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Ildas McNair alighted from the plane, wrinkling his nose against the acrid smell of aviation fuel. He'd spent the two-and-a-half-hour flight wondering why Alex had been so desperate to see him after all these years. He was about to find out.
Ildas McNair alighted from the plane, wrinkling his nose against the acrid smell of aviation fuel. He'd spent the two-and-a-half-hour flight wondering why Alex had been so desperate to see him after all these years. He was about to find out.
The sky was a deep royal blue; the mountains were black hulks
huddled in a line as if watching him. A bitter wind whistled from the mountains
across the flat plain of the airfield. It penetrated McNair's thin overcoat and
chilled his bones. When he'd boarded the plane, it had been a sunny spring
afternoon in England.
McNair spotted his old friend Alexander, standing on the tarmac. The
years melted away. McNair remembered the last time he'd visited Galorvia, many
years before, during his student days.
Alex had been there to meet him then, too. It had been a balmy summer
day, although the highest peaks of the mountains had still retained their snow.
They'd waved furiously to each other. McNair recalled how Alex had come running
to embrace him in a very European, but most undignified fashion.
McNair gripped the handle of his overnight bag, and descended the
steps. This time,
their greeting was much more restrained; a formal handshake; for Alex was an
important man now - Grand Vizier to King Christopher III of Galorvia - the second-most
important person in the country, after the King himself. Two large guards in
thick trench coats and fur hats, almost as hulking as the mountains, looked on
dispassionately.
At close range, McNair could see how much Alex had aged. His hair
was a distinguished salt-and-pepper instead of the intense blue-black it had
once been. He wore glasses now. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and
the edges of his mouth. He was slightly stooped; he looked haggard and tired.
The carefree, relaxed time of McNair's last visit seemed worlds
away. He'd been there to study the unique and fascinating Galorvian language.
Although there'd been a lot of work to do, it had been like an extended holiday.
The two young men had cycled, hiked, swum in the vivid blue lakes, even skied a
little on the glacier; spending most of their evenings in quaint inns drinking
beer and eyeing up the barmaids.
McNair
knew Alex would notice differences in his old friend, too. McNair was a
university lecturer now, highly respected in his field. The prestigious London
University he worked for would offer him a professorship in Eastern European
languages within the next few years. His work left him little time for walking,
cycling or skiing these days; it showed in the slight paunch he'd developed.
His own hair was almost white, even though he wasn't yet fifty - a McNair
family trait. Other than that, life had treated McNair much more
sympathetically than it seemed to have treated his friend. McNair feared that
more than years had taken their toll on Alex.
Although the two men hadn't met in person since their student days,
they'd corresponded regularly; both knew the old warmth and affection was still
there. It was this long-standing bond that had prompted Alex to send the
telegram: 'ILDY I NEED YOUR HELP STOP HAVE ARRANGED TRANSPORT STOP COME QUICKLY
ALEX.'
Ildas had been irritated by the delivery boy's knock; at having to
disrupt his long-cherished Saturday morning routine: sitting in his study in
his dressing gown and slippers, not getting dressed or even speaking to anyone
before he'd finished The Times crossword.
Irritation had turned to dread as he'd signed for the telegram. It
brought back vivid memories of that fateful day many years earlier when his
mother had signed for a telegram telling her that her husband, his father,
Captain Augustus McNair, had been killed in action.
Telegrams, Ildas had concluded, were bad things. He'd been sure
this one, too, would tell him someone was dead or dying, and that his life was
going to be turned upside down again.
Alex's words had given no hint of anyone's impending death. Nor
did it seem that, aside from an unexpected trip to Galorvia, there would be any
change to McNair's lifestyle. As it would turn out, he couldn't have been more
wrong.
McNair had been relieved at first, then puzzled as to why Alex
needed him so urgently. What would he be asked to do? When would the transport
arrive? What should he take with him? All those questions crossed his mind -
but, thanks to their long-standing friendship, the one question that did not
spring to his mind, even for a moment, was, should I go? The answer to
that was never in doubt.
