Castle of Shadows (9 page)

At twenty minutes past midnight, Charlie opened the door to the library and slid inside. The flame of her candle quivered, then steadied. ‘Tobias?’ she whispered. ‘Tobias, are you here?’

A snore answered her. Then another. She tiptoed towards the sound until her puddle of candlelight revealed the gardener’s boy sprawled on his back on a sofa. ‘Wake up!’ He didn’t move. She reached out and shook his shoulder. ‘Wake up!’ she hissed. His hand snaked up and grabbed hers. ‘Ow! Stop it, Tobias!’ His eyes opened, and he stared up at her blankly. He looked at his fist twisting hers and threw her hand away as if it burnt him. He hunched upwards, shaking his head as though to clear it.

‘Sorry. Wasn’t awake. I thought…’

‘What did you think? That hurt!’

‘Sorry!’ His voice was rough. He jumped to his feet. He didn’t look at her. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over.’ Pushed past her and out the door. She ran to catch up. ‘Put that candle out,’ he snapped. ‘No use advertising.’

She bit back her retort. Blew out the candle. Something had rattled him. She was too tired to think about it now. Exhaustion and excitement fought for her attention. Excitement won. It was like fire burning
through her veins, and she thought she might explode with it.

The ground-floor corridors were ghostly in the moonlight. Soon, they slipped past the door to the dining room and reached a thick stone wall with a heavy oak door set deep inside it. Beyond lay several reception rooms and the throne room. Beyond these lay the ministerial wing. The internal doors of the domestic areas of the Castle were unsecured, allowing Watch to roam freely on his rounds. But from now on, every door would be locked, starting with this one. Tobias set to work.

A few seconds with his hands pressed against the keyhole, manipulating the shiny set of lockpicks he’d brought, and the locks clicked open, one after the other. He didn’t even want a candle. ‘Save ’em for searching the office. You do locks by touch, see? Feel things better with your eyes shut.’

His success seemed to cheer him. ‘Proper tools don’t half help!’ He grinned at her, shaking the set of lockpicks. ‘Nipped off at lunchtime and bought these off a bloke I know in Flearside. Got ’em cheap, too, ’cause these are quality. I’ll have to keep ’em out of me mum’s sight. She’d have a fit!’

He made it look so easy. If she learnt the trick of it, O’Dair would no longer be able to lock her in her room. It was worth asking him again. ‘Teach me?’ But he just smiled and shook his head, trotting down the corridor towards the next door.

‘Nearly there. Mind now, we got to be quiet!’ he whispered. ‘Not a sound! The guards’ hut is only a few feet away, and I don’t fancy playing tig with a bullet!’

Charlie felt her heart lurch. Until a second ago, her greatest fear had been being caught by Watch and hauled before the Prime Minister. It had never crossed her mind that she risked being shot dead by the Castle Guard.

They approached the door to the great hall of the ministry, with its marble floor and glass-domed ceiling. A bead of light shone at the bottom of the door. Both of them spotted it at the same moment. They looked at each other, then Tobias crept to the door, crouched down. She heard a faint click, and he eased the door open an inch and put his eye to the gap. He pulled back, looked at her, put his finger to his lips in warning and nodded at the door.

She edged past him to look in her turn. As she had guessed, the gas was lit, the great hall as bright as day, and a guard stood to attention beside the door to the Prime Minister’s office. They would not be breaking in there tonight – or any other night.

‘How was I to know?’ Charlie asked for the third time. Tobias muttered curse after curse as he relocked door after door.

‘No sleep for two nights!’ he growled. ‘It’s flipping two in the morning, and I’ve got to be at work at seven! Rot Windlass! Who’d have thought he’d post a guard on his office door when there’s two more standing outside in the
hut barely five feet away? Blast him!’ Tobias subsided into muttered curses once more.

By the time they got back to the east wing and Toby bent to relock the last door, Charlie was exhausted. They were so intent on the workings of the lockpick that neither noticed a light glimmering around the corner.

‘Oi!’ roared Watch. ‘Who’s there? What’re you up to?’

For a frozen second, Charlie and Tobias stared at each other. ‘Run for it!’ he hissed in her ear and was off. Charlie pelted after him.

‘Here! You! Stop!’

