Queen's Gambit - Chapter 4

© Copyright 2025 Maeryn Lamonte

We’d taken over a fair chunk of one of the carriages and the girls were back to chatting animatedly. Most of them had rediscovered their appetites and we’re tucking into energy bars and sucking on juice boxes. I still wasn’t hungry, but dug out my juice box to suck on just so I could join in, and so I had an excuse for not saying much.

It was all about what they were going to do when they got home. Judith, Gretchen, and the two Sarahs talked about reconnecting with their boyfriends, which brought on a smattering of shocked reactions until Judith raised her voice over them and said, “What happens in Marlborough...”

“Stays in Marlborough,” we all chorused and broke into laughter.

Gillian was looking forward to seeing her dog again – an Airedale terrier with a ton of personality, apparently. Gretchen was excited about being back with her younger sister, “which’ll probably last until I find out what she’s being getting up to while I’ve been away.”

Everyone had something to chip in about going home. It put me in mind of the Apollo missions coming back from the moon. You fight gravity to start with, but you reach a point where the pull of your home planet takes over. I was beginning to see what Merlin had said about our group splitting up and everyone going their separate ways.

“What about you, Gwen? What are you looking forward to?” It was Aly who’d asked, but everyone was looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“Well, it’s just Mum, Dad and me at home, and I don’t really have any friends at school. You know, boys just want to beat up on the wimpy kid and girls don’t want anything much to do with boys when they have each other, especially pathetic losers who are constantly being picked on by the lads.”

“Yeah, but that’s not you any more, is it?”

“No, but none of them know that. I mean, it’ll be good seeing Mum and Dad again, and we’ve got a lot to talk through. Then I have doctor’s appointments to keep, shopping with Mum, I imagine a whole lot of worried looks from both Mum and Dad, until they get used to the new me. I’ll have a few things to sort out with the transfer to Marlborough, but most of that can wait a while. Then, of course, I have the book to rewrite.”

“I thought you only needed to add bits to it.”

“And revise the rest. Plus with all the ideas you guys gave me, it’s going to be easier to go through the whole thing chapter by chapter and introduce the new bits as I go.

“The biggest bit is going to be adding the love interest at the end. I thought I’d reprise the beginning chapters where the knight approaches the afflicted region. I thought I’d keep it word for word to start with, then gradually introduce the idea that this is a different knight and the circumstances have changed. Then he meets the main character, still struggling with the changes imposed on her, but as love takes over, she lets go of her past and embraces her future and her man.”

“That sounds so cool. You are going to have to send me a copy.”

“Well, I did promise, and I have all your addresses, don’t I?”

So that exhausted the topic of going home, but what I loved about the girls was there was always some new subject waiting to be explored.

“What are you guys going to do with what we learned this week?” I asked, and that allowed me to drift into the background again while everyone chatted about their thoughts and plans.

It lasted us until we arrived in London. More than half the girls had fairly immediate connections to make or tube rides to different station, so we did a quick round of hugs and everyone rushed off in different directions. Even Gillian who was eager to be reunited with Scrappy. Yeah, I didn’t think much of the name either, but she did and that was all that mattered.

Which left Stacey and me. Her connection also left from Kings Cross, just half an hour earlier than mine. We found a Greggs and bought a couple of hot chocolates.

“So glad we didn’t have to spend the week as Gavin and Stacey,” she said.

“Me too. I like being Gwen much better.”

“It suits you, you know? I don’t know why, but I believe in you as a girl. Gavin was sort of... I don’t know.”

“In retrospect it feels like he was who I’ve always pretended to be, and I was never very good at keeping up the pretence.”

“I think I get that. It’s weird. I’ve always felt a bit awkward when there’s been a guy in our group, even when it’s someone else’s boyfriend. It’s like you don’t feel so open to talk freely when there’s a guy there. I mean don’t get me wrong, I like guys. Simon was kind of sweet in a goofy way.”

Stacey had come high enough up the pecking order in the archery to choose who took her to the dance. I vaguely remembered most of the guys joking about who she would pick, and not being very diplomatic about it, so she’d picked Simon, who was quiet and not that good looking, but so amazed and, I suppose, grateful to be chosen ahead of the others. He’d been a bit star struck by Stacey who was pretty enough.

“But you didn’t feel that same reticence about me?” I brought her train of thought into the station.

“No. I mean not even at the start of the week when you were more this confused and sad little boy. I suppose we all saw something of the Gwen in you even then.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. I don’t think I’d have been able to make this transition without you guys.”

“What do you mean?”

I thought about my response. “Who we are is a mix of things,” I said. “Part of it’s how we see ourselves, and I think the reason I did so badly before this week is because I didn’t really see myself as the person I was portraying.”

“Okay.” Intrigued but not quite following.

“Then a really big part is down to how other people see us. Family, friends and acquaintances in that order maybe. If I’d tried to be this at home, my parents would have freaked out, I still wouldn’t have had any friends, because a guy in a skirt is still a guy, and like what you said about how having a guy in your circle of girl friends messes with the dynamic. Lastly, everyone else would have picked on me worse than usual. The wimp dresses like a girl now, sort of thing.

“The way the twelve of you just accepted the inner me – what was it Judith called me? An honorary girl? That was just so different from anything I could ever have expected. Having your acceptance and inclusion gave me room to see myself the way you saw me. It sounds hopelessly sad, but I actually found I liked myself for the first time in my life.”

“You couldn’t have been that bad if you wrote that amazing story.”

“Writing that ‘amazing story’,” I did the finger quotes, so sue me, “was as close as the old me could ever get to being Gwendolyn. You could say she wrote it rather than Gavin the sad sack.”

“Well, let him go. You’re better off as you are. The board’s showing my train is in, so I should get going. It’s been great knowing you, Gwen. Have an amazing life. You really deserve it.”

Abd then there was one. I bought a horribly overpriced bottle of water from a vending machine and sat with my bags on one of the public seats near the display board. It was lunchtime, but the usual grumbles weren’t there. I nibbled through an energy bar more through habit than hunger and sipped at my water.

I tried to read a little, but I get nervous when I’m waiting for a connection, and I couldn’t concentrate on the story. Instead I dug out my phone and texted Lance. ‘I thought I told you not to be shy about using my digits, or are you just too cool to talk to me now?” I added an angry face and a poo emoji.

The reply came shortly after. ‘Mum and Dad picked me up. Dad doesn’t really like me texting when I should be listening to how disappointed he is in me.’

I found an emoji of a puppy making sad eyes and sent it along with a message saying, ‘later then,’ and put the phone away.

I gave some thought to the restructuring of my story and just about kept enough of an eye on the board to notice when my train was ready for boarding.

Once on board, I found a seat with a table and a USB point and set myself up with Mum’s tablet and keyboard, ready for a two and a half hour session reorganising my story. Snack box ready if I decided I wanted anything and phone on standby in case anyone wanted to talk.

A girl about my age stopped at my seat.

“Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.

No-one had ever asked me that before and it took me a moment to recover.

“Sure, of course. I’m, erm, Gwen. Gwendolyn.”

“That’s such a lovely name. Mine’s Jackie. I mean how boring’s that?” She settled into the seat opposite me and dumped her bag next to her. I’d done the same my side, because who wants a stranger sitting next to you? Sunday afternoon service usually wasn’t that busy, so there was a chance we’d get away with it.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always thought Jacqueline was rather elegant.”

“Well, I’ll trade you if you like. How far are you going?”

“Selby. It’s...”