He'd burst into the kitchen, where Betty Green, his housekeeper,
accustomed to a quiet time while her employer did his crossword, had settled
into her own Saturday morning routine of reading Woman's Weekly from
cover to cover. She'd looked up in surprise as her employer paced up and down,
waving the telegram. 'I have to go away for a few days - do I have ironed
shirts? Where is my case?'
Betty was efficient and organised; those qualities had secured her
the job five years before. She already had shirts ironed for the coming week
and knew exactly where to find everything McNair needed for his trip. By the
time the car arrived to take him to the airport, his bag was packed and ready
to go.
That had been five hours ago.
'It's good to see you, Ildy,' Alex said. 'I trust your journey was
pleasant.'
'As journeys go,' McNair replied.
'I'm sure you must be tired. Come.' Alex ushered him through the
small, shabby airport building and to the sleek black limousine waiting
outside. Alex got into the driving seat, and the car purred through the streets
of Dormankc, Galorvia's capital city.
It was still the beautiful city McNair remembered. The Gothic
towers of Saint Gloriana's Cathedral still dominated the skyline. The main
street had been re-surfaced, but McNair could see the side roads were still
narrow and cobbled; laundry hanging from the balconies. The ornate fountain in
the main square was still there. Yet the city seemed somehow tired and
oppressed.
'Don't you have a chauffeur?' McNair asked.
'Funny you should say that, Ildy. I do; but I relieved him of his
duties today. I wanted to talk to you privately. We may not get another chance
to be completely alone and unobserved.'
McNair nodded. 'You want to tell me why I'm here,' he said. 'There
has to be a reason. You don't send a car to take me to Heathrow just so you can
catch up on my news. You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you?'
Alex sighed. McNair noticed a group of men loitering in the
square; he felt their eyes boring into him even through the darkened windows of
the car. 'The whole country is in some kind of trouble. We really need
your help. It's going to be a big ask, I'm afraid, but I can't think of anyone
else we can trust with this.'
'So what's going on?'
Alex cleared his throat. 'The King has had some kind of - what is
the word – tip-off that a rebellion is going to break. It seems many of the
people cannot forgive his father's indulgences, especially since His Majesty
has had to enforce some extremely stringent measures to get the economy back on
track. Unfortunately, most of the people cannot see beyond their noses. They
don't understand that things have to get worse before they can improve.'
'I'm sorry to hear that; but what can I do?'
'It will all be explained when we reach the palace.'
The palace? It wasn't just Alex who needed his help, then. It was
a favour for the King himself. McNair fell silent, watching the old, familiar
sights flashing by, wondering what an old bookworm like him could possibly do
to help a threatened king.
The car drew up in the palace courtyard. It still looked like
something out of a fairy-tale: soaring turrets with blue slate tiled roofs and
a pale pink façade. McNair followed Alex into the building, where they came face-to-face
with the King.
King Christopher III was a tall, handsome man of about thirty.
Beside him, regal and serene, stood his Queen, Helena. McNair knew the King, for
he'd spent time in England before succeeding to the throne. Alex had suggested
McNair as a tutor and mentor during that time.
McNair was shocked by the change in the young King. He'd aged
almost as much as Alex had. Although his hair was still dark, there were worry
lines on his face, and McNair noticed that he clenched and unclenched his fists
nervously.
The royal household must have problems indeed. No doubt the King
could have hidden his anguish from his subjects, but not from McNair, who remembered
him as a young man without cares or responsibilities.
McNair had never met Queen Helena before, although he'd heard a
great deal about the Austrian Princess from the young Prince, and later in
Alex's letters. She was everything McNair had imagined her to be. She was nearly
as tall as her husband, beautiful and elegant; hair like fine gold flowing
about her shoulders. They made a striking couple. She exuded an air of quiet
confidence until one looked at her closely - only then did the pain show
clearly in her eyes, the tension in her movements. Her hands trembled. She was
still very young, too young to have to cope with burdens like this. Whatever this
was.
McNair had long been a student of Galorvian custom, and he bowed
to the King with the customary flourish, addressing him in the traditional way.
'Your Glorious Majesty, it is a great honour to be here in your presence.'
'Oh, please,' the King replied, in English. 'Leave out the
Glorious Majesty stuff. We're old friends. You honour me, by being here
and accepting the burden I fear I must place on you.'