Tobias’s footsteps clattered ahead of her, spun off sideways and disappeared down invisible stairs. Charlie flung herself headlong into darkness. Tobias had gone to earth like a fox. She would go up. Lose Watch in the maze of rooms, staircases and cupboards on the upper floors. She felt round a corner. The stairs waited, just ahead. She tugged off her boots and stood holding them, straining to listen above the banging of her heart. Would he follow Tobias? Or her?

The shuddering, swaying light of a lantern appeared. It was her. Charlie groped for the stairs. When her feet found them she flew up soundlessly. Fingers of light hesitated on the landing below, searched upwards. But she was beyond their reach, racing blindly for the servants’ stair to the attics.

She flung herself through her bedroom door and pulled it shut behind her. She didn’t know how much time she
would have. Not much. Frantically, she changed into her nightclothes. Fumbling in the dark, she hid the candles and put her boots and clothes away in the wardrobe before crawling into bed. Now there was no evidence other than the thudding of her heart. She closed her eyes and made herself lie still and breathe deeply.

She did not have long to wait. She recognised O’Dair’s approach even without the warning groan of corsets. Footsteps stumped to her door. It was flung open, and candlelight speared into the room. Charlie lay as if she were dead.

O’Dair advanced. Her breathing was harsh and rapid, like the panting of a bear. ‘Open your eyes!’ she growled. ‘Don’t you pretend with me.’

Charlie gave a sleepy sigh and turned over.

‘Enough of that!’ roared O’Dair. She took hold of the side of the bed and shook it until it rocked.

Charlie screamed and sat up. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

O’Dair was a pillar of red in a flannel dressing gown. Her hair dangled in long black plaits. Her face was as scarlet as her gown. It convulsed with fury. ‘You were out of your room!’ she panted. ‘Sneaking about where you’d no business. What were you after? Tell me, or it’ll be the worse for you!’

‘What are you talking about?’ Charlie cried. ‘I’ve been asleep.’

‘Don’t lie to me!’ O’Dair snarled. ‘Watch saw two
people near the dining room.
Small
people. You were one. I know it. Now tell me what you were doing sneaking round the Castle!’

‘I wasn’t! Whatever Watch saw, it was nothing to do with me. I can’t think of anything worse than wandering around the Castle in the dark.’ She shuddered.

Mrs O’Dair glared at her through narrowed eyes. ‘I want the truth from you! Perhaps you’ll remember what the truth is after a few days locked in your room.’

‘I’m telling the truth! And I don’t think the Prime Minister will be very pleased if you lock me in my room. He’s presenting me to Parliament tomorrow.’

She watched with satisfaction as Mrs O’Dair took in the news. ‘Parliament!’ she spluttered. Even in the candlelight, Charlie could see her face flush purple. ‘The fool!’ she hissed. Her eyes narrowed, and she glared down at Charlie with hatred so fierce it was like being hit in the face. Charlie gasped.

‘Think you’ve got him round your little finger, don’t you?’ Mrs O’Dair whispered. ‘Like your mother before you. Well, be warned! I’m not going to let you spoil everything I’ve worked for here! Remember what happened to your mother, little girl, and be careful, lest you disappear too!’

In the flickering light of the candle, the housekeeper’s eyes were empty holes. She stared at Charlie for a long time, then turned in a swirl of red flannel and disappeared out the door. Charlie began to shake. A chill had seized
her and was seeping through her body and into her heart. The hatred in Mrs O’Dair’s eyes had been heavy and poisonous. For the first time in five years, Charlie felt doubt creep into her mind. Was it possible that her mother was dead?

She pulled the eiderdown up to her chin and stared into darkness, until exhaustion swept up from the depths like a lurking crocodile, scooped her into its jaws and pulled her down into deepest sleep.

The dress was made of silk the colour of cool water. Inside it, Charlie sweated beneath three petticoats and a crinoline that scratched whenever she moved. She had washed her hair and spent long painful minutes combing out the tangles. Her fingernails were scraped to spotless perfection. Her feet, looking strangely vulnerable in a pair of satin slippers instead of boots, were the only bits of her that were comfortable. She glared at herself in the mirror and stuck out her tongue.

The large corporal opened his eyes wide and swept his moustaches low in a deep bow as she padded down the grand staircase, holding tight to the railing because the slippers did exactly that.

‘Her Royal Highness, the Princess Charlotte Augusta Joanna Hortense!’ the corporal boomed as he opened the door for her.

The Prime Minister greeted her transformation with an approving smile. ‘Well done,’ he said and stood. He had never got to his feet for her before. Just because of a fancy dress and clean fingernails! She forgot herself for a second and glared her contempt at him.