“Where I’m getting off!” she said excitedly. “I live in Brayton. Where do you go to school?”

“Selby High.”

“Oh. I’m in Brayton Academy, which is pretty good. What’s your place like?”

“Alright I suppose as long as you don’t mind the arseholes who go there.”

“Same everywhere isn’t it? Do you have a boyfriend?”

I thought of Lance and felt a smile creep across my face.

“You do! Tell me about him. I know quite a few people who go to your school. Maybe I know him.”

“Actually, he lives in Wiltshire. I’m transferring to a school down there in September. A place called Marlborough College.”

“Sounds posh. You lucky cow. Anyway, tell me about, you know?”

“His name’s Lance. He’s about six foot two or three and built like a steam train. He’s a prop forward on the school rugby team.”

“Ooh, not sure I like that. Don’t they usually have their faces all mashed in and stuff?”

“I don’t know, but Lance looks pretty intact. He’s not, you know, the brightest crayon in the box, but when we’re together, all he sees is me. It’s kind of a special feeling.”

“Yeah. Like I said, you’re a lucky cow. Mine’s Shane. Left wing, football. He can be a bit boring at times. You know, all into football and shit. Sorry, you don’t mind me swearing do you?”

“Not if it’s something worth swearing about,” I said. “So what do you like to do when you’re not at school?” I switched the tablet off. It didn’t look like I was going to get much work done with her around.

“Oh, all sorts. Shopping, dancing, just going out with my mates.” I could see she was eyeing the snack box, but too polite to say anything. I opened it and pushed it across. “You sure? I’m starving. I was late getting up this morning which meant miss breakfast or miss my train.”

I still wasn’t hungry, but I took a muesli bar just in case and let her loose on the rest.

Which was probably as well because there was very little left by the time she’d finished.

“Oh shit,” she said, looking at the largely empty box. “I didn’t mean to do that, sorry.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You obviously needed it more than me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re so skinny I doubt you eat more than half a slice of toast any day.”

“You have no idea.”

“You’re really cool, you know that? I can’t believe you don’t have a feller back home.”

“Not that keen on the way they all treat me.”

“You know that probably means they fancy you, right? I mean boys are so immature.”

“You’re telling me. As far as I’m concerned, if they want to show they fancy me, then they can bloody well grow up and do it right. Less of the name calling and threats.”

“What do you mean name calling and threats.”

“Nothing I really want to go into if it’s all the same. I’m actually quite happy the way things are turning out.”

“No, that’s cool. Say, do you fancy meeting up sometime next week? I get together with a bunch of mates most days during the holidays. Generally we just hang out at some shopping centre or other.”

“Might be fun. I’ll have to check with my parents though. I may have a few doctor’s appointments next week.”

“Nothing serious I hope.”

“Nah, just sorting out some stuff that should been fixed a long time ago.”

“Fair enough. Can I put my number in your phone?”

I opened a new contact, put in Jackie for the name and slid it across to her. She typed in her number and slid it back for me to approve it.

“Send me a text any day you know you’re free and we’ll sort something out.”

“Sounds good.”

“So what were you doing in Wiltshire? Visiting family?”

“I won a writing competition. I had a week long advanced creative writing course with a dozen other girls from around the country. So much fun when you’re doing stuff with others who are as into it as you are.”

“Sounds great. Anything come of it?”

“Our teacher put us In touch with some agents who read through our competition entries. Mine was a bit longer than the others at about fifty-thousand words...”

She whistled.

“Tell me about it. I don’t know how to stop sometimes. Anyway, the agent must have thought it was pretty good because she said if I can add a bit – get it up to eighty or a hundred thousand words – she might be able to sell it to a publisher.”

“Are you serious? You mean I might be talking to the next J K Rowling?”

“Why is it always her when someone talks about a famous author? I mean she’s not that great when it comes to LGBTQ stuff.”

“Fair enough. Is that what you write then?”

“You don’t have to be on the spectrum to disagree with someone who’s anti trans.”

“True, only if you were bi, I might be up for an experiment.”

“It’s a kind offer, but I’m trying to keep my life as uncomplicated as possible. Having a boyfriend the other end of the country means I can turn down advances without upsetting people. Too much at least.”

“That’s cool. Only slightly serious you know.”

“Cool with me either way.”

We chatted on through the rest of the journey. Favourite books – a lot more on my list than hers, so I drew a line under it before she got bored. Favourite films we were a lot more evenly matched. I steered away from the guns and explosions genre until I realised that’s where she was going a lot of the time. I’d seen a lot of them and even pointed her in the right direction for a few I thought she’d like. When it came to chick flicks, her list was longer than mine, although with quite a few that didn’t really sound like my thing.

In fact, the longer we talked, the more we realised we weren’t quite on the same wavelength. We both seemed to be edging towards the same conclusion as Selby approached.

I nibbled my way through my muesli bar and invited her to finish off the last of the snack box, which she did with guilty enthusiasm, while I texted home.

“You’re not going to call me next week, are you?” she asked.

“Would you like me to?”

“Probably not. I mean you’re nice and everything, but I kind of feel we’re on a different level kind of thing?”

Unusual rising inflection at the end of her statement as though she was inviting me to agree with her.

“I got that too. I mean, I could really do with some friends, and I’m not in a position to turn down any offers, but it feels like we’d disagree on so many things. Not saying either of us is wrong or worse than the other, just different.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m not going to withdraw the offer or anything, but I’m not going to get upset if you don’t take me up on it, yeah?”

I nodded my head.

The train drew to a halt and she stood. “It was good chatting to you. Hope the writing thing works out.”

And she was gone, leaving me with an odd mixture of regret at not quite making a friend, and relief at not quite committing myself to an awkward relationship. Overall it felt good that we’d both been able to address the elephant in the room before it started trampling everything.

I gathered all my wires and bits, hoisted my bags – so much heavier and bulkier than when I’d left home, and so much more of an effort to lift – and stepped onto the platform.

The automatic barrier ate my ticket, not that I was bothered since I had no further use for it. Dad was waiting in the street outside. No traffic wardens hovering just yet, but reason enough for him to stay in the car.

I dumped my bags on the backseat before joining him at the front. Sit and swivel, legs together is the elegant way. I’m not sure how I knew to do that, but some things are learned through osmosis.

My science teacher would probably object to my use of the term, but osmosis is when you increase the concentration of ions inside a cell in order to draw water inside (and equalise the concentrations since the ions won’t pass through the membrane). That’s kind of like when you’re not permitted to learn something (because you’re a boy and boys don’t do girly things) so the need concentrates inside you and sucks in whatever you want to learn whenever you come across it. You don’t realise it’s happening until you need it and the knowledge is just there.

“Hello sweetie. You look...”

“Different? Scary? Pretty?”

“All of the above. You’re going to have to be gentle with your mother and me.”

“I get that, Dad. Like I said earlier in the week, I’m really sorry you had to find out like this. The thing is, unless this week had happened, I’m not sure I’d ever have found the courage to say anything.”

“Well son. Oh sorry, I mean...”

“It’s alright Dad. This is part of giving you and Mum a break. Don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around me.

“I’ve been Gavin to you for a lot of years. I can handle it if you need me to carry on being Gavin for a while longer, I can do that.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Just be gentle if we make a mistake every now and then.”

“Not a problem. I kind of think you’re the ones that’ll have to work on being gentle about messing up. It feels like you’re going to be more upset about noticing when you slip up than I am. Honestly, Daddy, I’m just glad that you and Mum are... I’m guessing okay with this isn’t quite right because you aren’t really, but you are on my side even though I’m...”