'I cannot see what I could possibly do to help,' McNair went on,
'but it would be my pleasure to do anything within my power.'
'No doubt Alexander has told you something of the trouble we face.
I have heard there is a rebel plot to slaughter myself and my family, tonight,
at the annual ball to celebrate my birthday. I trust my informant's sources
implicitly, so I know beyond doubt this is going to take place. I cannot do
anything to prevent it, nor can I make it known that I am expecting it - for
then the rebels will simply make new plans which I will be powerless to
foresee. As it is, I can at least ensure that the things most precious to me
are safe.'
McNair blanched. He'd anticipated that the King was facing
financial ruin, perhaps riots in the streets, general unrest and a serious dip
in his popularity. He was in fact facing almost certain death, yet he and
Helena remained remarkably calm and composed.
'There is nothing at all you can do to stop this?'
McNair gasped.
The King shook his head. Queen Helena's poise slipped slightly as
she gripped her husband's arm. A tear trickled down her cheek.
'What is it you want me to do?' McNair asked. He had no idea what
they wanted from him. They weren't asking for help in overthrowing the
rebellion; they seemed resigned to their fate.
'I want you to take care of my children,' The King said.
McNair remembered from Alex's letters that there had been children.
Two girls, fair and beautiful, like their mother. The birth of an heir had been
great cause for celebration. 'Take care of your children?' McNair paled.
'Why me? You know I've never married, I don't know the first thing
about... Is there no-one here who can take care of them?'
'The rebels who plan to kill me are ruthless,' the King said.
'They won't hesitate to kill the girls as well. If either one of them survives,
you see, the monarchy continues. My precious little jewels will be hunted down
and killed if they stay in Galorvia.
'I want you to take them to England, out of danger. We chose you
because you are one of the few people there who can speak and understand our language,
who would be able to teach our children not only how to live as citizens of
Britain, but also about their heritage here.
'Do not fear. I have provided for their every need - I have spent
the last few days disposing of my fortune so none of it falls into the hands of
the rebels. Most of it is placed in trust for the princesses. I've set up an
account to take care of their everyday needs and school fees, until they come
of age and can inherit all that is theirs, including, I would hope, their country.'
McNair understood why he'd been chosen. There was no question that
he was the only person qualified for the task. All the same, he was a bachelor
in his forties - what could he know about rearing two small children? He could
certainly make sure they had the best possible education - but what did one do
with children when they were out of school? Entertaining and amusing them,
understanding their problems, fears and desires, were all completely alien
concepts to him. Especially since they were girls. He would have been slightly
more comfortable at the prospect of raising boys. At least he had been a
boy, once.
'It is vital,' the King went on, 'that their true identity is not
revealed. They are to live as British children, with yourself as their
guardian. I pray now you know what I ask of you, you'll still be prepared to
help.'
'Of course I am,' McNair replied, hoping his apprehension at the
thought of acquiring two little children didn't show.
**
The
orchestra struck up a familiar waltz. The ballroom, viewed from above, became a
kaleidoscope of whirling colours. Two little girls, unaware their lives were
about to change for ever, gazed down upon it, wide-eyed with excitement. To
them, it was all part of an elaborate dressing up game. They'd never been
allowed to stay up and watch this glittering spectacle before.
'Come along, hurry, it is time to leave.' Margeurita's voice
conveyed an urgency they didn't understand. Their nurse was usually so kind and
gentle. This evening, she'd seemed uncharacteristically grumpy as she'd bundled
them into coats and hats. That in itself had been strange, for the girls would
have expected to be helped into their nightdresses at this time of day. Not
only that, the clothes they'd been dressed in were not theirs. They were old,
worn, and smelled nasty. Nor were they in the rich colours the girls usually
wore, but dull browns and greys.
They'd protested at first. 'It's a game,' Margeurita had snapped.
'A game of pretend. You are pretending that you are ordinary children tonight,
like the ones you wave to from the balcony. Now, come away from the stairs.
Part of the game is that none of the guests must recognise you.'
'But it's
so pretty. Can't we watch just a little more?'
'You
cannot. Your Mama and Papa wish to see you.' She took a small gloved hand in
each of her own, and, fighting back her tears, led the two girls down the
servants' stairs.