Amusement gathered in his eyes. ‘Is it so very uncomfortable, Your Highness?’

‘Yes,’ she hissed, a blush spreading up from her neck.

‘And you resent the fact that appearances matter.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But they do, Charlie. After all, you are only a princess because that is the story we have all told ourselves. We have agreed that you shall be Princess of Quale, just as our ancestors agreed that your ancestors would be Kings and Queens of Quale. It is a fairy tale, Charlie. In reality you are no different than any other eleven-year-old girl in the Kingdom. More stubborn and intelligent than some, perhaps. But you take my point. It suits us all to pretend to believe the fantasy, and your job is to make that belief easy. Therefore, like any actor, you must dress the part.’

She stared at him, shocked and intrigued. ‘Then you are only an actor too!’

He shook his head. ‘No, Charlie. No one made me Prime Minister. I did that myself.’ He smiled. ‘But, I must confess that, unlike you, I rather enjoy dressing the part.’

Looking at him, she could not doubt it. He was resplendent in a black cutaway frock coat, pale grey trousers and a silver and blue-figured silk waistcoat. The collar of his white shirt was fashionably high and his dark blue cravat tied in an intricate knot. He might have strolled out of the fashion pages of the latest
Gazetteer
, but no one meeting his gaze would mistake him for a mere dandy. Charlie stared up at him, fascination and hatred mingling.

‘And now, Your Highness, to complete your costume!’
He strode across to the coat stand beside the door, plucked down a garment and held it out to her. It was a cloak made of thick purple velvet so dark it was nearly black, the body and hood lined in silk the colour of asparagus. Charlie reached out a finger, stroked the velvet. It was softer than rabbit’s fur. She looked up at Windlass, her eyes wide with wonder, and he smiled at her.

‘Enjoy it, Charlie. It is yours. As are these.’ He re-hung the cloak and produced a pair of gloves made of the same pale green silk. He held one out. She slid her hand inside and stared, disbelieving, at its sudden elegance. ‘You have narrow wrists,’ he said, ‘like your mother.’

‘And my father!’

His eyebrows shot up. She dropped her gaze. She must be more careful. ‘And your father,’ he agreed. He helped her on with the second glove, then turned abruptly and walked to his desk. Had he seen her hatred?

But he merely picked up a narrow velvet box. ‘This was last worn by your father’s mother,’ he said. ‘You may wear it today, but you must return it to me. It belongs to the Crown and must stay safely in the Royal Armoury when not in use.’

Charlie took the box in trembling hands. The velvet was old and worn, the hinges stiff, but she managed to pry it open. She gasped at the lustrous beauty of the pearls: a single strand with a simple diamond clasp.

‘Suitable for a girl of your years,’ Windlass said. ‘You
should be seen in at least one piece of Crown jewellery. It’s quite old. The women in your family have worn it for five centuries. Here…’ His gloved hands plucked the necklace from the case and, before she could move, he had fastened it round her neck and stepped back.

Their weight was heavier than she had expected. She reached up a hand to touch the smoothness of the pearls, was foiled by her glove, and a wave of almost unbearable claustrophobia washed over her. She wanted to yank the necklace from around her throat, strip off the deadening gloves. Instead, she stood like a girl turned to marble as Windlass draped the cloak around her shoulders and tied its satin ribbons in a perfect bow.

‘And now, Princess Charlotte,’ he said, collecting his top hat and a slender ebony and silver cane from the coat stand. ‘Your father’s subjects are about to be introduced to his daughter. It is time for you to take centre stage.’

Something seemed to be squeezing her round the middle, making her breathless. Charlie wondered if this was what it felt like to wear a corset. If so, she would rather look fat. She perched on the deeply buttoned leather cushions, trying to relax.

It was a fairy-tale coach. She hadn’t believed such things existed outside the pages of storybooks. Despite the cold November wind, Windlass had chosen the open landau carriage. It was painted dark blue, with the Royal crest emblazed in crimson and gold on the side panels.
Even the spokes of the great red wheels were picked out in gold paint.

He settled himself opposite her, facing backwards, his magnificence concealed beneath a black cloak. Charlie hardly noticed him. There were too many other things to see, smell and hear. The four horses were matched greys. They stamped, shifted, snorted. Harnesses clinked. The landau lurched as the coachman mounted the box behind her. A groom swung himself onto the back of the lead outside horse, which whinnied. Windlass nodded to the coachman, there was the crack of a whip, and they were off, grinding down the drive in a clomping trot.

