, and Isabella recognized the song Superstition. Terry must have liked it, as he took a moment to rewind the tape and play it again.

Every time Isabella spoke, she felt as though her words followed a second or two after she thought about what she was going to say. Although the passenger window had been cranked down all the way, she wasn't feeling any cooler. Isabella tried as subtly as possible to make a makeshift ponytail by bunching her hair up and holding it away from her neck for a few moments.

"Soon we'll be in Kensington," Mary commented as the wind from outside whirred in Isabella's left ear, trying to be as gentle as possible with her tone. She was well aware Isabella must have been terrified, and overstimulated, and they hadn't even gotten to the most intense part. "Freddie bought the house in 1980, it's very Edwardian."

"What does that mean?" Isabella gulped, her nerves all the more frayed from hearing Freddie's name. The uneasy feeling she had about him hadn't let up.

"The name comes from Edward the Seventh of England, or anything of his age generally," Mary smiled, happy that Isabella made an attempt to continue the conversation rather than just nod. "Interiors that are inspired by that period are known for their magnificent, bright rooms, with delicate ornamental accessories, wooden floors, tiles... I know I probably sound like a history lecturer, but that's because I was right alongside Freddie when he bought the place and furnished it. I think if I had to, I could sell the place in seconds. I'd be the best estate agent for One Logan Place."

Terry laughed, looking at Mary in the rearview mirror, both hands steady on the wheel. "Like he'd ever let anyone sell that place."

About ten minutes passed before Isabella spoke again. She knew they had to be getting close, despite her confusion and feeling as if she was on another planet. For her eleven years on earth, all she had known was forests filled with pine trees, log cabins and New-England style houses. One small town center with a post office, the entire school district, a dental and doctor's office, a grocery store, and a one screen movie theatre. If they wanted anything else, they'd have to drive twenty minutes over to the next town.

Everyone had gone quiet in the car by this point. Terry continued his drive a long street lined with luxury shops, she saw the word "Kensington" on a few of the businesses.

This is actually happening, Isabella thought to herself, feeling sicker by the minute.

"W-when we pull in," Mary began, and Isabella could see her shift uneasily in her seat from the corner of her eye. "You'll meet Freddie's personal assistant Peter, or Phoebe, which is what we all call him. It's a nickname Freddie gave him years ago and it just stuck."

"He does that to a lot of his friends, you'll find," Terry added. "I call him Peter, so don't feel like you have to call him Phoebe."

Either I'm losing my mind, or Terry sounds nervous now too... Isabella thought as a flash of panic surged through her chest, pulling at the little energy reserves she had left.

"And you'll meet Joseph, too. He cooks for the house," Mary spoke up. "An American, actually, born and raised in New England just like you."

"Ah, no way," Isabella commented, feeling herself slightly relax at that. She hadn't realized she had tensed up so much to the point where, at the mentioning of another fellow New Englander, she nearly burst into tears.

"Yes ma'am!" Mary grinned, taking whatever she could get from the young girl. "He and Freddie met in the late 70s when Queen was doing a tour in North America."

Queen. Isabella knew Queen, everybody knew Queen. They were constantly on the radio, and Isabella's parents had every single album, and from as long as she could remember they always arrived in the mail. Isabella herself wasn't hugely into Rock and Roll, but enjoyed some of their softer hits, like You're My Best Friend and Killer Queen.

Despite this, if there was one thing Freddie was, it was larger than life. As a trauma response, Isabella could only faintly remember her family's services. Freddie and Mary came into the room and Freddie didn't have to utter a word before he commanded the entire room's presence.

That she could remember.

No one had once mentioned how Freddie was feeling about this whole arrangement. Not Gina, nor Tom. They'd had hours' worth of conversations about Isabella's transition to London, and all Gina and Tom could mention was how excited Mary was to have her.

Every time Mary said his name in the car, Isabella observed it was with a kind of carefulness. Like she didn't want his name to leave her tongue, but she had no choice.

He was the spoken elephant in the room.