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I didn’t, though Jay tried his level best to do so. We went in together, about two and a half minutes after the king and queen had joined their adoring subjects. Apparently Jay wasn’t used to my being four feet wide at the ankles, either, for his foot became tangled in reams of silk and we almost toppled over together.

‘Oops,’ he said, which about covered it.

I waited while he disentangled himself from my dress. ‘I’m a public hazard in this thing.’

‘I can’t think how there weren’t more fatal accidents at the Old Court.’

Let me back up a moment. Their Majesties’ private mansion, however fine, had nothing on the real heart of Mandridore: the royal palace. A mere seven or eight minutes in the coach was sufficient to convey us to this spectacular building, and as we waited behind the king and queen’s coach I had ample time to get an eyeful of it.

Think Buckingham Palace. Then mentally increase it to about three times the size — not just in width or surface area but in height, too. Unsurprisingly, considering our costumes, the palace was resplendent in the architectural styles of the late sixteen hundreds: square, imposing, symmetrical, and ornate, with arches and pilasters and a splendid cupola.

But there were differences between the palace and the generality of seventeenth-century country house style, chief among them being the minor fact that the entire thing was built out of starstone.

Every last bloody inch of it.

Under the soft light of a rising moon, it positively wallowed in that lovely twilight-blue radiance and I felt sick with something like longing.

Unsure why. Living in a humongous, shiny-blue palace would have its moments, no doubt about that, but it would also get old. Footmen everywhere. Always having to dress for dinner; no slouching about in my old comfies with my hair in a mess. That horrible, echoing sense of loneliness that comes from rattling around in far too much space.

I digress.

They don’t do red carpets in troll country, they do gold. All the gold. In Their Majesties swept, prancing elegantly up the gilded carpet as music swelled. We followed shortly after, and I was bemused to note that Their Majesties’ courtiers seemed as pleased to see Alban as they were to see the king and queen. I’d underestimated his popularity. Again.

I will skip over the next half hour or so, which passed in a blur of silks and jewels and curtseys and titles. I tried to study the interior architecture but the tumult was too distracting; I received fleeting impressions of painted murals and statuary, rich carpets trampled by a great many feet, and other such Baroque fussiness.

Their Majesties looked around for Baron Alban, more than once. The Baron, inexplicably, chose to remain with us. This held true even at dinner, when I was seated on the Baron’s right and Jay upon his left. He talked exclusively to us, which was probably rude of him but I appreciated the thought.

On my other side sat a majestic old troll, his silvery hair elegantly coiffed, his amber velvet coat elaborately decorated.

‘You keep high company,’ he said to me, nodding at Baron Alban.

‘We’ve worked together a time or two,’ I replied, grateful for his kindness in not ignoring me but also wishing he might save the polite chitchat for a bit later. The dining parlour at the palace was twelve miles long and the table several miles longer still, I’d swear. Every inch of it was crowded with dishes, and since one of those nearest to me was a kind of floating pudding consisting of a flock of meringue swans sailing over a lake of sweet cream, my priorities clearly lay elsewhere at that moment.

‘I believe I have heard of you,’ said my talkative neighbour, ignoring his own plate of fragrant delicacies. ‘From the Society for the Preservation of Magickal Heritage, am I correct?’

My mouth being full of cream, I could only nod. It tasted of peaches and rose water.

‘I should not repeat gossip, of course, but it is said that you and the young man got as far as Farringale.’

It was not quite a question, but he was watching me with sharp, intent eyes and I realised he was probing for something.

I swallowed my piece of meringue swan-wing. ‘It is a true story, though may perhaps have been exaggerated. We barely set foot in Farringale, and saw very little of it.’

My companion clearly wanted to ask more, but the Baron claimed my attention and talked determinedly to me for the next few minutes. By the time I had leisure to glance about again, my amber-clad interlocutor was deep in conversation with his other neighbour.

‘Who is that gentleman?’ I murmured to Alban.

The Baron spared him one brief, dismissive glance. ‘The Marquess of Valony.’

‘Surely not,’ I blurted.

‘He most certainly is,’ said Alban, with a raised-eyebrows look at me.