The children were excited at being allowed to use the back stairs.
To them, this was as exciting as dressing for the ball had been for their aunts
and uncles.
Their mother waited near the main door.
Several of the diamond-bedecked women, arriving for the ball,
looked at the girls with distaste as they passed, wondering how these peasant children
had found their way into the palace, and why the Queen wasn't asking the guards
to throw them out. Not one of them saw beyond the frayed hemlines of their
coats and the grubby faces to recognise the children of their King.
The Queen ushered the nurse and children into a private room,
where Alex and McNair waited with the King. The Princesses knew Alex well, but
they shrank a little from the white-haired stranger.
The King looked resplendent in his dress uniform; the Queen was a
shining, beautiful jewel in her silk gown. Her wedding dress, McNair had noticed,
remembering the wedding pictures Alex had sent. She bent to embrace her children,
biting her lip as she adjusted their clothing in a customary maternal fashion.
The King lifted them effortlessly, one in each arm. He addressed them gravely.
'Listen very carefully, both of you,' he said. The Queen, beside
him, seemed stiff and awkward, but McNair knew she would have broken down if
she'd relaxed, even a little. 'This man here is your Uncle Ildas. He is a good,
kind man, and he is going to take you on a special journey. It is most
important that you are very good for Uncle Ildas, that you behave yourselves,
do not stray from his side, and most of all, do not speak to anyone else
unless he gives you permission. Do you promise?'
'We promise,' they said. McNair smiled. He hoped that at eye
level, and with his kindest smile, he would look less frightening to them.
'Good.' The King put the children down. Trustingly, they took
McNair's hands. McNair's eyes watered; these two little innocents couldn't
possibly know this wasn't just a jaunt through the streets in disguise,
pretending to be commoners. They didn't know they were leaving the only home
they'd ever known for good, and they'd never see their mother or father again.
McNair followed Marguerita through the palace grounds and out
through a back gate. A nightingale's song filled the air. McNair's overnight
bag bulged with the addition of a change of clothes for the girls and a couple
of their favourite toys. Alex had obtained British passports for them, so they
would appear to be a family ending their holiday early because violence had
broken out.
'Good luck, Mr. McNair,' Margeurita said. Her voice shook - she
wasn't as expert at hiding her feelings as Queen Helena was.
'You, too,' McNair said.
'Goodbye, girls.' She hunkered down in front of them and adjusted
their clothing as their mother had done. 'Remember what your father said. Be
good, don't speak to anyone.'
'Aren't you coming with us?' one of the girls wailed.
'Not tonight, my darlings.' She turned away quickly and
disappeared into the night. Her hand found her own bundle of papers tucked into
her cloak. Tickets home, and references to help her find another post. She'd
been discharged. The King no longer needed her, because for some reason, he was
sending the girls away with the Englishman. She didn't know why this decision
had been made, but it wasn't in her job description to question it. She set off
for the railway station, as the King had told her to do.
The train was waiting, steam hissing from the engine. There were
few other passengers; mostly elderly people who'd come up to the capital to
watch the King's Birthday Parade. Marguerita followed them along the platform,
her eyes misty with tears. She was grateful nobody looked at her. She was
careful to find a seat well away from any other travellers. All it would take
would be a well-meaning, motherly old lady to ask her kindly what was wrong,
and she wouldn't be able to stop the tears from flowing. She just wanted to be
left alone.
Huddled in a corner seat, she found the food parcel the Queen had
given her - sandwiches, an apple, and chocolate. She ate despondently. It would
be a long time before she tasted chocolate again.
She heard shouting coming from outside the station. The King's
birthday celebrations must be getting out of hand. The shouting got louder as
an angry mob ran onto the platform. Margeurita willed the train to move, for
the mob frightened her. However, a couple of them managed to board the train,
before it pulled slowly away.
Margeurita tried to make herself look small as the men passed
through the carriage. They seemed to be looking for someone; they looked under
seats, and even disturbed the sleeping grandchild of one couple, a fair-haired
little boy, by pulling off his hat. The child screamed; his grandmother shouted
angrily after the men, who pushed their way into the next carriage without an
apology.