“It’s alright, Gwen. I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. We love you no matter what, and we’ll do whatever’s necessary to make sure you get what you need. If this is it, then we’re the ones who have to adapt.”

“Thanks Dad.”

“Your mum’s cooking a lasagne for tonight. I hope that meets with approval.”

“Sounds fantastic, only...”

“Only what?”

“I may want a smaller portion than usual. I can’t really explain it, but I’ve not been hungry all day today.”

“Oh? What changed?”

“I don’t know. Nothing that makes sense for sure.”

“What happened that doesn’t make sense?”

“So much, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Well, you know what I always say.”

“Start at the beginning, and if you can’t find that, start in the middle and work backwards.”

“So you do listen.”

“Always, Daddy. Okay. It began when I met Merlin for the first time.”

“Merlin the magician?”

“Or more likely his ghost since nobody else could see him.”

“Is this one of your stories?”

“What would you like me to say, Dad?”

“From what I read about Marlborough Mound, the whole thing about it being where Merlin is buried is a myth.”

I shrugged. “No-one bothered to tell Merlin.”

Dad snorted. “Well, let’s put a pin in it for now. How was the writing course? I mean let’s not forget why you actually went in the first place.”

So I told him about the book offer and the one-week deadline to come up with a plan for revising the story. I also told him about the girls. I hadn’t planned on telling him about Lance, but Dad can really push my buttons sometimes.

“So, any special someone among these girls?”

“They were all pretty special, Dad. They were all cool when Gwen emerged. Even helped her feel welcome.”

“Yes, but any... you know, romantic attachments?”

“It wasn’t like that, Dad. Jeez, you can make friends without wanting to get into bed with them. Besides, they’re girls, and the big issue here is so am I.”

“So what. Girls can be into girls these days.”

“Yeah, well this girls into boys.”

That nearly put us on the kerb.

“What!?”

“His name’s Lance and he’s on the Marlborough College rugby squad.”

And that nearly put us in the back of the car in front.

“I think maybe I’d better stop talking to we get home.”

It only took us a couple of minutes to get there. Nowhere in Selby is that far from anywhere else in Selby. We could have walked, but I’m not sure I would have wanted to in my heels. I know three inches isn’t a lot, but it’s enough when you’re not used to them.

Mum was a lot more enthusiastic about my appearance and a whole lot freer with her hugs. She gave Dad a worried look when he appeared carrying my bags.

“Are you alright love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No, that’s apparently what Gwen’s been doing, at least when she hasn’t been getting up close and personal with boys.”

“What?” Mum asked, turning her worried frown on me.

“It’s not like that. Lance was a perfect gentleman, which I would happily have told Dad if I hadn’t been worried he’d run someone over.”

“What?” Mum asked again, looking back at Dad.

“I need the loo, then I’m going to shower and get changed, if that’s okay.” It had better be okay. I felt all grubby and this homecoming wasn’t working out how I’d hoped.

“Of course dear.” The looks Mum and Dad were exchanging suggested a long and serious conversation was about to happen in my absence, but there wasn’t much I could do about that. I didn’t trust myself to be reasonable at the moment.

“But...” Dad began but Mum shut him up with a look.

“Of course dear,” Mum said. “Tea will be at six.”

See? Tea. Dinner is for posh people.

I took my bags from Dad and lugged them up to my room, which in my absence had undergone a minor transformation. I now had a pink, floral duvet cover with pink sheets and a vase of flowers on my bedside table. There was also a pretty, white summer dress laid out on the bed.

The loo was going to have to wait. I went back downstairs and threw my arms around first Mum then Dad. Tears erupted from my eyes, robbing me of my capacity to speak, so I ran back upstairs.

“What was that about?” Dad’s words followed me into the bathroom.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s a girl thing,” Mum answered.

That brought on a fresh flood of tears. I lifted my skirt and sat to take care of business. I wasn’t a girl though. However pathetic and shrivelled my equipment might have been, it didn’t belong on a girl.

I stripped and stepped into the shower. The water felt amazing against my skin, especially my chest which felt more sensitive than usual. I spent longer than I usually would, soaping and washing my whole body and giving my hair a thorough wash. Also possibly giving myself an excuse to stay under the stream as long as I could. All I can say is thank heaven for combi boilers, otherwise the water would have gone cold long before I was done.

I wrapped myself in one towel and made a turban out of another – not a very neat one, mind – before crossing the corridor into my room. My wardrobe mirror allowed me to check my chest, but I couldn’t see anything different, except maybe a slight increase in softness which I put down to imagination. I was too scrawny to be developing moobs.

It took a quarter of an hour to sort myself out and put on the dress Mum had bought me, involving a lot of primping and preening in front of the mirror. I made it downstairs by quarter to six and went straight to the sideboard for the cutlery and place mats to lay the table. Extra mats in the middle. Dad looked at me over the top of his newspaper and decided not to comment.

Good decision.

I danced around Mum in our small kitchen, grabbing glasses and a jug of OJ from the fridge. Cruet set, bowl of grated parmesan cheese Mum had already prepared, serving spoons and plates – stack of them in Mums place since she would be serving. Everything looked ready.

“Anything else I can do, Mum?” I asked.

In man-speak that’s an invitation to say no, but thanks for asking, but I wasn’t speaking man anymore.

“Would you take the peas out, sweetheart. I think we’re about ready to serve up.”

Mum transferred a healthy serving of the promised lasagne onto a plate and passed it to me, which I then passed on to Dad.

“About half that much for me please,” I said which prompted the old parental exchange of looks again.

“One week as a girl and she’s already watching her figure.” Dad no longer had his paper to hide behind so the second line of defence was dad jokes.

“I can’t really explain it,” I said. “I just don’t feel hungry the way I usually do.”

“Perhaps puberty’s finally catching up with you,” Mum said, passing me a far more reasonably sized serving.

My blood ran cold. My late development may have been the reason for all the bullying I’d suffered at school, but I’d been dreading the change.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Dad said. He finished ladling peas and passed them to me. “I meant to mention in the car. You have an appointment with an endocrinologist tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t give you much of a chance, did I.”

“Not really, no. So, are you ready to talk about this boyfriend of yours?”

“Actually, could I take it from the beginning? I think it’ll make a lot more sense that way.”

“Okay. In your own time.”

Which meant pause for that first slice of heaven. Eyes rolled up into my skull as the flavours spread across my tongue.

“I have missed your cooking, Mum” I said.

She smiled, but I could still see the worry in her eyes, so I started with my arrival and my first climbing of the mound.

I did take regular pauses to eat before the food went cold. Easy enough since both Mum and Dad kept interrupting with questions. Smaller mouthfuls meant the pauses weren’t that lengthy, and smaller portion meant I finished first. Mum offered to top me up, but wherever the food used to go no longer existed inside me. I was comfortably full.

We had a longer pause halfway through while mum fetched pudding – dessert for any of you posh people still reading. Apple pie and custard. I was tempted to ask for my usual portion, but knew I’d regret it if I did, so Mum sized portion and eat it slow.

I finished my story over coffee. That is Mum and Dad drank the foul brew while I stuck with orange juice. I ended with saying goodbye to my friends at Kings Cross and lapsed into nervous silence.

“Well,” Dad said, “you’re a story teller and no doubt. I’d have happily paid to read a story like that.”

Dad’s a bit biased you understand.

“I’m not sure I know what to make of it,” Mum said.

“That makes two of us,” I told her.

“Three.” Dad’s contribution.