How could I explain my peculiar comment without being insulting? It only struck me as bizarre, that a man enjoying so high a station as marquess should call a mere baron high company. Baron was the lowest rank among the aristocracy, at least in my world; a marquess was second only to a duke.

But this was Mandridore, not England. Perhaps things were different here.

After dinner, there was dancing. Delightful, though as soon as I realised I was to take a turn about the ballroom with the Baron, I began to wish that last almond and orange blossom cheesecake uneaten. A mere, weak Ves should never be turned loose upon a banquet like that. It is hazardous to her health.

Fortunately, when the royal orchestra struck up the first strains of music and Their Majesties took to the floor, they chose a slow, stately minuet and I gave a tiny sigh of relief. I would not be obliged to engage in any strenuous gyrations, at least not at present. The king and queen made a handsome couple, though it occurred to me that they looked a little tired as they swept slowly around the centre of the polished marble floor. They were not dancing for the enjoyment of it; they were performing for their subjects. They went through this routine for a few minutes, and then, upon some unheard cue, the floor filled with other couples and Their Majesties withdrew. I wondered if they were obliged to undergo this parade every night. How exhausting.

‘I give you fair warning,’ I said as the Baron came to claim me. ‘I have no idea how to dance a minuet.’

‘No one can see your feet anyway.’

‘But you can feel them,’ I pointed out as he swept me up, and sailed me away on a tide of harpsichords.

‘There are advantages to dancing with a featherweight. I shan’t even need my steel toe caps.’

I felt a compulsion to correct him on this point, for I am far too fond of food to qualify as the delicate scrap of a thing he described. But compared to him, I suppose I was a mere leaf on the wind.

‘I knew there must be some reason you’re dancing with me.’

He smiled, just at me. ‘Because wit, brains and beauty aren’t nearly inducements enough.’

‘Flattering,’ I murmured, super cool (nobody need know that my heart was turning somersaults). ‘But at least half the people here could be described as such, and they’re all gagging to dance with you.’ Scarcely an exaggeration, that. I was uncomfortably aware that I was attracting a great deal of attention as I whirled about in the Baron’s arms. Some of it was merely curious; some of it was outright envious, or something… else. Something else negative.

Alban looked around, as though he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t look abashed so much as annoyed. ‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ he muttered.

I felt stricken. ‘Dancing with me?’

‘No! No. Dancing with you here.’ His stride faltered, and he pulled me a bit more into his arms, as though to shield me from everyone else. ‘Ves, I… ought to tell you something.’

‘Ought?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Then don’t.’

He shook his head. ‘If I don’t, someone else will. The thing is…’ He did not seem to know how to continue, and trailed off.

Jay appeared at my elbow. I’d lost track of him in the ballroom. ‘Ves, can I talk to you for a minute?’ He made as if to pull me bodily out of the Baron’s arms, which was unlike him.

‘No,’ said Alban, and clutched me closer.

‘If you gentlemen think you are going to have a tug of war over me, you are much mistaken,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter, Jay?’

‘He’s been keeping secrets from you.’

Alban sighed.

‘I think he was about to tell me,’ I said to Jay.

‘He should’ve told you about six weeks ago.’

I realised that Jay was very angry about something. He looked as composed as ever, but he had an air of suppressed fury I’d never seen before.

‘Will somebody tell me what’s going on?’ I said, hating myself for the plaintive note in my voice.

‘Not here,’ said Jay. ‘Come on. Let’s get somewhere quiet.’

But it was not so easy to withdraw from the middle of the dancefloor as all that. Jay tried to escort me out of the thicket of dancers, but they whirled around us in such profusion, we made little progress.

So it was that I was still within hearing distance when a troll matron in a bottle-green gown sang gaily to the Baron as she waltzed past: ‘We miss your lady wife tonight, don’t we, sir? How long she has been away!’

I stopped dead, to the chagrin of a woman who collided with me mid-minuet. I added her hiss of annoyance to my rapidly growing pile of things-to-ignore, together with the look of mild malice the bottle-green woman had directed at me as she danced away.

I looked at Alban, but none of the thousand questions in my mind made it past my lips.

His broad shoulders sagged. ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath.

‘It’s true?’ I croaked.

‘It— that— I—’ He clamped his lips tightly shut and tugged at his perfect hair, a brief gesture of utter dismay. I’d never seen him speechless before. ‘That wasn’t what I wanted to tell you.’

