“I have. I saw her leaving with Mrs Jolyon.” Isabella breathed out with relief. “I wanted to go with them, but Mrs Jolyon told me to push off – jolly rude, I thought. Got rid of the guard, too. She said they were going to pack and didn’t need any help doing it.” Eloise hiccupped. “She never liked me. Even when Mama and I visited the Countess of March earlier this year, Mrs Jolyon was horrible to me. She didn’t even recognise me.”

  To Isabella, as Eloise spoke, time had started to warp, slow and stop, as if there was something important that lay outside her understanding and time wouldn’t start again until she had worked out what it was.

  “I didn’t know you’d visited Cawnpore. Mrs Jolyon didn’t ever mention it.”

  Eloise sniffed. “Well, no, she wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Probably doesn’t want to be reminded of it.”

  It was all Isabella could do not to shake it out of her. “Reminded of what?”

  “Don’t shout at me, Isabella.” Eloise’s spoilt face looked cross. “Well, you know, all that business about her son.”

  Isabella blinked.

  “What, Christopher?”

  “Yes. Poor little chap went missing when we were there.”

  “Christopher went missing?” Isabella repeated, confused.

  “Don’t be dense. Isn’t that what I just said? Mama said Mrs Jolyon brought it on herself. She’d been too friendly with the locals. He was never found, by all accounts. That’s why she didn’t want to talk to us on the boat – hic – ooops.” Eloise held her fan over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Isabella stood in front of Eloise, but she didn’t see Eloise’s face.

  Instead, images of Mrs Jolyon crowded around her: Mrs Jolyon determinedly staying in the steerage areas of the boat; Mrs Jolyon’s face when she’d seen the Moleseys at the ball. How easily could she have placed the star burr under the saddle blanket? Where had she been the night the carriage wheel had come off . . ?

  And two nights ago, in the Blue Salon – had it been Mrs Jolyon who’d poisoned Isabella, just to get her out of the way, moments after Isabella had told her of finding the star burr?

  “I’ll be in trouble with Mama – hic,” finished Eloise.

  But she was speaking to air.

  Isabella had gone.

  Isabella had seen the guards, scarlet and gold, pause at each door to the ballroom, their faces hard above their high collars as they scanned the crowd for her. So she’d opened one of the French windows and slipped out. The gardens were black and grey before her, the yews like giant sleeping dogs, guarding the broad stone path to the lake. Where to now? The palace, spreading and tentacled, lay behind her. Where on earth would she start?

  There was a distant plop and then another. Ducks landing.

  At night, baba?

  Isabella started towards the lake, feet hesitant. Then the moon came out from behind a cloud and something glinted on the path in front of her. It was a curl of pale-pink satin ribbon, frayed and ripped, as if pulled at by teeth.

  “Isabella?”

  She jumped as she heard her name gasped, and two figures staggered around the corner of the giant yew. Blood blossomed and spread on the girl’s white, patched apron and ragged blue dress.

  It was Ruby, Zachariah half carrying, half dragging her.

  “Isabella, the Princess …”

  Isabella ran to her, catching her as she collapsed onto the stone.

  “Oh, my God! Ruby! What are you doing here?”

  Ruby smiled, her face white.

  “Came back … to ask young miss … pardon … for Midge.”

  Isabella forced herself to look downward at Ruby’s wound. “Who did this to you?” She already knew the answer.

  “Mrs Jol … Mrs … the teacher lady.” A tiny bubble of blood rose to the corner of Ruby’s mouth, and she clutched at Isabella’ s arm.

  “The Princess … teacher poisoned her. I think she’s dead.”

  Isabella hunched over Ruby, cradling her head and shoulders, her hot tears falling on Ruby’s cooling face. Zachariah sat soundless, but the hand with which he clutched Ruby’s was white-knuckled.

  She made a crooning sound.

  “Don’t worry.” She rocked back and forth. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. The Princess will be fine. It will all be all right …”

  But Ruby’s eyes were sightless.

  “Midge?”

  “I’ll take care of Midge.”

