“Dear Ned. Such a charming fellow, looks awfully splendid in shirtsleeves.”
“Hmm,” Constantinopla agreed, her eyes softening. Tom scowled.
“But what is he doing? I sent him to deal with Miss Cecilia someone. You might have heard of her father, a dreadful pirate, Captain Morris or Morepain or—”
“Morvath, Your Majesty?” Constantinopla suggested.
“No, I don’t think so. But then, when you’re surrounded by so many pompous men who think they can manage the realm better than you can, the names tend to blur together.”
“May I ask what you mean by Captain Smith dealing with Cecilia, Your Majesty?”
“I don’t think I shall tell you,” the Queen said. “That’s confidential Crown business. Don’t you agree, Albert dear?”
The portrait of Prince Albert did not reply.
Constantinopla felt her heart, stomach, and life span shrink. Was Ned Smith, alias Teddy Luxe, commissioned to harm or imprison Cecilia? And Constantinopla had left her alone in his company! Miss Darlington was going to kill her.
If Queen Victoria did not do so first.
“Your Majesty, I—”
The Queen held up a spoonful of porridge with the same attitude as a pirate holding a grenade, and Constantinopla took a step back.
“Enough talking, girl. You have ruined my appetite. I almost certainly won’t be able to finish these oats before going down to breakfast.”
“Your—”
“But I know just what to do with you. Adisa!” she called in a high, sharp voice, much like the sound a whip makes the moment before it connects with its hapless victim.
The door flung open and the enormous guard strode in, sword drawn.
Constantinopla blanched. Tom whimpered.
“Ha ha!” squawked the parrot. “You’re dead!”
15
cecilia’s tragic childhood—love at first sight—olga the ogre—between the devil and the deep blue sea—the portuguese baron—in the grim cellars—pleasantries—the ghost of emily brontë—tally ho (sotto voce)
Cecilia had never wished to be a girl again, half-wild and hardy and free. Although she had been brought fairly late to propriety and self-restraint, she found they suited her. Indeed, if she were a bird, she would happily allow a net to ensnare her.
Granted, she might cut that net with her dagger, fashion a hammock from it, and lie in said hammock reading books and drinking lemonade someplace no one would bother her, but that is beside the point.
She remembered with discomfort her early years running barefoot and undisciplined through the forest of rooms in Northangerland Abbey while Cilla indulged in romantic ideas about parenting. “Frolic!” she had urged Cecilia. “Sing! Dance! Only don’t disturb your papa when he’s machinating evil in his study.” Other pirate children were allowed to learn map reading, and write out the dictionary, and develop their posture by means of walking with a sword balanced on their head. But Cecilia had been forced to play with dolls.
Her father hadn’t approved, which was one of the reasons Cilla lefthim (that and his penchant for trying to destroy the world). But he hadn’t exactly been on Cecilia’s side either.
“I will not have a daughter with a coward soul,” he had declared, his eyes lit with the passion he felt whenever echoing one Brontë or another. He’d caught her reading a textbook in the sitting room, thus embarrassing him in front of the embezzler he was about to beat up. “Throw that book into the fire and go hunt for ghosts or draw eerie pictures on the wallpaper,” he’d demanded.
“But it’s arithmetic,” Cecilia had said in a small, mournful voice.
Captain Morvath had rolled his eyes at the embezzler, who’d shrugged sympathetically. (He would have sympathized even if the captain had told Cecilia to go play with a crocodile, so desirous was he to appease Morvath and avoid a thrashing.)
“Arithmetic,” the captain had scoffed. “What nonsense! I won’t allow it. You need to live your life like wild poetry!”
He’d snatched the book, tossed it on the hearth fire, and given her a toy gun instead.
The memory tugged on her as she tried to haul herself out of drugged unconsciousness toward a familiar smell of old dusty wood. She felt cold against her face. She heard the wuthering of strange breezes through solemn corridors. Northangerland Abbey had been a spruce, well-lit, modern building until her father took possession of it. He spent years transforming it to a state of mournful gloom. It was, he liked to say, his tangible opus.