“I mean, I don’t know if all the supernatural sounding stuff was just my imagination, but it felt real. Either way, this bit of me has been looking for a way out for a long time.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just a moment.”

I headed back to my room and pulled the bottom drawer out of my chest of drawers, retrieving a stack of papers from the space underneath. Reading from paper is so much better than from a computer screen.

“I started writing these about five years ago. This is my first one. It’s not that good, but...”

“Would you read it to us?” Dad asked.

It was about a young boy named Gavin who came in last from cross-country, as usual, to find everyone else had changed and left, taking his clothes with them and leaving him a girl’s uniform to wear. He’d put it on and gone to his next class, terrified that everyone would make fun of him, but the teacher had been more upset at his late arrival than what he was wearing. She’d called him Grace and made him sit at the front of the class.

At lunchtime a group of girls had invited him to join them to eat with them, and afterwards they’d played hopscotch.

All through the afternoon, everyone had treated him like a girl. The boys had called him names, but no more than they did with the rest of the girls. The teachers had treated him like every other girl in the class, and at the end of the day he’d gone home – still wearing the dress because he hadn’t been able to find his boy’s uniform.

He’d let himself into the house, scared out of his mind of what his parents would say when they saw him, only when his Mum popped her head through the kitchen door, she’d smiled at him and said, “Hello Grace. I’m about to bake a cake. Would you like to help?”

It was called the magic dress. Rather unimaginative, but it did the job.

I dropped it back on the pile. “They’re all like that,” I said. “The writing style gets better, but the essential content is the same. Boy feels like he should always have been a girl, struggles with depression, usually gets picked on in some way. Boy encounters magic or mad science or some unlikely circumstances that allows him to become a girl, or at least be seen like a girl. Boy stroke girl lives happily ever after.

“I wasn’t brave enough to be the girl in real life. Too worried about upsetting you, too scared of the reaction I’d get at school. So I let her live in my stories.”

“Your competition entry was the same?” Mum asked. “Is that why you didn’t want me to read it?”

“Yes. It was bad enough when the headmaster read an excerpt out to the school.”

“Yes, Mrs Meredith called to say you might have some trouble. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you by meeting you at the bus stop, but there was that hulking great boy who got off with you.”

“Wayne. Yeah, he’d have probably tried something if you hadn’t been there. I was glad you were there, Mum.”

“Would you mind if we read your entry now?” Dad asked.

“I suppose. It’s just that since the agent talked to me about it, I’ve started thinking about it as a sort of work in progress.”

“So let us see the before and after. I’d love to see something of your process.”

“Well, alright.”

Knight in White Satin hadn’t made it to the pile of printouts. Fifty thousand words would have been a lot of paper. I had the raw document on Mum’s tablet though. I pulled it up and passed the machine to Dad. Mum sat down next to him, leant her head on his shoulder and read along with him.

I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. It was going to take them a while to get through it, so I made myself a hot chocolate and headed up to my room, pausing briefly at the bottom of the stairs.

“Thanks for my room, by the way, and this dress.”

Dad looked up and smiled. “All your Mum’s doing, sweetheart. I did suggest painting it pink too, but she thought you might like a say in that choice.”

“Yellow,” I said with a smile. “With some sort of matching patterned wallpaper on the wall opposite the window.”

“We can pick something out later, then maybe you can help me with it next weekend.”

I nodded and left them to their reading. The edited version of my story plus the revisions I’d made were also on Mum’s tablet, but in my email as well. I retrieved them on my rather clunky old desktop and started working.

I say clunky. It was old, but Dad’s a bit of a computer whizz and set it up with Linux so it ran as well as any modern computer, Microsoft or Mac. It did mean I was stuck using Libre office, which isn’t my favourite word processor, but when you’re writing, you don’t tend to bother much with formatting. I pulled up a split screen with revisions one side and the version where I’d already changed the first six chapters, and set about completing the revisions. I put in bookmarks where I intended adding extra bits and highlighted other paragraphs that would need to be scrapped or significantly altered to set up for the new extended piece I was planning on adding.

Around eleven o’clock, I had my plan of action more or less put together with rough notes on what would be added and where. It wasn’t that conventional, but it was more or less readable. I added a few extra bits at the beginning – yellow highlights need changing, pink highlights need chucking or replacing, notes in angle brackets extensions to the original story with short description of what. It’d do. I stuck it in an email to my potential agent, apologised for not laying it out in a standard manner and asked if I was on the right track.

With the email sent, I introduced my empty mug to the dishwasher, peered over Mum and Dad’s shoulder to find them three quarters of the way through.

“It’s really good,” Dad said. “I can see why you won.”

I kissed them both goodnight and headed up to bed with Mum calling after me not to get up too late tomorrow as she was taking me shopping.

The duvet smelled of floral freshness and felt so smooth against my skin, the baby doll not covering much of it. I plugged my phone in and realised I’d not heard anything from any of the girls. I pulled up the WhatsApp group and typed in a short synopsis of my return home. Wished them all well and settled down to sleep. The phone buzzed a few times before I nodded off, but I decided I could read those messages in the morning.

The Marlborough day had started early, at least for anyone who wanted breakfast, so I was dressed and downstairs by seven-thirty the following morning.

I breakfasted on a bowl of fruit and yoghurt with a glass of orange juice – a staple in our household – and in the absence of anyone to talk to, read through the girls’ replies on WhatsApp. It was all fairly banal, much as mine had been.

‘Going shopping with Mum today,’ I typed. ‘Pictures to follow.’

Nothing from the agent, but then I hadn’t expected anything at seven o’clock after I’d emailed her only eight hours previously.

There was something from Lance. Apparently, his dad knew someone official in the school and news of me as the boy in the dress and my burgeoning relationship with Lance had filtered through the system. He wasn’t particularly pleased and wanted to know what Lance had been thinking. The effect such a scandal could have on his reputation. The tirade had been unrelenting and Lance was currently up to his neck in dog shit – his term – where his parents were concerned. His mum always sided with his dad on principle.

I emptied the dishwasher and put my breakfast things in before calling him.

“Is it safe to talk?” I asked when he answered.

“Er...”

“Who are you talking to?” I suspected his father said from the background.

“A mate from school.”

“A bit early, isn’t it?” The voice was closer. “Who’s Gawain?”

“Wayne,” Lance said. “It’s a bit stupid, but a bunch of us are going by Arthurian knights. I’m Lancelot, obviously.”

“I don’t care. Hello?” The voice suddenly louder.

I tried pitching my voice lower. “Er, hi.”

“What do you mean calling this early in the morning?”

“Er, sorry.”

“Call later or send a text like a reasonable person.”

“Yes sir. Sorry.”

He hung up on me before I could.

I heard noises from upstairs and put the coffee machine on. Just because you don’t like the stuff doesn’t mean you can’t enable someone else’s addiction. I also put a couple of slices in the toaster – Dad’s usual breakfast

“You’re up early,” Dad said, appearing in the kitchen. The coffee machine was still dribbling so he helped himself to a mug and added some milk.

“Marlborough day starts early. If you’re not down for breakfast by this time, most of the good stuff is gone.”

“By good stuff you mean...”

“Everything that’s not bran flakes or burnt toast.” The toaster popped and I transferred his unburnt offerings to a plate and passed it over.

“Thanks.” He uncovered the butter dish and added a couple of generous scrapings to his toast before sitting at the dining table.

I put the cover back on the butter – I know how much Mum hates that – and waited for the coffee to run through.

“Anything interesting happening today?” I asked.