  There was a last breath and the beat of Ruby’s heart grew fainter until Isabella could no longer feel it under her own. The sound of lapping water came through the still night air. Isabella held Ruby cradled in her arms and then laid her gently on the ground.

  “Zachariah, where is Alix?”

  He moved as if in slow motion, placing Ruby’s hand gently on her chest.

  “You’re too late. She’s gone.”

  “No, no, no, she can’t be. Come on, help me find her.”

  Isabella’s voice was a shout, and she was trying to drag Zachariah to his feet, but he didn’t seem to hear her. Still he gazed at Ruby, two statues together. Isabella stumbled down the grassy slope to the lake.

  Alix’s pink dress fanned out like a water lily, her hair a golden halo around her head. She was face down in the lake. Isabella didn’t notice the cold that knocked the breath from her lungs as she leapt in, up to her neck, and swam to Alix’s still body. With a mighty effort she turned her over in the water. She mustn’t look at Alix’s face!

  The distance to the jetty couldn’t have been more than twenty feet, but her limbs were heavy in her woollen dress, stockings and boots, and she knew she wouldn’t make it. Tucking Alix’s arms over one of her elbows so her head was above water, Isabella kicked off her boots, but she was still too heavy. The cold of the lake hadn’t been obvious to her at first, but now the movements of her arms and legs had slowed, like the last frantic efforts of a fly caught in a web. With the last of her energy, Isabella undid her money belt and let it drift off to the bottom of the lake. Then she half pulled and half swam, lungs nearly bursting, to the muddy bank and dragged Alix’s body free of the water.

  A figure crouched at the far end of the jetty, shuddering and crying, a gun in her hand.

  Isabella staggered towards her, her feet echoing dully on the wood. With each step she expected to be shot, but she no longer cared.

  “Why?” She stood over Mrs Jolyon. “I thought you loved her.”

  Mrs Jolyon’s face was white and streaked with tears.

  “They’ve got my son.”

  “Who has?”

  Mrs Jolyon rocked back and forth.

  “I can’t tell you, they might hurt him.” She opened her eyes wide. “I have to get away, I have to rescue Christopher.”

  She struggled to her feet and made as if to run, but Isabella blocked her way.

  Mrs Jolyon blinked, and then blinked again. Her face relaxed and she smiled; the same sweet smile Isabella knew so well.

  “Why, Isabella, what are you doing out here in the cold with no coat? Here.” She put down the gun and undid her wrap. “Put this on.”

  Isabella put it on, and then took her hand.

  “Come, Mrs Jolyon. The Princess is not well. We must go to her.”

  Mrs Jolyon’s eyes widened and she gripped Isabella’s arm in fear, her face alarmed.

  “Oh dear, yes. Of course we must. Let us hurry.”

  Isabella bent to pick up the gun, and wondered if this were a dream. Mrs Jolyon was running down the jetty, to where Alix lay on her side in the mud.

  “Your Majesty, what has happened? Oh no, oh, Isabella, her face is blue! Oh please, quick, Isabella. We have to get her warm.”

  Isabella bent down over her friend and forced herself to look at Alix’s face, steeling herself, but the moonlight showed Alix’s dear face as grey, and her lips were not blue, but white. One of her hands lay next to her head, muddy and wrinkled by the water. There was the blister beneath her third finger, from the night Shadow had run away with her, the bitten cuticles which Isabella had teased her about.

  Alix’s hands.

  Roll her on her side, baba. Come on, you know what to do. Check her mouth is clear.

  Alix’s skin was icy, but Isabella rolled her nevertheless and prised open Alix’s mouth with her fingers. Then she pushed gently with one hand on Alix’s stomach. whilst supporting Alix’s back with the other. Then she rolled Alix onto her back and pushed hard on her chest. She was aware of Zachariah next to her, his hands copying hers.

  She remembered a young boy she’d witnessed wet and lifeless next to the river, how he’d miraculously come back to life after Abhaya had pushed on his chest and stomach. She looked down at Alix’s still shape. The boy hadn’t had the creeping, bitter cold to contend with; cold dreadful enough to kill on its own.

  Isabella looked up at the sky, at Mrs Jolyon, crouched down next to Alix’s feet, eyes alight with madness, and knew her efforts were futile.