Marguerita stared out of the window, knowing that soon, she'd get
a final glimpse of the palace, floodlit and in all its glory for this special
night. She didn't want to miss it. She wanted to store that final view in her
memory forever; but as the train turned the corner and the palace came into
view, Margeurita could only gaze at it in horror. Instead of the fairy lights
she'd expected, the building was lit from inside by an eerie, flickering red
glow. She could see flames and smoke pouring from the window of the ballroom,
and, even more chillingly, from the little window upstairs - the Princesses' bedroom.
Now she understood why they'd been sent away.
Gasps of horror came from further down the carriage. 'The palace -
it's burning!'
'Where is the King? He's not in there, is he?'
The train pulled in to the next station, where more horrified
people, who'd been watching the spectacle from the platform, boarded the train.
The rowdy men got off, swaggering and swearing.
Margeurita huddled into her cloak and closed her eyes. She'd
wanted a last memory of the palace, but she hadn't wanted it to be like this.
**
Ildas McNair
made his way through the dark, threatening streets as fast as the little legs of
his small charges would allow. For now, he had to look like a simple peasant
who'd brought his children to watch the nobility arriving at the ball. As such,
they'd linger, stop at a stall and buy a snack to share, but McNair was anxious
to put as much distance between himself and the palace as quickly as possible.
His mouth felt dry as he watched the furtive figures moving ominously and
inexorably towards the palace.
'Can we have an iced bun, uncle Ildy?' one of the girls piped up.
McNair glanced around, hoping none of those dark figures had heard. The girl's
high-born accent would be sure to give them away.
'Oh, yes, Pleeease!' the other little girl cried. 'An iced bun! I
want an iced bun!'
'You can have an iced bun if you promise to be quiet and not to
speak until I say you can,' McNair said. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead
as one of the creeping figures turned and looked at them. Neither of the girls
spoke again, and the passer-by, seeing their shabby dress, shrugged. He must
have imagined he'd heard upper-class accents coming out of their mouths.
McNair bought two iced buns from a cake stall in front of the palace,
and gave the girls one each. He pressed his finger to his lips, signalling that
on this occasion, a thank you wasn't required. 'Now, let's see which of you can
stay quiet for the longest.' He remembered his own mother saying those words to
him and his brother when she'd wanted a bit of peace.
They ate hungrily, tripping along beside him, pressing their own
fingers to their lips. McNair breathed more easily as he saw them getting into
the spirit of the game. He tried not to think about what was going to happen to
the old friends he was leaving behind.
They passed a group of men gathered around a small tank. McNair
shuddered when he saw that every one of them carried a gun. His heart lurched
as one of the children let go of his hand and ran towards the vehicle. Had she
recognised one of the men, perhaps a trusted servant up until now? Would that
person recognise her?
She stopped in front of the tank and gazed up at it. One of the
soldiers saw her and crouched down beside her. 'I bet you've never seen a car
like this, eh, little one?' he said with a smile. It didn't cross his mind that
he and his colleagues planned to butcher two little children, just like this
one, in their beds. She reminded him of his own little girl, safe at home in their
mountain village. His daughter had never even seen a car, let alone a tank.
The child shook her head. The soldier had no idea that this child
was used to the sleek limousines the royal family were chauffeured around in.
Darkness, and the fact she was muffled in a coat, hat and scarf, prevented him
from recognising her as the King's daughter. Had he known her true identity at
that moment, he wouldn't have compared her with his own little girl at all. He
would have killed her. Instead, he asked, 'Would you like a ride?'
The little princess was sorely tempted to reply, 'Oh, yes,
please!' but she knew if she uttered even a single word, her sister would win
the quiet game. So she merely nodded.
The soldier lifted the little girl onto the tank. From there, she
could see the crowds gathering outside the palace gates. She was too young to
realise that the crowd was angry and rebellious. She wanted to tell the nice
man with the strange car that she lived in the big house, and all those people
had come to visit her mama and papa. Thankfully, staying quiet for longer than
her sister was more important to her just then.
'You fool, Anatoly!' another man snapped. 'This is no time to play
with little children! Soon we strike! Where did she come from? Where does she
live? Send her home before she gets hurt!'