‘It wasn’t? Were you planning to tell me at all?’

‘Yes, I… look, Jay is right, we shouldn’t talk here. Come on.’

He swept me away. He had either the bulk or the rank to do it more successfully than Jay, for people melted out of our path. I caught one last glimpse of Jay’s enraged face as I was borne away to the far side of the ballroom, and out through an arch onto a starry terrace. The mild summer breeze gently lifted my hair, and I was welcomed by the heady aromas of strawberries and wine.

How romantic.

The Baron escorted me to a bench, but while I sank down upon it in gratitude — my knees might have been shaking a bit — he remained standing. He stood looking down at me with an expression of consternation. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

‘While apologies are nice, I would prefer an explanation.’

He nodded. ‘If only it were not so hard to come up with a reasonable one.’

‘I’d just like a true one.’ I folded my hands together and tried not to stare wistfully at the moonlit sky. I might have been entertaining a few fantasies about being kissed under just such a sky, only quarter of an hour before.

‘Jay is right to be angry,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I never meant to get into this absurd masquerade, only… I never throw rank around when I’m working. It’s neither necessary nor helpful. And then, when I decided I liked you, it… it was hard to know how to tell you the truth. The moment never seemed right.’

‘Never throw rank?’ I repeated. ‘But you were introduced as Baron Alban on day one.’

‘Yes, but… I am not a baron. Or not only a baron. It’s an old title. I am comfortable with it, and it suits the work I generally do for the Court. High enough to open doors, not so high as to be intimidating.’

‘High company,’ I said, as enlightenment began to dawn.

‘What?’

‘Just how high in rank are you?’

He ran a hand over his hair again, messing it up. I’d never seen him with disordered hair either. ‘I’m a prince,’ he said, in the tone a normal person would reserve for something more like I have syphilis.

‘A prince.’

‘The prince, actually. I am the next heir to the throne of Mandridore.’

Turn page ->

‘Your Farringale?’ I squeaked. ‘The eaten-by-ortherex one?’

Her lips twitched. ‘The very one.’

Right. I needed a moment.

See, visiting Farringale was an eye-opening experience. We went there looking for a cure to a disease that was decimating the surviving Troll Enclaves at the time. We found another disease, or more rightly an infestation of all-devouring parasites known as the ortherex. They had, in effect, eaten the population of Farringale alive.

The buildings were still there; the city still stood. But it was an empty shell — one swarmed over by trillions of the repulsive things.

I reminded myself that we were not being asked to revive Farringale ourselves, only to find the means to do so.

‘So,’ I said, having exchanged a look with Jay. ‘You are hoping that someone on the Fifth Britain knows how to get rid of these ortherex beasties.’

‘That is our hope,’ said Naldran. ‘Our good Alban has already consented to undertake the search. Will you oblige us by joining him?’

‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but surely you have people enough for such a task. Why employ us?’

‘Because,’ said the king, and paused. ‘Because you seem to have a way with these things.’

I could sort of see his point. It was actually Jay who ended up finding the Fifth first, because he had somehow secured the affections of a perambulatory haunted house. And off she had taken him. I’d found him later, by a separate route. We’d learned a lot about the Britains, and subsequently made it home again — avoiding the memory-wiping enchantment that most of our colleagues (and enemies, among Ancestria Magicka) had been subjected to.

We did have a way of landing on our feet.

What’s more, Melmidoc Redclover might even consent to talk to us, and he was the man — sorry, the spriggan — who seemed to know everything.

I looked at Jay again, who stared back, clearly trying to convey something with his eyes.

I had no idea what it was.

‘May we have a moment to confer?’ I said.

Queen Ysurra inclined her head, exquisitely gracious. ‘Please.’

It seemed rude to just walk out, so Jay and I withdrew to a corner.

‘What do you think?’ I asked him.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes? Just yes? No ifs, buts, doubts or worries?’

‘I have some of all of the above, but so what?’

I blinked at him. ‘Are you really Jay?’

‘Every inch of me.’

I stared.

‘Okay, okay. I know we are probably not supposed to go anywhere near the Fifth again. I know that the Ministry would be unhappy with us if they found out. I know there are risks, and rules. But I want to go back. I always wanted to go back.’

