“Of course, dearest. I defer to your greater understanding.”
He grinned. “Since we’re here, let’s go find a queen.”
Provisioned with stacks of folded clean linen, they made their way through the gorgeous halls of Windsor Castle. Tom’s fingers itched to steal gold knickknacks and silver objets d’art displayed on the sideboards they passed, but Constantinopla had learned restraint (overindulge in fudge and you’d be too sick for Master Luxe’s fencing class the next day) and she kept him on task. They saw only a footman, leaning half-asleep against the wall, a carpet sweeper, and a chambermaid who stopped them, demanding to know what they were doing.
“Been called to change the linen in Her Majesty’s bedroom,” Constantinopla said in what she supposed was an Irish accent, but which sounded more like a mix between Cockney and too much rum.
“Spilled her tea again, did she?” The maid sighed. “You’d better hurry, then, before she starts throwing food.”
They walked on, glancing with relief at each other—
“Wait!” the maid called.
Their feet stopped, as did their pulses. Slowly they turned back. The maid looked at them with her hands on her hips.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Um, I told you—”
“What is the matter with you, girl?”
“Um—”
“Are you new here or something?”
“Yes’m. Just over from Ireland. On account of being Irish, you see. Started yesterday.”
“Well, that explains why you are going the long way. Take this corridor back here, then turn right, then left.” She smiled warmly. “It’s a big place, but don’t worry, you’ll soon learn all the shortcuts. Hurry now. She threw a triangle of toast at Belledy when he was late and nearly put out his eye.”
“Cheers,” Constantinopla said, and they hastily followed the directions. Once away from the helpful maid, Constantinopla grimaced.
“Mama will wash my mouth out with soap if she finds out I saidcheers.”
Tom laughed. “I think she’s going to be a little more concerned at you traveling unchaperoned to Windsor, breaking into the Queen’s residence, and getting engaged without her permission.”
“Well, we can only wait and see how she and Daddy react when they come back from excavating the Tomb of Minyas (and robbing it).”
They found the door to Queen Victoria’s bedroom and were stopped by a guard.
“You there, servant fellow, let us in,” Tom ordered, flapping a hand peremptorily. “We have clean sheets for Victoria’s bed.”
Constantinopla rolled her eyes. The guard flicked her a glance, then returned his impassive stare to somewhere just beyond Tom’s face. “To clarify,” he said in a voice as sharp as the sword he wore, “you—neitherof whom I have seen before in the palace, and wearing nonstandard attire—seek to enter Her Majesty’s bedchamber on the dubious premise of providing her with fresh bedding, although she has only now awakened and is enjoying her pre-breakfast meal?”
Constantinopla stepped forward before Tom could speak again. “They said downstairs it was urgent. She spilled her tea.”
The man regarded her sternly. “No one has been in or out of her room since the tray was delivered, so how do you know this calamity has occurred?”
Constantinopla suffered one second of sheer blank terror before inspiration struck. “She telephoned down to the housekeeper.”
“And what is the housekeeper’s telephone number?”
“One-two-four-three,” Constantinopla said promptly, guessing that he did not actually know himself.
He sighed, mouth flattening, as if disappointed. “Very well. You may enter.”
Tom reached for the door handle.
“But—!”
