Thomas gave a hopeless, shattered laugh.
“I promise you”—Micha firmed his voice—“I will be quite well. I was thinking I could be a drawing master.”
“But you can’t draw.”
“Or, a secretary, I could be a gentleman’s secretary, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t. I think you’d be a terrible secretary.”
And now they were both laughing, clutching for each other as though it could make a difference, until, at last, there was nothing left but impossible promises and already-uttered words.
Thomas made a convulsive movement, his hands coming together almost in prayer. “Please, Micha. Please, don’t leave me. There must be—”
“Uncle Thomas, Uncle Michael?” The cry rang through the churchyard, like the peal of Sunday bells. Micha tore his eyes from Thomas to see Hope, bounding with unladylike vigour, towards them, her hair and her bonnet strings flying. “Why are you both sitting on the ground?”
Thomas could not find his words quick enough, so it was left to Micha to gather himself and perform a hollow charade of playfulness. “We can sit on the ground if we want to.”
Hope considered this gravely. “Yes,” she conceded, “I suppose you can. Esther sent me to fetch you because the tea is getting cold and there will be no plum cake left.”
“That would be tragic.”
“If you were excessively attached to plum cake, yes. Which I am not. I think it brings out the worst in plums and the worst in cake.”
“But it’s Thomas’s favourite,” murmured Micha.
Hope nodded. “Which is why Esther thought you should hurry.”
Micha nudged Thomas gently, and he climbed to his feet, as jerkily as a puppet. He looked dazed, like a man lost in someone else’s dream.
“Are you coming, Uncle Michael?”
He smiled. It was the first time he had faked a smile for so innocent a purpose as reassuring, and it came to him with surprising ease. “Soon.”
Hope tucked her hand into Thomas’s, and Micha saw the way his fingers tightened around hers, as though she was the last real thing left in the world.
“I have been reading a most edifying book,” she said.
“Oh?” Thomas’s voice sounded rusty but was otherwise steady. “What about?”
She gave a little skip. “Cannibals.”
Micha watched them as they walked away, the man he loved and the girl with a thousand futures spinning in her eyes like stars. The sun cast its capricious eye upon them too and, in a moment of idle kindness, fashioned them each a crown of gold.
Volume III
After
“For you see your majesties,” cried Count Malodorous, “this lady is not who she says! Why she is no lady at all! She is none other than Euphrenadora Hussington, scourge of Europe!”
With that ungentlemanly ejaculation he tore off Euphrenadora’s mask and stamped it to dust beneath his boots.
A terible hush fell across the ballroom.
Euphrenadora shook free her magnificant mane of flame red hair now making everyone gasp and some of the gentleman feint clean away in an excess of passion. “It is true I am indeed Euphrenadora Hussington but I come here today to warn you of a dark plot against your majesties plotted by none other than this man! Count Malodorous!”
Everyone gasped again.
“What is the meaning of this!” roared the King.