'Yes, Sir!' Anatoly jumped to attention at his commander's words.
He turned to the child. 'Where do you live, little one?' She looked at him,
unsure of herself. She'd promised not to speak to anyone, but now someone had
asked her a question, and her mother had always told her that if someone asks a
question, it must be answered. She pointed at the palace. Again, she was
spared; McNair was running towards them from the direction in which she
pointed. Anatoly assumed the man running towards them, holding another little
girl by the hand, must be the child's father, and she was pointing at him. He
certainly looked worried enough to be her father.
'Give me my child!' McNair demanded, careful to affect the
lowliest of accents.
'If I were you, my man, I'd get these kids away from here at
once,' Anatoly said brusquely, handing the princess down to him.
'We came to see the pretty ladies in their lovely dresses coming
to the ball,' McNair said.
'They won't be so nice to look at when we've finished with them,'
growled the commander. 'Get on your way.'
McNair said a silent prayer of thanks as he hurried away. That had
been a little too close.
The commander watched them board a tram, and wondered what had
been so familiar about the child. He had the feeling he'd seen her before, but
where? It was going to haunt him for the rest of the night.
At the airport, McNair switched identity to that of an Englishman
returning home with his children, clutching the passports Alex had given him.
The airport swarmed with soldiers - each passport control official had one
standing behind him. McNair's heart sank. He hadn't questioned how genuine the
passports were - he didn't like to think about what might happen if they were
identified as forgeries. He prayed Alex had found some way of getting genuine
passports for the girls.
The girls were tired, confused and grizzling by now, tired of the
adventure they'd been sent on, and of the silent game. 'Can we go home now?'
one of them had piped up as they walked from the tram stop to the departures
building. Thankfully, no-one had been there to hear her.
'You spoke,' the other princess had said triumphantly. 'I win!'
McNair had pressed a finger to his lips. 'Let's play again. Best
of three.'
They'd fallen silent again. He hoped wanting to win the game would
keep them that way. He had a story ready in case one of them said something in
Galorvian while they were going through customs. His papers identified him as a
language teacher. His children had inherited his gift for languages, and loved
to use the words they learned in the local tongue whenever he took them abroad.
Would they believe that? Especially if it became clear that neither child could
speak or understand English?
The customs officer couldn't help but notice how fractious the children
were. He thought it strange their father wouldn't let them take off their hats
and scarves in the heated terminal. Normally, this would have alerted him that something
was amiss, and he would have questioned them. However, the soldiers in the
terminal tonight intimidated him. They wanted the foreigners gone, and the
sooner the Englishman was on a plane out of Galorvia, the better. So, in spite
of his better judgement, he let the family straight through. The soldier behind
him nodded approval. Without the custom's officer's trained eye, he'd noticed
nothing odd about the family.
Both children slept through the flight, and were even more
fractious when they were woken after just a couple of hours for the landing.
Their ears hurt; they had no idea where they were being taken. The dressing up
game wasn't fun anymore. They were beginning to understand they weren't going
to see their parents or their nurse again for a very long time, if ever.
At British customs, they cried and protested loudly in Galorvian
that they wanted to go home. McNair had no idea what to do, except hold on
tightly to their small hands and thank his stars they were in England now, out
of danger. He hoped their chattering would pass as one of those secret
languages close siblings sometimes made up.
Stepping into the arrivals area, McNair heaved a huge sigh of
relief. They were safe. No-one had detained him or accused him of kidnapping
the children. All the same, the ordeal for the terrified little princesses wasn't
quite over.
News of the rebellion had broken. A number of reporters had dashed
to Heathrow to meet what would be the final flight out of Galorvia for quite
some time. They wanted sound bites from the people on the plane about what it
had been like, fleeing from the rebellion.
They crowded around McNair, thrusting microphones in his face.
'What did you see happening in Dormankc? How close were you to the palace? Is
it true the King and Queen are dead?'
McNair was thankful the princesses knew no English. The younger of
the two, bewildered and frightened by the flashing cameras, began to cry and
pressed her face into his coat-tails.
'I'm terribly sorry,' McNair waved the reporters away, 'but as you
can see, my children are terrified and exhausted, and I need to get them home.