‘Me too.’

‘Okay then.’

So that was that. We returned to Their Majesties, and the irritatingly smirking Baron (yes, fine, Alban, I know our answer was entirely predictable), and gave them to understand that we would be eighty shades of delighted to accept their proposal.

Queen Ysurra actually smiled, a real one. ‘How wonderful. If it is agreeable to you, you shall leave in the morning.’

Jay held up a hand. ‘Moment. How are we to get there?’

‘Is your previous means of travel unavailable?’

‘I am not sure. Millie isn’t strong, and she needed a couple of days to recover after the last time.’

‘It is our hope that she can be persuaded to convey the three of you back to the Fifth. If this does not prove to be the case, then an alternative shall be found for you.’

‘Right.’

‘Alban has been given a purse of gold for any and all expenses you will naturally incur on this journey,’ said the queen. ‘I shall further add that we shall be happy to shield you from any… unhappy consequences.’

‘As we have already done, on your behalf,’ put in the king, referring of course to their having hauled the Ministry’s dogs off our backs only a day or two before.

Nice. A reminder that we were already somewhat in their debt — as if we weren’t eager enough to go as it was. ‘Thanks,’ I said, unable to resist the temptation to be a trifle tart.

The Baron tried to smother a laugh, and choked.

‘In the meantime,’ said the queen, shooting an indecipherable look at her co-monarch, ‘the freedom of the Court is yours. In an hour’s time we shall appear in state, as is our custom, and the Court will dine. You are welcome to attend.’

The Baron gave me a discreet thumbs-up: say yes.

‘We’d love to,’ I said, needing no prompting whatsoever. An evening of splendour and feasting, at the High Court of the Trolls? They would have the best cooks in the world. A girl would be mad to refuse.

‘Then we adjourn,’ said the queen, and rose, creaking slightly, from her throne-like chair. ‘It is unlikely we will have leisure to confer any further this evening, but any questions that arise may be put to my secretary. He has been instructed to hold himself at your disposal.’

‘Thank you,’ we said, and set about the business of suitably polite withdrawal.

But the king stopped us. ‘One more thing. Perhaps it need not be said, but this is an assignment of the utmost secrecy. We would beg you to keep the matter entirely to yourselves.’

I couldn’t even tell Val? How unfair! But one could only promise, which we duly did. He is, after all, the king.

After that we were permitted to exit. We gathered in a knot in the hall, Jay and I buzzing with excitement, the Baron all cool composure as usual.

‘I,’ I said in sudden, horrified realisation, ‘have nothing to wear to a state banquet.’

‘I have… something?’ said Jay. ‘I think?’

‘You think?’ echoed the Baron. ‘If you are not sure, then it most certainly will not do. I shall have to come to your joint rescue.’

I beamed at him. Jay might have scowled. ‘The best dress ever?’ I said, breathless with hope.

‘The best, Ves.’

‘I might love you a bit.’

His lovely green eyes twinkled down at me. ‘Let’s hope so.’

And so it was that we were introduced to one of the odder quirks of the Court of Mandridore.

One hour later: what was I wearing? It was not the swishy, silky designer dress of my dreams. Let’s get that out in the open right away.

Instead of an airy dress of fairy-light gossamer, covered in stars and smelling of roses, I was wearing about half my own bodyweight in fabric. Pale gold silk tissue, to be exact. I had a gown with a long bodice and low waist; enormous, glossy sleeves; a skirt so voluminous, I could’ve made a pair of sails from the fabric; and delicate lace all around the wide, rather low-cut neckline. My hair was arranged in a thousand ringlets and I had pearls at my throat. I looked like Suzanna Huygens in the Netscher portrait, only rather golder.

Jay had a spectacular cobalt-blue waistcoat covered with embroidery; an even more spectacular coat of pale velvet; knee-breeches and stockings, heeled shoes, and a frothy cravat. Mercifully he had been spared the wig.

See, the loss of Farringale seems to have sunk deeply into the consciousness of the trolls, at least at the new (relatively speaking) Royal Court. And in honour of what was lost, it is customary for everyone to dress like it’s still about 1657. I didn’t dare ask if they did this all the time.