  A hard, frozen stone of grief lodged under her heart, closing her throat and numbing her hands, even as she pushed them against Alix’s wet body. She felt as if she could no longer breathe. The pain of Alix dying was going to break her, and there would be nothing she could do about it.

  From beyond the slope towards the palace, she heard shouts and running feet. Then burning torches, held aloft, bobbed along the path towards her, as if of their own accord. Some stopped where Ruby’s body lay, the rest continued down the path to the lake, more and more streaming behind them.

  Al Hassan was the first to reach them. He gently lifted Mrs Jolyon to her feet, and passed her to several guards who escorted her away, but not before Isabella heard her say, “Where are we going? Is it time for the fireworks? The Princess Alix and I were so looking forward to them …”

  Al Hassan bent down next to Isabella and took her frantically working hands in his own.

  “Come away now, dear-heart,” he said in Pashto. “You have done enough. The Princess’s final journey is one she must make alone.”

  Isabella stood and allowed Al Hassan to lead her away. She was dimly aware of someone pushing past her, and then of screaming echoing out across the lake, but the noise seemed far away, and she couldn’t be sure.

  In the ballroom, the guests stood silent. One or two began to cry when they saw her. She looked at the orchestra, their instruments dangling in their hand. Then Bea was in front of her with a thick blanket.

  “Take her upstairs. She needs to be made warm. The doctor is on his way,” were the last words she heard Al Hassan say, before the ground in front of her yawned, showing teeth like knives, and she fell down, headlong, into it.

  It was a difficult dream, full of noise and shapes, but nothing Isabella could really make out, save for a feeling of impending disaster. She felt she had something very important to say, but she couldn’t make herself heard. There was a moan and then another, then she realised it was her own voice. A warm hand enclosed hers, and she was comforted.

  She went back to sleep and dreamt of Abhaya.

  The next thing she knew was the sound of birds and the smell of fresh air. She opened her eyes. White muslin blew at a window, and yellow flowers clambered up the wall and over her bedspread. She was in her room at Kensington Palace. Realisation hit her, and she closed her eyes against the pain. Tears crept from her closed lids down her cheeks and into her hair.

  “Isabella-bai?” She turned over. There on a chair next to her bed was Hassan and, next to him, in a yellow dressing gown and frilly, yellow nightcap, pale-faced, but bright-eyed, was Alix.

  “What have you got on your head …?” Isabella croaked.

  Alix burst into tears. “Oh, Isabella, you’re all right!”

  Alix got up and stumbled towards her, hugged her close. Isabella thought she might still be asleep, so she looked Alix over closely; still keeping her at arm’s length and not really believing her eyes. She darted a glance at Hassan, who nodded and then smiled.

  “I thought …” Isabella’s voice was shaking. “I thought you were …” But she couldn’t bring herself to say it, and started to cry. Once she’d begun, she wasn’t able to stop, and, embarrassed, she turned her head away, into her pillow. Alix sat on the edge of her bed and stroked her shoulder.

  “I will leave you now.” There was the creak of a chair.

  Isabella sat bolt upright in bed.

  “Midge! He’s in prison. We must get him out.” She began to struggle out of bed, but Alix laid her hand on Isabella’s arm.

  “Shh, everything’s all right. Midge is free, don’t worry. It’s all been taken care of.”

  “By whom? Where is he?”

  Alix smiled.

  “Mr Al Hassan told Prince Ernest everything, and Prince Ernest had Midge released at once.”

  Isabella’s throat closed.

  “Oh, Alix, lovely Ruby. She’s dead … isn’t she?” Isabella looked up hopefully. If Alix had come miraculously back to life, so might Ruby have done, but Alix was nodding, her face etched with sadness.

  “I am so very sorry. She was so brave. She deserved to live.”

  “Does Midge know?”

  Alix nodded. “Mr Al Hassan told him and then brought him back here. He wanted to run away, but Mr Al Hassan wouldn’t let him. He was worried we’d never find him again.”

  “Poor, poor Midge.” She tried to sit up. “I must go to him.”