“Same old same old. Broken computers to fix, checks to do on the servers. Dull routine expected, but always the chance of mammaries ascending – Dad’s PC version of things going tits up – then we’ll have a bit of excitement patching things.

“You enjoy yourself with your mum, okay?”

“Sure, Dad.” I brought him his mug of coffee. “Did you finish my story last night?”

“Yes, and I was thoroughly impressed. A great story, and very insightful about the, er, gender bending would you call it? It seems complete. I mean what could you possibly add to it?”

So I outline my ideas for part two. Slight change to part on with the main character struggling to come to terms with the sacrifice he’d made. Then part two starts the same, but soon diverges with the new knight introduced and both his struggles and hers as they navigate their growing feelings for one another through the Shoals of their differing prejudices.

“Now I want to read it all over again.”

“Well, give me a couple of weeks and I may let you.”

“Is that all it takes to write something like this? A couple of weeks.”

“It depends. It can take longer to put an idea together to start with, and sometimes I’ll write myself into a corner which means I’ll either need to bang my head against a wall until I can find a way out, or I’ll have to unravel the plot and start over.”

“Like when you drop a stitch in knitting and have to take it back,” Mum said from the foot of the stairs. She yawned hugely and joined us.

I reached for the coffee machine and poured her a mug of wake-up juice.”

“Thanks love,” she said fighting off another yawn. “I know I said early but the shops don’t open till nine.”

“I was sorting a few things out anyway.”

My phone chose that moment then ring. A quick check of the screen sent me scurrying back upstairs to the privacy of my room.

“Hi,” I said, my voice unexpectedly hushed.

“Hi yourself.”

“Sorry about earlier. I didn’t think.”

“Now that’s a new look on you. Anyway, no big. Dad would have found a way to be a dick whatever happened.”

“Yeah, I wish there was something I could do.”

“Change sex. Physically I mean. I’m quite happy with your sex mentally and emotionally.”

“I’ll get right on that, though I think the law’s likely to get in the way of any plans I might make.”

“Oh well. I guess we’ll just have to weather the storm.”

“Okay, so what are you doing today?”

“Clearing the garage. Dad reckons a bit of hard work will help me come to terms with my unnatural tendencies.”

“God, the man’s a Neanderthal.”

“Yeah. I’m told I take after him.”

“Oh no. Definitely some Cro-Magnon blood in there.”

“You know that’s a place in the Dordoigne, don’t you?”

“And that your mother’s French. Would it be fair to guess that’s where she came from?”

“I can tell you’re thinking again. Mum actually comes from Limoges, which isn’t too far away. How do you know about Cro-Magnon?”

“Did a piece in geography on prehistoric people last year.”

“Shit. I can’t remember anything I learnt last year.”

“Comes from playing too much rugby. Knocked the stuffing right out of you.”

“Hey! Don’t dis the game.”

“Oops. That’s me told. Okay, Rugby is amazing for education, all those parabolas and ellipses and everything.”

“You’ll have to tell me what those words mean some day.”

I wasn’t sure if he was having me on, but it felt safest to move on.

“Anyway, I just called to check you were okay and to sympathise. Mum’s taking me shopping today.”

“That’s not fair. Your mum sees you as a girl. Why can’t my dad?”

“Actually, I think you get kudos these days for having a transgender child, whereas if your son dates a boy in a dress...”

“Who says I date a boy in a dress? I have the cutest girlfriend you could want.”

“I hope you’re talking about me.”

“Of course I am, ditz. Do you have a blond streak?”

“Never streaked in my life. People would complain.”

“I need to get some work done. Send me pictures of you in the new outfits.”

“I will. Talk later?”

“Maybe. Text first though just in case.”

“Sure thing, Lancelot.”

“Then you must be my Guinevere.”

“Alright, but don’t tell my husband.”

He laughed. “Do you have to have the last word every time?”

“Noticed, did you? I might let you off one day, but not today.”

He laughed again and hung up.

“Was that Lance?” Mum said from my doorway.

I nodded and smiled, though with a bit of something in my eyes.

“Your dad would say boys only want one thing at this age.”

“Yeah, but Lance is a bit more of a complex individual. He likes playing rugby and eating as well.”

She shook her head. “You be careful.”

“Sure, Mum, and now that you’re parental responsibility is dealt with, can we go shopping?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Do I need tights? What shoes should I wear?”

“We can get you some tights and go for something sensible. If we buy you something that needs stilts, we’ll get you the stilts too.”

“You must have quite a budget.”

“Don’t ask. We do need to get you properly kitted out though.”

“Yeah. Uniform for Marlborough as well. Mr Ambrose gave me a brochure.”

She took it and scanned through. “We can deal with that when we get back. Those sandals look about right.”

Just as well because they were what I’d picked out.

“We only have two hours,” Mum said, opening up her Mini. Stupid name for a car I’ve always thought, given that it’s about as big as Dad’s. “You have your appointment with the endocrinologist at eleven-thirty, so I’ll drop you off around eleven.”

“Sounds good. Can you take some photos of me in the outfits we buy? I promised my friends I’d post a few.”

“I’m sure we can do that. All belted up?”

Of course, but it was part of Mum’s ritual, so what can you do?

Enter the shopping montage. Accompanied by Hall and Oates singing You Make My Dreams Come True, we have a series of pictures of me posing in different outfits of unbearable cuteness, making faces under ridiculous hats, Mum and me laughing out of control with globs of ice cream on our noses, the works. Last photo is the two of us staring at Mum’s car holding twice as many bags as will easily fit in it.

We managed somehow and I made it to my appointment at the hospital with a couple of minutes to spare.

Dad let out an audible sigh of relief when he caught sight of me.

“Thank goodness. I should have made it clearer to your mum that you couldn’t be late for this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I used up a lot of favours organising this. I managed to book you into one of Dr Munroe’s private clinics, and they tend to run on time.”

“Mr Llewellyn?”

We turned toward the voice, which belonged to a tall and very thin nurse.

“The doctor will see you now.”

So there I was, stripped to skippies – that’s what Mum calls them – while this stranger poked and prodded me. He poked holes in me, which I’d expected, and drew of a sizeable sample off blood, enough to leave me light headed, though that could just have been the sight of the needle in my arm.

Apparently being private had several perks like blood tests while you wait. He made use of the time while the technicians performed their battery of tests, doing all the physical things.

My height and weight brought on the first puzzled hmph.

“What?” I asked. You may have noticed, it’s a popular word in my family.

“Your height and weight are significantly below normal. You don’t appear to have started puberty yet. Apologies for the embarrassing questions, but have you experienced any erections yet or wet dreams?”

I knew what they were from PHSE, but had no personal experience. I shook my head.

“And you’re sixteen?”

“Fifteen, but my Birthday’s next month.” I wasn’t sure how critical the details were, so I left him to decide.

“Hmph.”

“At the risk of repeating myself...”

“Most boys begin puberty between nine and fourteen. For someone to reach your age without doing so it’s extremely rare. Beyond the ninety-ninth percentile.”

“Oh.”

“Girls usually start earlier, but it is more common for them to start later. If you were a girl this would be less surprising.”

He rubbed his hands together vigorously, warming them up.

“This is a little invasive, but I’m going to cup your genitalia and ask you to cough. You okay with that?”

“I guess.”

It was a weird feeling and went on a little longer than usual when after a pause, he asked me to repeat the process.