Accustomed as we are to the freedoms of modern dress, it’s no easy matter to step into the fashions of centuries ago. I felt like a ship in full sail, and approximately as unwieldy. But my desire to punch the Baron somewhere painful soon faded, for once I had got used to the sheer volume of my attire (and the weight of it — oof), I began to enjoy it. There is an unabashed frivolity about long-ago Court dress that’s rather lacking from modern life. Just look at eighteenth-century hair, if you want an example. In what other era could you have hair three feet high, draped in lace and pearls and crowned with an entire (albeit miniature) sailing ship?

By the time Baron Alban joined us in the hall of the king and queen’s mansion, I’d begun to feel quite the princess. He, of course, looked positively princely in crimson velvet, and he’d gone all in on the ribbons.

‘You both look perfect,’ he informed us.

Jay favoured him with a measured, deeply unimpressed look.

I favoured him with a curtsey. A skirt like that just begs to be gracefully swished as one sinks elegantly into courtly obeisance. (Was I enjoying this a bit too much?)

Alban grinned at me. ‘You’re a natural. Come on, or we’ll be late.’

Outside the mansion, there was no sign of Alban’s car. Instead, a pair of coaches had drawn up. They had been plucked straight from a fairy tale, I’d swear it: pale, pretty contraptions, ornately decorated, with sparkling windows and blue velvet inside. Naturally, there were no horses. These were the magickal kind of conveyance.

‘No pumpkin coach?’ I said to the Baron as he led us to the second of the two. He did not open the door for us himself, as there was a liveried footman to do that. Actually, there were four.

‘I tried, but there was a run on them at the last minute and I had to make do with these.’

I shook my head sadly as I got into the coach (utterly gracelessly. I’m not used to being four feet wide from the hip down, and about twice my usual body weight). ‘Everyone expects the pumpkin coach treatment these days.’

‘I blame Disney. Watch your skirt.’ I duly whisked my silken skirts aside as a po-faced footman carefully closed the door on me. Jay joined me on the squishy velvet seat, not nearly so encumbered by his finery as I was by mine. I reflected, not for the first time, on the utter unfairness of historical fashions.

The Baron sat opposite us. ‘Now we wait for Their Majesties,’ he said, glancing out of the window.

‘We’re to arrive with them?’

‘No. We’re to arrive a respectful distance behind them.’

This was better, but not by much. Nor did it make much sense. How were we important enough for such a sign of high favour? They couldn’t be that anxious to please us. If we failed at our appointed task, they had a whole Court full of people who’d fall all over themselves to perform any task Their Majesties might set. Surely some of them had the tools to succeed.

I set this puzzle aside for a little later, for once Their Gracious Majesties had been loaded into their own conveyance and trundled off, our coach began to roll, and I devoted my thoughts to mental preparation for the event that lay ahead.

Uppermost among my reflections: Don’t trip on your skirts when you go in, Ves. Just don’t.

Turn page ->

I was in no way surprised to find the Royal Court of Mandridore tucked away so close to London. Back in the bad old days of a few hundred years ago, London was rapidly becoming the centre of England and beyond, even if geographically speaking it was nothing of the kind. (And really, what’s changed?). If you had to found a new centre of government in a hurry, where else would you put it? And it wasn’t so far from the site of old Farringale, either — no more than sixty or seventy miles.

The more interesting question was: how did it fit? For London has sprawled out a long, long way over the centuries, swallowing everything in its path. But the magickal Enclaves and Dells are funny like that. It’s like they occupy their own little bubbles of space, which aren’t quite on the same plane of reality as the rest of Britain. There’s a way in, or two, and once over the magickal threshold it’s like you are in a different world.

Maybe you literally are. We’ve been making some odd, and enlightening, discoveries in that sort of direction lately.

Anyway. Being a magickal Dell (I guessed) as well as a Troll Enclave, Mandridore had all the usual hallmarks. There was that tantalising scent in the air, of the before-mentioned fruit and flowers, together with some indefinable but glorious aromas that made my head spin, they were so intoxicating. The air shimmered with the soft, silvery glow of twilight on the approach, though Britain proper was still bathed in bright sunshine. Tall, shapely shrubs occupied nooks just off the road; they looked like topiaries, posed in the shapes of animals or well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, but I think they were more than that. I could swear I saw one wave at us as we passed. We drove under perfumed arbours twinkling with starry lights, wove through a maze of rose-scattered hedgerows, and by the time we drew to a stop the sky had settled into a most intriguing configuration: one half was sunlit day, and the other lay dreaming under a silver moon.