I have nothing to say to you.'
He pushed past them and out into the night. He bundled the children
into a taxi. McNair's house was a good hour's drive from the airport, and it
wasn't long before the princesses dozed off on either side of him. He looked
down at the two sleeping children. Panic at the realisation that he was
responsible for them now hit home with great force. When, and how, did he tell
them they were never going home? What did little girls their age eat? What time
were they supposed to go to bed? How long would it take them to learn English?
His mind raced ahead. One day, he'd have to explain the birds and the bees to
them, hold their hands through unrequited crushes and broken romances. At least
if he'd been married and his wife had had twins, he would have had nine months
to get used to the idea.
McNair felt more afraid now than he'd been when fleeing from the palace;
when the soldiers had put the little one on the tank, and when the customs men
had peered at their passports.
In McNair's smart town house, Betty Green's routine had returned
to normal as soon as her employer had left. She'd deep-cleaned his study; she
generally took the opportunity to do so whenever he was out of town; she'd made
a beef stew which could easily be heated up on McNair's return, whenever that
might be. She'd retired to her little room, put her fluffy slippers on and her
feet up, and settled down to watch television.
The news was on, the main story the revolution in Galorvia.
Betty's ears pricked up. Wasn't that where Ildas had gone? She'd been relishing
a little time to herself while he was away, but now she was worried. That
friend of his who'd sent for him - didn't he work for the King of Galorvia?
Ildas was probably in the thick of it all.
She heard the taxi pull up outside. She rushed to the window and peered
out, relieved to see Ildas get out and pay the driver. He'd be ready for a
nightcap, and possibly the beef stew, depending on how well he'd been fed on
the plane. Betty
hurried downstairs as McNair pushed open the front door. She stared at him.
'What the...?'
Her confirmed bachelor employer stood in the doorway. His right
arm was curled around a little blonde girl, who was fast asleep on his
shoulder. His left hand held that of another little girl, who stood beside him
looking dazed, her thumb in her mouth, blinking in the harsh light of the
hallway.
'It's a long story,' McNair said. 'I hope you have the guest room
made up. These two need to go straight to bed, I think.'
Betty always stripped the guest room bed and made it up again as
soon as any guests departed, so it was always ready. 'Yes,' Betty said. 'I'd
say they do.' She smiled at the little girl who was standing. 'What's your
name, then, lovey?' The child looked at her blankly.
'They don't speak English, I'm afraid,' McNair said, 'but they're
pretty much done in.'
'I'll take care of it,' Betty said.
A few minutes later, she found McNair in his study. He'd poured
himself a large brandy and sat in his leather armchair, massaging his temples.
'I don't think we'll hear a peep out of either of them till morning,' Betty
said. She perched herself on the leather footstool. 'So, are you going to tell
me what the heck is going on?'
'You've heard about the rebellion, I assume?'
'It's been all over the news. I've been worried sick about you.'
'Yes. Well.' McNair, flustered, took a large sip of brandy. 'I'm
fine, but I can't say the same for the King and Queen. I've no idea what's
happened to Alex. I can only hope that if he survived, he'll write.'
'And those children?'
‘The children of King Christopher and Queen Helena, God rest them.
That's why Alex wanted me to go over there so suddenly. To bring them to England,
to safety. Otherwise, they would have been slaughtered along with their
parents.'
'Dear Lord,' Betty said.
'So, I'm afraid they're here to stay.' McNair took another large
mouthful of brandy. Betty saw the fear in his eyes as he said, 'I really don't
know how I'm to manage with them.'
'No, I don't suppose you do,' Betty replied, a smile playing
around the corners of her mouth. Ildas McNair was the last person she could
imagine as a father. 'Don't you worry. You know why I took this job? Because my
children had all grown up and I had nothing to fill my days. I'm waiting for
one of 'em to give me a grandchild - but I think I'm in for a long wait. No
sign of any of them settling down. I'd love to mother those two upstairs while
I'm waiting.'
McNair smiled, gratefully. 'Thank goodness for that,' he said.
What happens to the Princesses in the end? Do they return and take back their throne?
Buy the book and find out!
WARNING: This book may contain superheroes!
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