“I was surprised you came back,” said Kashkari. “Word went around that you might depart with your parents to Bechuanaland.”
There were a number of Atlanteans in the Domain, especially in the bigger cities. But as far as Iolanthe knew, all of them, even the lowest clerks and guards, sent their children home for schooling. She had to assume the British weren’t that different.
“My parents might go back. But they want me to finish my education here.”
Kashkari nodded. So her answer was acceptable. She let out a breath.
“Do you miss Bechuanaland?”
What had she learned about the Kalahari Realm at school? It was the seat of a great civilization, its music, art, and literature much admired. Its legal system had been copied in many a mage realm around the world. And it was famous for the beauty of its gentlemen mages—this last, obviously, gleaned from somewhere other than geography lessons.
She popped a piece of walnut into her mouth to buy herself some time. “I do miss the weather when it gets too drizzly here. And of course the big-game hunting.”
“Are the natives friendly?”
She was beginning to perspire. She had to believe that if her nonexistent parents would return there, the situation could not be too dire. “No more hostile than they are elsewhere, I suppose.”
“In India the population isn’t always happy about the British presence. In my father’s youth, there was a great mutiny.”
How had he drawn her into a discussion about the political situation of the nonmage world, of which she had only the sketchiest of ideas? What she did know was that the mage realms of the subcontinent had also risen up against Atlantis, twice in the past forty years.
“An occupier should always consider itself despised,” she said. “Is there ever a population that is happy to be subjugated?”
Kashkari stopped midstride. She tensed. What had she said?
“You have very enlightened views,” he mused, “especially for someone who grew up in the colonies.”
Unsure whether she’d put her foot in her mouth, she decided to brazen it out. “That’s what I think.”
“You two! I’ve been looking for you.”
Iolanthe looked up, surprised to find herself only fifteen feet from Mrs. Dawlish’s front door.
Wintervale leaned out of his open window. “Change quickly. I’ve already rounded up the other lads. Time to play cricket.”
There was a book in Iolanthe’s room that gave the rules of popular games. The night before, she’d skimmed through the section on cricket. But she’d been so tired and distracted, nothing had made any sense.
“Come on,” said Kashkari.
She was doomed. It was one thing to nod and pretend to be engrossed as Wintervale pontificated on the game, quite another to pass herself off as an experienced cricketer. The moment she stepped on the pitch—that was what a playing ground was called, wasn’t it?—it would be obvious she had no idea what to do.
All too soon, she arrived upstairs. Wintervale was in the corridor, dressed in a light-colored shirt of sturdy material and similarly light-colored trousers.
“Hurry,” he said.
The prince was nowhere in sight. Kashkari was already shrugging out of his coat and waistcoat. Iolanthe had no choice but to also start unbuttoning, although she kept all her clothes firmly on until she was behind closed doors.
In her wardrobe she found garments similar to those worn by Wintervale. They fit her well, as did a pair of rugged brogues. When had the prince altered them? Never mind, she had more pressing concerns.
Wintervale knocked on her door. “What’s taking you so long, Fairfax?”
She opened the door a crack, her hand tight on the doorknob. “My trousers are ripped. I need to patch them. You go on, I’ll catch up with you.”
“Hanson is handy with a needle.” Wintervale pointed at a shorter boy behind him. “Want him to help?”
“Last time he helped me, he used my left testicle for a pincushion,” she said.
The boys in the passage laughed and left, stomping down the stairs like a herd of rhinoceros.
She slipped into Wintervale’s room to see the direction the boys went. Then she knocked on the prince’s door. No one answered. She opened the door to an empty room.
Where was he when she needed him?
She could pretend to fall victim to a sudden abdominal complaint, but what if Wintervale, or someone else in the house—Mrs. Hancock, for instance—insisted on medical attention for her? The last thing she wanted was a scrutiny of her body.
She paced in the prince’s room, torn. If she didn’t go soon, Wintervale might send someone to fetch her—another undesirable outcome.
Had she the opportunity to spy on the game for some time, she might grasp its essence. But what if the playing field was entirely open, with nowhere for her to conceal herself?
There was no perfect solution. She’d better return to her room and study the rules of cricket again—if she could study with her heart hammering away—and then try to approach the pitch unobserved.