  Alix pushed her gently back down.

  “He is all right at the moment. Prince Ernest is showing him his medal collection.”

  “Zach will be worried about him, though – about all of us. Is there a way we could get a message to him?”

  “He’s here, too. He’s with Midge.”

  There was a knock at the door and Bea came in with a jug of hot chocolate and some pastries.

  “Glad you’re awake, miss,” she said, giving Isabella a little hug and putting a cup of chocolate into her hands. “You gave us all a fright.”

  Alix walked to the window and opened it a little more. The sun was streaming in now, brighter than Isabella had ever known it, and the air carried the sound of bells.

  “Why are the bells ringing?”

  Alix turned to her. “It’s New Year’s Day.”

  Both the girls chose to wear black when they got dressed. It suited their mood. Delight at Alix’s survival was overshadowed by the sadness of Ruby’s death, one not quite cancelling out the other. So they dressed silently, and Isabella kept all her questions to herself, not feeling able to take in any more.

  Bea put her head around the door to Alix’s dressing room.

  “It’s time, Your Majesty.”

  Isabella sat down on a footstool. Her limbs still felt like lead.

  “Time for what? I’m sorry, Alix, I don’t think I’ve got the energy to sit through lunch with your –”

  Alix shook her head.

  “You will never have to sit through lunch with my mother again, I promise.”

  Her face looked grim and, as Isabella looked at her, she realised not only did it look grim; Alix’s face had changed. It had lost some of its childish sweetness and her eyes were serious. Above the black velvet of her dress collar, her jaw was set in a stubborn line. Her blonde hair gleamed almost white, and she wore no jewellery. She looked very grown up.

  “It’s just a … what do you call it? After a battle is over – when everyone gets to talk over what has happened?”

  “Debriefing?”

  “Exactly. Though it sounds a bit odd, as if someone were about to lose their underpants.”

  A smile touched Isabella’s face.

  “You’re smiling.”

  “I am.”

  “It makes me happy to see it.” Alix tucked her arm into Isabella’s. “Come on.”

  Four guards lifted their sabres as the girls passed into a room Isabella had never seen before. It was a bit like her bedroom, pale yellow, with cream silk furniture and a fire leaping in the grate. Seated at a small card table was Prince Ernest. The Duchess sat on a sofa, staring into the fire. At a window, with his hands behind his back, was Hassan Al Hassan.

  Prince Ernest put his arm around them.

  “Come and sit down, you two.”

  They sat on the sofa across from the Duchess, who didn’t move. Isabella looked at her and found she didn’t hate her anymore. It was as if the Duchess had never existed.

  “This is yours, I believe.” Prince Ernest handed Isabella her satchel. In it was Abhaya’s pouch and letter, even her shells. The painting, however, was gone.

  “Thank you.”

  “No, it is we who should be thanking you,” rumbled Prince Ernest. “If you hadn’t freed Al Hassan, Princess Alexandrina would now be dead.”

  Isabella shook her head uncomprehendingly.

  “What happened, though? I just don’t understand how Mrs Jolyon …” She ran out of words, and out of the effort it was taking her to concentrate.

  Prince Ernest looked at Hassan. “Mrs Jolyon was being blackmailed by the Russians. She fell in love with the Russian Ambassador when he visited Cawnpore two years ago. I have no doubt he loved her, too, but when he found out she was to be a governess in the royal family, the temptation to use her for his own ends got the better of him.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He had her son, Christopher, kidnapped and taken across into Afghanistan. Mrs Jolyon was told that only when Princess Alexandrina was dead would she see her son again. She hid his kidnapping from everyone.”

  “But why? Why wouldn’t she ask for help?”

  “For fear they would kill Christopher. He was all she had. So she pretended he’d gone to stay with friends, whilst she came to England. She did such a good job of pretending, she convinced even herself. A fact that probably made her life more bearable.”

  “But didn’t the Countess of March know Christopher had gone missing?”

  “She did, but Mrs Jolyon pretended he’d been found. Then she pretended he’d been sent away, before the Countess could investigate further – not that she is one for thinking very deeply of anyone other than herself.”

 

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