This time the hmph was pronounced. He pre-empted my what by answering without being prompted. “This check is mainly for an inguinal hernia, where a part of your intestine pushes through the muscle wall down here, but there are other things to check for. Your testicles are small for someone your age, your penis too, though you would have made a suitable model for Michelangelo. I would also expect your testicles to be drawn up into your body a little, but your response was considerably reduced compared to normal.”

“And this means?”

“That there is an issue to be addressed here, but not one I have been able to identify as yet. Your other reflexes appear to be normal, heightened if anything, so this is... intriguing.”

“I’m glad I’m keeping you from getting bored doctor. Does this qualify us for a discount.”

Dr Munroe laughed. “Let’s see what we find before we decide about that, shall we. Your bloodwork will tell us more, and that should be with us any minute. Ah.”

The door to the surgery opened and a folder was handed across. The doctor glanced through it and shook his head. “No, no. This is all wrong.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out what looked like a long cotton bud.

“Say aagh,” he said, so I did and he wiped the swab inside my cheek. The swab went into a test tube and the test tube was passed to the same nurse who’d brought the results.

“Basic chromosomal analysis, as quick as you can. No, one minute.”

He took a second swab and wiped it along the length of my small and dormant penis.

“This one too,” he said, scribbling something on the tube and passing it over.

He turned to me. “This may take a while. Perhaps you would wait with your father for a while?”

“You have an idea, don’t you?”

“A wild speculation, which I would prefer to test before explaining. You understand.”

“Of course, doctor.”

“It’s a million to one chance, but the tests should give us something even if it doesn’t turn out to be true. I will see the next patient and call you in again afterwards. I hope no more than fifteen minutes.”

“Alright.”

I relayed all the relevant information to my father, who bought a coffee for himself and a hot chocolate for me. From the faces he was making, the vending machine did a better job with the hot chocolate than the coffee, which isn’t to say that great.

Fifteen minutes came and went, then thirty. At forty the same tall, thin nurse came and collected us. This time Dad was invited in as well. Dr Munroe waved at a couple of chairs in front of his desk. We sat and so did he.

“Most unusual. Tell me Mr Llewellyn, were you at any time told to expect twins?”

“No, we were only ever told to expect the one.”

“This is perhaps not surprising. In many cases twins can begin to merge before they reach a stage where they can be seen on ultrasound.”

“Would you please tell me what you’re talking about?”

“Of course. Tell me, Mr Llewellyn, have you ever heard of a condition called chimerism?”

Dad shook his head and looked over at me.

I shrugged. “I know the Chimera was a monster from Greek Mythology. Part lion, part goat, part serpent.”

“Exactly so, and in the same way this creature was made of many different ones, so with chimerism a person can be made from more than one person.”

“How is that even possible?” Dad asked.

“Michrochimerism occurs when cells are exchanged between mother and foetus during pregnancy. The child possess some of its mother’s DNA as well as its own. This is quite frequent and not usually permanent.

“Then there is artificial chimerism, which happens during procedures such as bone marrow transplant.

“Finally, and on very rare occasions, one fraternal twin will decline and be absorbed into the other within the womb. The result is a single person who possessed two different sets of DNA in different parts of his or her body. This can be quite striking if, for instance, the division between the two follows the line of the nose.” He ran his hand down his own nose by way of demonstrating. “Under such circumstances it is possible to form an individual with two markedly different eye colours. One side,” he indicated the left side of his face and down the length of his body, “belongs to the dominant twin while the other,” he indicated the top right hand side of his head, “is all that remains of the weaker twin.”

“That can actually happen?” Dad was astonished.

“Most assuredly. Microchimerism may occur in as many as ten percent of the population with individuals being entirely unaware. In the rarer cases, as with your, er, daughter, the effects are more extreme.

“I will need to conduct further tests to discover the full extent of your condition,” he addressed me directly, which I appreciated – I mean who likes being talked about, “but when I took these two swabs? From your cheek and your groin, yes? I discovered that in your cheek you have XX chromosomes and your genitals...”

“XY. Well no surprise there since they’re male genitals.”

“Quite so. The surprise is in the XX chromosomes, and in your bloodwork, which shows hormone levels more typical of a young girl entering puberty. My suspicion is that you are a girl, but in your mother’s womb, you absorbed your fraternal twin brother and in your case, the part of his body with his genetic material that survived in you is around your groin.”

“So I’m really a girl but with boy bits sort of grafted on?”

“Something like this. I will need to arrange for you to have an MRI scan to see how far your brother’s male body has encroached on your own genitalia. My suspicion is not a great deal, otherwise your bloods would show considerably less oestrogen and progesterone and more testosterone, a hormone that is only present in trace amounts here. Once I have the MRI, I will be able to advise you as to your options.”

“Might any of this have anything to do with Gwen’s appetite?”

“Yes, you explained to me that, er, her metabolism was extremely high. I do not know for certain, but there could be many unusual side effects. This may be one of them.”

“I kind of lost my appetite a day or so ago,” I said. “Before that I was always hungry and I always ate as much as I could whenever food was available, then yesterday I just stopped wanting anything to eat.”

“Perhaps, then, this is indeed a factor. As mentioned, your hormone levels are those of a young woman just beginning puberty. If this is a recent development, it may well explain how your appetite has changed. In any case, it seems we have discovered this condition at just the right moment. If the female majority of your body is beginning to develop, it is imperative we make sure as little as possible prevents it from doing so.”

“What does that mean?”

“I won’t be able to answer that until you have an MRI.”

“And how long will that take to organise?” Dad asked.

“That is up to you, Mr Llewellyn. The nearest hospital with an MRI scanner is in Hull. I can arrange for you to have an appointment this afternoon, if you are free to take your daughter.”

“If it’s that urgent, we can go now. It’s, what about an hour’s drive to Hull?”

“Yea, so shall we say in two hours time? This will give you time to get to your car, yes?”

“Sure, thank you.”

“Then when the scan is complete, come back to me here. They will send me the results, so I will have more information for you when you get here.”

We headed out to the staff car park. Yeah, I should have mentioned, Dad does IT support for the local hospital. It’s how he managed to arrange the appointment with Dr Munroe so quickly. He phoned through to his boss and took the rest of the day off, citing a family medical emergency, then we were on the road.

“How’re you doing kiddo?” Dad asked once we were speeding down the M sixty-two.

“Kind of scared and excited at the same time.”

“Unpack that for me.”

“Excited that I might have been a girl all along. Scared that I might be missing a few essential parts, courtesy of the brother I never knew I had.”

“I suppose I get that. How do you feel about the twin thing?”

“It’s kind of gross thinking I absorbed him like that.”

“or you could think that while you were both just a couple of globs of cells, he kind of didn’t have what it took to survive, so you gave him a ride. A part of him is alive today because of you.”

“I bet it was him that was always hungry. If he had survived he’d have ended up being quite the porker.”

Dad laughed. “You’re going to be alright, sweetheart.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because anyone who can face this mess and still joke about it simply cannot fail.”

“Is your boss going to be annoyed with you about today?”

“I hope not. I mean, I work hard most days. I cover for my colleagues when they need me to. If he isn’t prepared to reciprocate when it’s me that needs help, then there are a lot of jobs out there waiting for my skills. It won’t come to that though.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure. And if I’m wrong, I can always look for a job down in Wiltshire.”

“Marlborough is a boarding school regardless of whether you live two miles away or two hundred.”

“I know, but if we were closer, you could visit for weekends sometimes.”

“That would be pretty cool.”

The conversation dried up. Dad turned the radio on and I turned to my phone, choosing the best of the photos from the shopping trip and posting them to the girls’ group. My absolute favourite I reserved for Lance and posted it to him.