‘I may never leave,’ I said as the Baron drew the car to a stop. We had passed several sets of ornate, silver-or-gold gates rising majestically into the skies; the Baron had paused at the sixth or seventh of these, waited as they slowly opened for us, and turned in to a sweeping, paved driveway before a handsome Elizabethan mansion. The place was built from brick, as was common for fine houses of that period; but these bricks were faintly bluish, which wasn’t at all. The house had two spacious wings poised either side of a central hall, with big diamond-paned windows and those fabulous twizzly chimney pots. And it was, of course, enormous — not just in the sense of the ground it covered, but in the height and breadth of the doors, too. This mansion had been built by trolls, for trolls.

‘Is this the Court?’ said Jay as he got out, and stood staring doubtfully at the house.

I saw his point. Handsome as it was, it was by no means a palace, and had none of the imposing grandeur one would typically expect of a royal residence.

‘No,’ said Alban. ‘This is Their Majesties’ private home.’

‘What?’

‘They asked that you be brought here first, for a private audience. You will see the Court later.’

‘So it’s a secret assignment.’ Jay did not sound pleased.

But I was. ‘The best kind,’ I told him.

He frowned at me.

‘Oh, come on. All the most exciting things happen when you’re doing things you aren’t supposed to.’

The Baron spoke firmly. ‘Their Majesties would never ask you to do anything lawless.’

I patted his arm. ‘You said that with such total confidence. It’s beautiful.’

He grimaced. ‘The life of a diplomat.’

‘Hobnobbing with beautiful people, swanning around in gorgeous cars, prancing from mansion to mansion, and strutting your stuff in expensive clothes? Really, a spot of lying-through-your-teeth here and there isn’t so much to ask.’

He gave me the side-eye. ‘Prancing?’

‘Prancing.’

He squared his shoulders, making his admittedly splendid muscles ripple. ‘I wouldn’t dream of prancing.’

And he didn’t. What he achieved on his way from car to front door was more of a manly mince.

Jay rolled his eyes, and retrieved his luggage from the boot. Mine, of course, sailed airily over to the door by itself. ‘It’s already a madhouse and we’ve been here five minutes.’

‘Chin high,’ I said, lifting my own by a couple of inches. ‘We’re important people now.’

Jay put his nose in the air, and in we went.

The door was opened to us by a towering butler. He might have been on the skinny side for a troll, but he was taller than the Baron. Little me found him plenty imposing.

‘Their Majesties are in the Topaz Parlour,’ he informed the Baron.

I had assumed we would have to wait. One did not expect immediate audiences with royals. But to my surprise, Alban led us smartly off into the east wing — doors swinging open by themselves as we approached — and rapped lightly upon an ornately carved door that looked like teak.

‘If that is Alban, he may enter,’ proclaimed a woman’s voice from beyond. I don’t use the word “proclaimed” lightly. I swear the voice had its own, ringing echo. She spoke in Court Algatish, which for some reason I am not ignorant of. Considering I had zero expectation of ever attending the Troll Court, why did I learn it? Purely because Farringale and Mandridore are, or were, major centres of learning and there are a lot of lovely old books written in that tongue.

How’s that for priorities.

‘And he will,’ said Alban, and opened the door.

I did not feel prepared, but we were going in. I had time only for a deep breath before I followed the Baron’s broad back into a room far too big to deserve the name “parlour”. You could have held a feast for thirty people in there. The topaz part was fair enough, though, for pale blue jewels sparkled everywhere: among the floral frieze that ran around the walls, highlighting the patterns embedded in the elaborate plaster ceiling, and glittering from an array of antiques upon the mantelpiece. The walls were painted an exquisite pale jade, matching the silk-and-velvet furniture upholstered in a slightly darker hue.

Amidst all this splendour sat Their Majesties.

