Emily chuckled, her gaze softening. “

Lily’s eyes widened as she looked at the man with the quill. “That’s not Sir Percival?” she asked, her voice a mix of surprise and curiosity. “But he looks so much like the portrait!”

Emily chuckled, her gaze softening. “Lily,” she said, “sometimes the lines between reality and imagination blur. That man—the one with the ink-stained fingers—is your dad. He’s not a painting, but he carries stories within him.”

Lily blinked. “My dad? But why is he here?”

Emily’s smile held a touch of mystery. “Because,” she whispered, “he’s a dreamer too. Just like Lady Isabella and Sir Percival. He believes in magic, in the power of words. And tonight, Lily, he’s writing a letter to the stars.”

Lily’s heart swelled. “A letter to the stars?”

“Yes,” Emily confirmed. “He’ll fold it into a paper boat and set it adrift on the Thames. And who knows? Maybe the constellations will read it and send their secrets back.”

Lily glanced at her dad while he bought a painting and said the the shop man at the art gallery as he paid them with his money and they had lunch upstairs in the same place for beef wellington for they were hungry and thirsty that waiter said with the food and drink happily