He texted back, ‘Let Dad try telling anyone you’re not a real girl. Seriously cute.’

I wanted to tell him that his Pinocchietta might well actually be a real girl after all, but I knew how hard I’d take it if this all turned shit shaped, and I didn’t want to put that on anyone else.

We eventually made it to the MRI centre in Hull where I was divested of all things metal, put into a ridiculous backless gown and sent headfirst into a narrow opening where I was subjected to a series of mechanical bangs over a half hour period.

The machine operators gave me an odd look when they were helping me out of the machine, so I assumed my insides weren’t normal, however they refused to tell me what they had seen and sent Dad and me on our way with nothing but heightened worries.

Another hour on the road and we were back with Dr Munroe. He at least new bushes were best not beaten about.

“So, it is as I suspected. Inside you have a complete set of female reproductive organs and, as far as I can see, all that remains of your twin is his male genitalia and a small amount of skin merging this into your body.

“You will never be a functioning man, but with a small amount of cosmetic surgery, you will become a complete woman. Your body is already changing you, giving you breasts and broader hips, so we should assist it as much as we can.

“I have spoken to an exceptional cosmetic surgeon of my acquaintance, and he is ready to schedule the necessary surgery as soon as you are happy to agree to it. Tomorrow if you wish.”

“What are the risks?”

“Minimal. Your daughter is young and fit so is at no great risk from the surgery. In fact she is at greater risk if she refuses it.”

“How much of my brother will he be removing?”

“The obvious part, of course, but the rest, the skin that surrounds your groin, that would be difficult to replace, so best left. You will not notice it as being different.”

“Will it get hairy?”

He smiled, bowing his head in an attempt to hide it. “It will be suffused with your hormones. Oestrogen and progesterone. The testicles will be removed so you will have no source of testosterone. You’re brother’s skin, if you prefer to think of it that way, will be just as soft, smooth and hairless as the rest of you.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Dad asked. “There’s no coming back from this and it would do no harm to think on it for a while before making the decision.”

“I would disagree. In my opinion there is no alternative to this surgery, and every day you wait risks introducing complications.”

“So do it,” I said. I didn’t want to go back anyway.

“Your mum will want a say.”

“Then call her. Let me talk to her.”

It only took five minutes. Mum was on my side from the first.

It meant another trip to London, to the Cadogan Clinic, but Mum would be coming with me and staying in a nearby Premier Lodge until it was all over.

It wasn’t going to be cheap, being a private clinic in Knightsbridge, but Mum and Dad wanted the best for me, and this was decidedly the best. In the UK at least

Mum and I packed ready to take the train down to the City in the morning. We had a Thai takeaway for tea to save on cooking and washing up, then I was sent off to bed early. I wasn’t that tired though, and I had a mess of thoughts and feelings whirling about inside my head, so I fired up the old steam powered difference engine. The whole reason I started writing in the first place was to address the mixture of confusion and distress that had arisen from feeling so misplaced in the world.

First stop emails though. I didn’t get many. Mainly notifications of comments for the stories I’d posted online. This time there was one from the agent. It was short and, well, neither sweet nor sour.

‘Concept has some merit. Would like to see how it develops before you make other changes. Send two of the new chapters by the end of the week.’

‘I’ll try,’ I wrote back. ‘Going into hospital for an operation tomorrow. Might not be in a state to write for a while.’

Next I opened a word processor document and put down everything I’d been through during the day. Memory tends to work in a stream. You pick up on the first thought and it hooks the next and the next, so simply writing about my arrival for my appointment and Dad’s obvious relief at my appearance took me to the next event and so on. I wrote for over an hour, covering all the events and my mixed feelings as new evidence unfolded. I wrote about my feelings for my twin who’d never lived except as a part of me, about discovering that there was a lot more to my inner girl than I’d ever thought possible, about my mixed excitement and fear over what was to come.

“I thought you were going to get an early night,” Mum said from the doorway.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “I thought this would help.”

“A hot chocolate might.”

“No. I think I’ve done all I can here. Can we take your tablet tomorrow? I might want to do some writing if I feel up to it.”

“Of course, dear.”

“This is going to be really expensive, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. It’s only money. You’re much more precious.”

I gave her a hug and felt tears welling up. This was the second time in two days they’d caught me out like that. It seemed I really was turning into a girl.

A suddenly tired one at that. I climbed into bed and let Mum tuck me in. It felt snug and safe somehow and my mind finally settled enough to sleep.

The next few days passed in a blur. The journey to London I spent submerged in introspection. Mum tried talking to me a few times but gave up quickly enough.

We’d been sent notification that my surgery had been scheduled for later that evening at around eight o’clock, so I shouldn’t eat or drink anything but water after two o’clock and then stop drinking after six.

Not eating wasn’t a problem. What was was Mum persuading me to eat enough that I didn’t collapse half way through the day. If they were butterflies in my stomach, they’d been at the steroids.

I managed a glass of OJ and half of a small bowl of fruit, but then my gut twisted and refused any more.

Mum sighed and made enough sandwiches for a football team.

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to eat that lot,” I told her.

“What? Oh, no, of course not.”

Most of them went into Tupperware and from there, into the freezer. Sorting Dad out for however long we were going to be away. She did pack a more reasonable amount for the two of us.

That was pretty much the last she got out of me though. I spent most of the journey staring off into space. Mum did try engaging me in conversation a couple of times, but when I barely responded both times, she gave up in disgust.

The hospital was similar. They talked to me about the procedure, but I was so out of it, I needed Mum to answer for me and to give me a nudge when it was down to me to give the answer.

Eventually they put me in one of those ridiculous backless gowns and stuck a cannula in my arm. A nurse injected a clear fluid into the saline drip attached to it and asked me to count backwards from ten. I remember reaching seven, then nothing more.

Until I woke up with a lot of discomfort in my groin.

A passing nurse picked up on the noises I was making and offered me a painkiller. It consisted of a couple of tablets which barely touched the pain.

The nurse called for a doctor then came back to me, squeezing my hand and apologising that she couldn’t give me anything stronger.

Eventually the doctor arrived, approved the something stronger and waited until I was coping better.

“My apologies for your discomfort,” he said. “We prefer not to administer very strong drugs as they are addictive, however sometimes the pain can be at a level to require such measures.

“Your surgery was somewhat different from our usual fair. It went extremely well, I’m pleased to say, and I anticipate your pain will subside overnight.

“I believe your mother is outside awaiting your return to the land of the living. If you feel up to a little company, I would be happy to tell you both a few details of the procedure.”

I nodded and the nurse went to fetch Mum.

“You understand that the operations we usually conduct involve the removal of male genitalia and the construction of a facsimile of a vagina – a vaginoplasty it’s called.”

Mum nodded. “For men who want to become women.”

“Yes, your, er, daughter, was different in that she already possessed all the internal workings but none of the external ones. A most unusual case. Dr Munroe briefed me on it before your arrival. It fascinated me so much I elected to perform the surgery myself.”

“We’re very grateful, doctor.”

“Yes, yes. In any case, the solution in your circumstance was not so simple. It was necessary at first to excise the tissue blocking your existing vaginal passage, then to use the available material to construct labia for you. As we do for gender reassignment surgery, I was able to incorporate the urethra and sphincter from your twin to give you urinary control, and even the material from the penis to construct a clitoris for you. There was enough tissue to construct your labia, in fact all in all I was able to give you pretty much exactly what most young women are born with.

