Free Princess Elizabeth's Spy by Susan Elia MacNeal Page A

weak rays of the setting sun. Although no one knew the princesses were staying at Windsor Castle, it was on the flight path from German air bases to London and was, of course, recognizable from the air.
    One older man, missing a few teeth, passed Maggie and Aislie. He touched a hand to his metal helmet and said, “By the time we get all the blackout curtains closed, miss, it’s morning again.” His voice echoed in the vast corridor, his breath visible in the frigid air.
    Maggie smiled in return, but Ainslie shot him a stern glance and the man returned to his curtains.
    “Their Majesties are at Buckingham Palace at the moment,” he said. “But I’ll take you to meet their Royal Highnesses in the Lancaster Tower. Then to your rooms, in the Victoria Tower.”
    After a long walk through the cold and dim corridors, it was a relief finally to reach the princesses’ nursery, an oasis of warmth and color and light in the Lancaster Tower. It was decorated in warm shades of rose and fawn, with colorful watercolors and oil paintings that must have been done by the princesses themselves. The room was filled with toys and books, neatly stacked in bookcases and cupboards, a wooden rocking horse in one corner. The air was warmed by burning birch logs in the massive stone fireplace, guarded by an ornate burnished fender. In front of the fire, on needlepoint pillows, lounged four black-and-sable corgis with snowy white bellies. The sound of the dogs’ gentle snoring was punctuated by the snap of the flames in the fireplace.
    Two girls, one older, one younger, both with glistening brown curls and gentian blue eyes, sat on the sofa facing the fire. They were dressed alike, in white blouses, navy wool cardigans, and green plaid skirts. Both were knitting.
    The older girl gave a sigh. “I do wish socks didn’t have heels,” she said in a high dulcet voice, struggling with her needles. “Knitting is not my favorite.”
    “If it doesn’t have fur and fart, you don’t like it,” the younger girl quipped.
    “That’s not true, I—”
    “Oh, yes—bonus points if it eats hay.”
    Ainslie cleared his throat. “Your Highnesses, this is Miss Margaret Hope. Miss Hope, this is Her Royal Highness the Princess Elizabeth and Her Royal Highness the Princess Margaret.”
    Maggie bobbed in an awkward curtsey.
    “Good evening, Miss Hope,” Princess Elizabeth said, looking up from her knitting. “I hope you had a pleasant journey from London.”
    “Well, hello there!” Margaret said, jumping to her feet, obviously intrigued by the new person. “Who are you?”
    Maggie was about to reply, when Elizabeth answered, “She’s the new governess, Margaret—to teach me maths. Crawfie told me.”
    “Do
I
get to learn maths?” Margaret wanted to know.
    “No, these are maths for me,” Elizabeth told her sister with just a touch of superiority. “I am fourteen, after all. While you are only eight.”
    Margaret glared and stamped a small foot. “Not
fair,
Lilibet. You always get to do
everything
first!”
    “That’s because I’m older.”
    Margaret stuck out her tongue at Lilibet, then turned back to Maggie and gave her a piercing look. “Well, we can’t call you Margaret—because that’s
my
name. We’ll have to call you Hopie. After all, we call Miss Crawford Crawfie and Mrs. Clara Knight is Alah.”
    Hopie? Oh, no. No, indeed.
“How about just plain Maggie?” Maggie suggested conspiratorially. “Besides, only my Aunt Edith, who lives far, far away in the United States, calls me Margaret anyway.”
    Princess Margaret considered. “All right.” She circled Maggie, looking her up and down, taking in everything from her rolled hair to her resoled pumps. “Your hair’s red, but it’s more of an auburn, so that makes it prettier. Not like Sir Humphrey, whose hair is, unfortunately, the color of carrots. Of course, it’s fine if
carrots
are carrot-colored—but
not
the tops of people’s heads. I’m glad you’re so young and