Queen Ysurra was a large woman, with the stout figure of a person of sedentary pursuits. Where Baron Alban’s skin had a faint bluish cast, hers tended more towards the pale green, as though she, too, had been made to match the room. No court regalia at home; she wore loose silk trousers and a flowing shirt, though the semi-casual effect was somewhat belied by the golden coronet sparkling in her white hair.

King Naldran was a golden creature, his frame still muscular, though his hair was as white as his wife’s. He was wearing a dressing gown. An elegant silk confection, to be sure, with ornate braiding and a sumptuous wine-red colour, but it was nonetheless a dressing gown. Oddly, this informality reassured me. We were there for a chat, not an inquisition.

Baron Alban bowed, a little perfunctorily. So did Jay, less so. I gave them my best Milady curtsey.

‘Ma’am,’ said Alban. ‘Sir. Cordelia Vesper, and Jay Patel.’

If you’ve never been scrutinised by royalty, let me tell you: it is a disconcerting experience. Their Majesties said nothing for rather too long, surveying the pair of us as though they could read our every thought if they only looked hard enough at our faces. For all I knew, perhaps they could.

I tried to think innocent thoughts.

Having considered our attire, Jay’s height and my lack thereof, and whatever else they gleaned about us from the staring party, they finally deigned to speak.

‘Welcome,’ said the queen. ‘Thank you for accepting our invitation.’

It had been too official, and perhaps too peremptory, to figure fairly as a mere invitation; it had barely stopped short of a royal summons, perhaps only because we were not technically obliged to obey any such order. But it was a comfortable fiction.

‘It is our honour,’ I replied, recognising a cue for obsequiousness when I saw one.

Queen Ysurra smiled faintly.

‘We wished to extend our personal thanks for your services to our people,’ said King Naldran, entirely formal in demeanour despite the dressing-gown. Perhaps he had forgotten he was wearing it.

‘That was our pleasure,’ said Jay, really getting the hang of the royal interview thing.

‘We have need of such bright, active people,’ said Ysurra, putting me on my guard. Plebeians flattered the monarchy, not the other way around. Not unless they really, really wanted us for something. And why would they? Mandridore must have been full of clever, efficient folk, perfectly suited for all kinds of shenanigans and chicanery.

The queen glided smoothly on. ‘We were most interested to hear of your recent travels abroad, and attendant discoveries. Five Britains at least! What a marvel. And such a Britain, the fifth. It opens up such prospects.’

Aha. They wanted something from Melmidoc’s precious, magick-drenched kingdom. Not altogether a surprise. ‘It was one of our more entertaining adventures,’ I allowed.

‘Do you have plans to return?’

What a question. ‘Plans, no,’ I admitted. ‘It is not so easy to travel back and forth between Britains. But hopes… oh, absolutely.’

Queen Ysurra smiled. ‘Then perhaps you will be interested in our proposition.’

All right, time to get serious. ‘We would be delighted to hear it.’

‘We would like to send a delegation into this Fifth Britain,’ said the queen. ‘It ought, by preference, to consist primarily of those who are best informed, and suitably equipped, to manage both the journey and the assignment with ease.’

I assumed an expression of polite interest.

Queen Ysurra paused, and I thought I detected a hint of uncertainty. She looked at her husband.

King Naldran cleared his throat. ‘Few have set foot in this other Britain. Still fewer have ventured into lost Farringale, and know what fate befell it long ago. Is it chance, that there are three in this room who have done both?’

Jay said, his voice a little strained: ‘You want us to go back to Farringale.’

The king sat forward. ‘Can you imagine what it was like, to lose a place like Farringale? Not the Court. Grandeur may be rebuilt, new palaces raised; all that was lost there was bricks and stones and memories. But the history is irreplaceable. The knowledge. The books. All that was there seen and done, all that was discovered and recorded — all lost. And forever. If magick is fading from these shores, the loss of Farringale hastened its demise.

‘But now you bring us hope. If there is another, stronger Britain, where magick and its practitioners have lived openly down the years, and enjoyed the freedom to practice and research as they wished, then we must expect they are far more knowledgeable than we. Perhaps they can help us.’

‘Just what exactly are you hoping for help with?’ I asked, that foreboding feeling flickering to life again.

‘We want,’ said Queen Ysurra, ‘to bring back Farringale.’

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