“Unfortunately, the more manipulation that’s necessary to do the rearrangement, the more discomfort you are likely to experience.

“I would recommend you sleep as soon as you are able. I can authorise the nurse to give you something to help this. All being well, when you next awaken, the pain you are experiencing will have diminished to a point where we can use gentler analgesics.

“I doubt you will feel much like moving for several days, and I will want to keep you in for observation at least until the end of the week. I believe you have made arrangements to stay nearby Mrs Llewellyn?”

“Er, yes.”

“Excellent. In which case I won’t encroach upon your time together any further. Welcome to womanhood, Gwen. I’m sure you’ll begin to enjoy it in a day or so. Mrs Llewellyn, your daughter needs her rest, so please limit your visit this evening to no more than ten minutes.”

So he left, and Mum and I spent a few minutes chatting about nothing much. A nurse came in and gave me an injection. Not really a fan, but I began to feel drowsy almost immediately. The last thing I remember was Mum explaining that she was leaving her tablet with me, then I was gone.

When I woke the pain was manageable, but the need to use the loo wasn’t. I called for a nurse who brought me a bedpan and introduced me to a much less convenient plumbing arrangement than I was used to. Still, I managed, and accepted the paracetamols when offered. The pain was manageable without, but why struggle when you don’t need to?

Lying in bed soon became intolerably dull. I coped by picking up Mum’s tablet and beginning the new part to my story. As I’d planned, I began it with the exact same words I’d used at the beginning, altering them subtly as the new knight’s personality began to emerge and he discovered the changes in the region he was exploring.

I reached the point where he finally met the lady who had once been the old knight, but had to stop there as I had to think my way into my character’s minds and explore their reactions to one another.

I sent off what I’d written to agent lady. It struck me as odd that she hadn’t told me her name in all the time we’d been exchanging emails, so I asked what it was.

I closed my eyes and tried to put myself in Lady Knight’s position. A well regarded man in a world where women were largely seen as property. Faced with the only way of stopping his adversary being to destroy the source of his magic and, with it, lose any chance of returning to his former self, he’d chosen to make the noble sacrifice. There were others not unlike him who’d been transformed into animals and they’d accepted the inevitable with equal stoicism, but when the consequences of such a sacrifice have to be lived day to day with no hope of reprieve, they begin to weigh on you.

He had friends among the transformed animals. They couldn’t speak and they would inevitably live shorter lives, but while they lived, they were uniquely qualified to understand and sympathise with his plight. They could see him as the man he had once been as much as he could see them in the same light.

But how would he cope when a stranger came into his life. Someone who had no concept of what he had gone through, who only saw the woman he had become who only treated him as that woman. How would he respond.

Would he tell you he visiting knight all that had transpired? How would the visitor react? Especially given the period (or its equivalent since the story is set in a fantasy world with dragons and magic)

“You think dragons and magic don’t exist in this world?”

I startled awake, or at least I assume I did. Had I fallen asleep? If so, now that I had woken, how was it that Merlin was here?

“Where else should I be? None other can see me but you, and I have expended no small expense on you my dear.”

Hang on. He could read my thoughts now?

“I always could. It was you that insisted on talking out loud.”

Well, that could reduce my chances of being put in a padded cell.

He chuckled. “Perhaps it would be as well to avoid that.”

Are you going to be with me all the time now? I tried thinking directly at him.

“Unfortunately I cannot. It costs me a considerable amount of mana to appear before you in this way, and I can only do it occasionally and for short periods of time.”

So why are you here now?

“To oversee the completion of your transformation, your majesty.”

You’re a little late. Besides, it turns out I always was a girl.

“You really believe that story about your twin brother?”

What? It sounded plausible enough.

“Of course it sounds plausible. It wouldn’t be fit for purpose otherwise.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“Because boys don’t spontaneously turn into girls. It has been known for girls to turn into boys upon reaching puberty, but never boys into girls. The modern science of your age has the means to explain why it is impossible, so if you are to embrace your birth right, it is necessary to provide a believable means by which it can happen.”

So what of Dr Munroe’s evidence?

“Manufactured.”

What does that mean?

“It’s a small enough thing to guide a man’s thoughts to a conclusion he already has in mind. Dr Munroe already had this idea of chimerism in the back of his mind. I simply brought it to the surface.

“After that, well, you’ve seen how I can inhabit the minds of others.”

Like Mr Hong?

“Yes. That takes more mana, but I was able to forge the necessary test results to convince the doctor his chimerism theory was correct.”

You made him think I was a girl?

“No, you already were a girl by then. All but for the appearance of manhood between your legs. All I needed to do was induced the technician to change an X into a Y.”

You’re trying to tell me I have... had a penis with female DNA?

“It was little more than any girl would have, only misshapen. Your surgeon explained that he adapted it to give you a clitoris?”

But...

“Relax. He only has the memory of the surgery he performed, as do his surgical team. The final change was ultimately the culmination of your transformation.”

So why does it hurt so much?

“Because they expected it to. You now have a complete and believable medical history explaining how, in your one unique case, a young boy can actually have been a girl all along. The DNA test, the MRI scan, which shows all the organs a young girl should have as well as the vestigial organs of a young man, and now the record of a surgery to document the correction of an unusual medical anomaly.”

I wasn’t always a girl?

“A matter of perception. Physically, you were born as much a boy as my last protégé. In the structure of your mind, however, you have always been a girl.”

Why me though. I mean why go to all the trouble of my physical transformation when there are so many actual girls about?

“You might as well ask, ‘Why Arthur? Why a poor servant when there were so many brave and strong knights?’ As in his case, the circumstances of your young life helped form you into the person you are, and that person is the only individual in all of Albion capable of facing what is to come.”

Hang on. You’re saying the doctors here did nothing to me? Exactly what did my parents just pay thousands of pounds for?

“A believable cover story, which you will need soon enough. The media can be merciless with public figures and you will need to be separated from any scandal. Above reproach.”

It’s a lot of money!

“And yet that’s all it is. The sale of your first book will more than cover their costs.”

How do you know that? And while we’re at it, how does a fifth century wizard know so much about contemporary medicine?

“These will be the last questions I will be able to answer for a while. My mama is all but depleted. To your first, I have always been able to glimpse the future and I see this in yours. You will still have to put in the effort to write it – there are no short cuts in life – but your best efforts will produce a story worthy of the acclaim it will receive. To your second, I may have been born in the fifth century, but I have been present, in this form at least, through all the discoveries of the intervening years. My own mastery is in the old magic, but it has not kept me from following, even influencing from time to time, the remarkable developments of this island’s people?”

I snorted. What, like Louis Pasteur and Madam Curie, Albert Einstein and Johannes Kepler?

“Like Alexander Flemming, Charles Darwin, Isaac Newton, Alan Turing, Stephen Hawking, Ada Lovelace, Rosalind Franklin, Dorothy Hodgkin...” The voice faded even as he did.

I hadn’t heard of the women he’d mentioned, so went online before I forgot their names. Their histories made inspiring reading. Enough that it pushed me into my own work. Lovelace’s story captivated me more than any, how in the absence of a formal education she all but invented computer programming, and at a time when the nearest thing to a computer was Babbage’s purely mechanical difference engine. Not only that, but the she’d died at age thirty six, so all her achievements were made in less time than my Mum had been alive.

Her life story gave me insight into what it must have been like to be a woman in a society dominated by a misogynistic and arrogant male population. It was a short step from there to the controlling and brutal attitudes of medieval times. I opened up a fresh document and began to write.