Everyone exhaled.
“Not that we cared, naturally,” said Bramble.
“Naturally,” said Delphinium.
“I mean, I certainly don’t.”
“Neither do I.”
“It’s over!”
The paper changed so many hands that day that it became wrinkled and curled. Mrs. Graybe made cinnamon bread, a treat they could only afford on holidays, and Mr. Pudding walked about the palace, singing “Huzzah” in wheezing, out-of-tune tones. The Harold Herald, alive with news of the war, even printed an extra edition the next day, and among the news of the front page, the girls discovered that Minister Fairweller had been wounded. Clover, so tenderhearted, cried.
“Oh, he’s probably all right,” said Bramble. “It would take a lot to kill him. Like garlic and a stake through the heart.”
Clover still cried. That was Clover for you.
All of Eathesbury seemed to spring with life now the war was over. Gentlemen came and left the palace on Royal Business, speaking with Mr. Pudding about regiments and ships returning to port. Minister Fairweller was the first of these to arrive, striding into the palace on a sunny Tuesday morning.
He did not extend any greeting to them, in typical Fairweller fashion, but instead went straightaway to the library to sort through paperwork. To the horror and utter fascination of them all, he had a red, raw wound that extended from beneath his collar up the side of his neck, reaching his ear. It was bandaged, but a rust red mark had soaked through. He winced whenever he turned his head.
Clover, flaring pink with indignation, stormed into the library with a steaming kettle of ginger tea and a teacup, and set them both hard on the King’s desk.
“You,” she said. “You—you—you—you drink this! At once!”
Clover was so very rarely angry that this was both amusing and frightening. Fairweller paused in his paperwork and blinked at her, which made Clover even angrier.
“Three cups,” she said, pouring the tea and thrusting it into his hands. “Three cups, at least! Have you seen the doctor? Well? Drink it!”
Fairweller drank.
He was not used to being ordered about, Azalea supposed. He lived alone in his austere manor. Clover folded her arms and watched him with pursed lips as he meekly sipped the tea. He almost looked like a frightened schoolboy. The girls watched from the doorway of the library.
“Will the King be home soon, Minister?” said Flora, the first to dare a question. She raised a finger, as though she were in lessons.
“He should arrive within three weeks,” said Fairweller, smelling the tea and cringing. “He remained behind to see to the regiments. If you had written him, you would have known this already.”
The girls flared up with indignation.
“We haven’t written him?” said Bramble, her ears red. “He hasn’t written us!”
“Yes.” Fairweller took a sip of the strong-smelling tea. “Your family is very interesting.”
Fairweller wasn’t the only gentleman to arrive. Several days later, among the exciting come-and-go of Royal Business, Azalea followed humming noises, and discovered a tall, thin young gentleman in the portrait gallery. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, and he bobbed on the balls of his feet.
The portrait gallery was a long hall, with windows along one side and oil paintings along the other. It was a hall reserved for visitors and guests, with sofas so fine that if one sneezed ten paces away, they would stain. The girls weren’t allowed to touch them. Velvet ropes blocked glass cases of government documents, standing on pedestals in the middle of the room. The gentleman, next to one of them, caught sight of Azalea, and he brightened.
“Oh, hulloa!” he said, in a strong Delchastrian accent. “I say! Hulloa!”
“Hu—I mean, hello,” said Azalea. He reminded her of a long, stretchy piece of taffy wearing a checkered waistcoat. She stared at his offensively green bow tie.
“I say! Are you the princesses?” He beamed as Clover, Delphinium, and all the younger girls arrived behind Azalea. “I’ve heard stories! Spiffing to meet you, just spiffing!” He strode to Azalea, grasped her hand, and shook it vigorously, as though she was a gentleman.
The younger girls giggled and whispered to one another behind their hands. Azalea pushed a smile and tugged her hand away, feeling slightly defeminized.
Bramble arrived at the gallery door, pink cheeked, her thin lips turned in a grin. Several pins had fallen out of her deep red hair, giving it a slightly tumbled appearance. She worked to pin a strand back.
The gentleman’s eyes caught her, and his smile faded.
“I say,” he said.
Bramble’s grin disappeared when she spotted the gangly fellow.
“Who the devil are you?” she said.
“Um, Lord Teddie,” he said, scrunching his hat rim between his fingers. “Um, our mothers were chums. They did watercolor together. Ages ago. They were like sisters. So, that, you know, makes us, um, cousins. Um. Except, actually, we’re not.”
Bramble’s eyes narrowed.