Free Novel - Airman by Eoin Colfer Page A

“This funny man is smelling of the poo-poo,” said the boy, pointing at Conor with a finger dripping in green paint.
    Conor suddenly felt ill. Oh my God. Little child. Paint. Eats all his dinner.
    Isabella’s face was stern. “Yes, funny man, explain the poo-poo smell to Prince Christian.”
    “ This is Prince Christian?”
    “Yes, he is painting a masterpiece for me, using only his fingers.”
    “And also the paint,” the prince pointed out.
    Isabella patted the boy’s head. “Thank you, Christian, you are so clever. Now, Conor, explain the odd smell.”
    “There was a pig in the courtyard,” said Conor weakly. “Porkchop, I think her name was. We bumped into each other.”
    Christian clapped his hands in delight, splattering paint over himself. “The funny man does not have money for the horse, so he is riding the pig.”
    Conor did not rise to the jibe. He deserved it and more. I must look like a half-wit, he thought. Straight from fencing and pig wrestling.
    Isabella cleared her throat. “Ahem, Sir Conor. Could you, in the minute left of your life before I have you executed, explain what you are doing here?”
    Now that he was there, Conor was not sure what to say, but he did know that it should be something true. Something meaningful. “Firstly, Your Highnesses. Apologies for the intrusion. Isabella, I had something . . . I have something I need to say to you. . . .”
    Isabella had not heard that tone from Conor before. Not once in fourteen years. “Yes, Conor,” she said, the mischievous twinkle absent now.
    “About your birthday . . .”
    “My birthday is not for a while yet.”
    “Not this birthday, last birthday.”
    “What about my last birthday?”
    There was a stillness then, silence even below in the courtyard, as if the entire world was waiting for Conor’s answer.
    “That spring-loaded glider . . .”
    “You don’t want it back, do you? Because the window was open, and I . . .”
    “No. No, I don’t want it back. I just felt I should tell you that it was the wrong gift to give you. I hope you were expecting something different. Special.”
    “A spring-loaded glider is very very special,” said Prince Christian seriously. “If the princess is not the wanting it?”
    Isabella held Conor’s gaze for a few seconds, seemingly dazed, then blinked twice. “Very well, Prince Christian, I think teatime is over. I hope you enjoyed your tea and cakes and the lemonade.”
    Prince Christian was not eager to leave. “Yes, the lemonade was pleasing. I was wondering, may I have the vodka?”
    “No, Christian,” said Isabella brightly. “You are only seven years old.”
    “A brandy, then?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    “Yes, but in my country it is the custom.”
    “Oh, really? Let’s ask your nanny, shall we?”
    Isabella pulled a bell cord on the wall, and seconds later a Danish nanny arrived, gliding into the room like a carriage on rails. The lady was not smiling, and looked as though she rarely did. She took one look at Prince Christian and rolled up her sleeves.
    “I am the baby prince washing now,” she said, grabbing Christian by the forearm.
    “Let go of me, servant,” squealed Christian, struggling vainly. “I am your master.”
    The nanny scowled. “That’s quite enough of the master-servant talk, Christian. Be a good little prince and Nanny will make you wienerbrød for supper.”
    Immediately mollified, the little prince was led from the apartment, trailing blobs of paint behind him. Isabella wordlessly disappeared into her washroom, and Conor heard water being poured. She’s washing off the paint, he thought.
    Should I stay now? Or should I go? When she left the room, was that a dismissal?
    Things had suddenly changed. They had always been equal before; now he was worrying about her every feeling, her every footstep. I should go. We can talk later. No. Stay. Definitely stay. Victor would not run away. If I go now, we will be back to confu sion tomorrow.
    “Who are