Aleksander's first reaction was to snatch a glance at Caitriona. The flurry of activity didn't bother him; he even expected it, always a little proud that his servants were so eager to do their jobs, a little humbled by their hard work, and a little embarrassed that they fussed over him so. He was not his parents. Until they died, he was just a quiet boy trying to find his identity. Now that identity had been thrust upon him; he had no choice but to be king. He had to learn to get used to suddenly being fussed over and coddled, and he suspected that this sudden attention must be like a tidal wave crashing against the lost princess.

He broke his stern demeanor, his expression softening. "Do you want new clothes?" he asked. "Something to eat? A bath? Some rest?" He frowned a little. "Or are you not sure, perhaps?" He glanced at the maidservant. "She'll need new clothes eventually; might as well fetch the tailor," he murmured. Then, to Caitriona: "This is your home now. Whatever you need, all you need to do is ask."