She sat stiffly, her hands clutching the seat either side of her, watching the Castle gates speed towards her. Despite her beautiful new cloak, she was shivering. And then – through the gates and out! Out into the City of Quale. But there was no time to look, no time to think. Noise attacked her. They drove into a wall of sound: shouts, cheers, screams. Every inch of space seemed crammed with people. They surged between the buildings either side of the street, pushing, shoving, shouting, waving the red and white flag of Quale. Banners with the royal crest hung from balconies. Red and white bunting looped between the lampposts.

The carriage slowed to a walk, ploughing steadily through the sea of people. Charlie thought of ants pouring out of an anthill. She thought of wasps swarming over jammy bread. She thought of the Pied Piper of Hamelin,
and the rats flooding the city streets on their journey to death by drowning. She thought of the thronging citizens of Oppiet following their king’s tumbrel to the guillotine.

The crowd pushed towards the carriage, was shoved back by the guards lining the street. People shouted, gestured, screamed. At her. What did they want? Was this what it meant to be a princess? It was terrifying! There were too many people, and she had nothing to give them. Charlie pressed back into her seat and squeezed her eyes shut.

‘
Wave, Charlie. Look at them, and wave!
’ She opened her eyes and saw Windlass, leaning towards her. His voice cut through the tumult; his eyes were fierce blue stars. They held her, and she found that she could sit up, could smile, could look out at the mass of people shouting at her and raise her hand and move it slowly back and forth.

A cheer rose and undulated after them, circling round the carriage. The faces were smiling now. Was this all they wanted? This meaningless gesture? Her eyes scanned the crowd and were caught by the stillness of a single figure. A rock lapped by a seething tide, a woman stood, watching her. For a second, their eyes met. The crowd surged; the woman disappeared.

It wasn’t her. Charlie knew it, but her heart was pounding. The woman in the crowd had brown hair plaited round her head; she wore spectacles; her face was thin, her clothes shabby.
Not mine
.
Someone
else’s mother
.

She glanced at the Prime Minister. He was watching her, a slight smile on his lips. She shivered and turned back to the people of Quale.

A cloud of cigar and pipe smoke partially obscured the room and the two dozen or so men arrayed on the benches lining the two longest walls. They stared as she entered. They tottered to their feet. All the men were terribly old. Those who had hair had white hair. Some of them prised themselves upright with their canes and swayed alarmingly before finding an uneasy balance.

The House of Lords was too small. It was a large room, of course, but not nearly as large as in her imagination. It was also drier and dustier and dingier.

The tall Georgian windows at the top of the two long walls needed cleaning. The Royal portraits lining the walls of the gallery were dark with age and tobacco smoke. The Wool Sack looked tired. Its fabric was fading where the sun struck it, and Charlie fancied she saw a few moth holes. Even the gold leaf on the throne needed regilding. Parliament was a little faded, a little tired. Elderly. Like the men who stood before their benches, staring at her.

The Prime Minister did not seem to notice. He positioned himself in front of the Wool Sack. ‘Gentlemen!’ His voice echoed around the gallery. ‘May I present to Parliament Her Royal Highness, the Princess Charlotte Augusta Joanna Hortense of Quale!’ He smiled at Charlie and gestured for her to come and stand beside him. But
before she could move, someone answered the Prime Minister’s question:

‘No!’ A short, fat old man wearing ancient morning dress and a curly white wig heaved himself forward. ‘You jolly well may not!’ he roared.

Silence drifted through the room with the cigar smoke. Charlie stared at the old man and then turned to look at the Prime Minister. She wished she hadn’t. His face was not a comfortable sight. It was as hard and smooth as metal, and his pale eyes glittered.

‘And will Lord Topplesham be so kind as to tell us why he does not wish Her Royal Highness be presented to Parliament?’ Windlass asked in a soft and deadly voice.

Lord Topplesham glared at his colleagues. He glared at the Prime Minister, and he glared at Charlie. The Parliamentarians took sudden interest in their fingernails or the toes of their boots.

Charlie looked back at him, into his piggy little eyes. He looked hot and cross and stared at her as though she were something unpleasant on the bottom of his boot. Charlie blushed.

‘Aye, I’ll tell ye,’ the fat gentleman barked. ‘Because that girl is
not
the Princess!’