Free Castle of Shadows by Ellen Renner Page B

footmen. At every meal one of them stood beside the door, impersonating a chair or a lamp. In the awful silence created by someone pretending to be a piece of furniture, Charlie had to slurp her soup and chew her gristle. Every time she began to relax, the footman would silently appear behind her and whisk away her plate from one side while sliding a new plate in from the other. No doubt Professor Meadowsweet would say it was Etiquette. Charlie hated Etiquette.
    Etiquette or not, she was hungry. She clattered downthe last of the stairs and ran along the corridor leading to the lesser dining room. In front of the door stood a footman, staring straight ahead, pretending to be a potted plant. It was Alfie Postlethwaite. This was not a good day.
    Instead of holding the door open for her, Alfie looked into the distance over her head and said, ‘Your Royal Highness is to report to the Prime Minister.’
    ‘B-but I haven’t had my lunch yet.’
    ‘Your Royal Highness is to report to the Prime Minister at once.’ Alfie smirked. Smugness radiated off him like heat from a coal fire. She could have kicked him.
    ‘Did you know, Alfred,’ she said sweetly, ‘that you’ve got a really disgusting spot on the end of your nose?’
    The sight of his face flushing red as beetroot jelly cheered her as she began the long journey to the ministerial wing.
     
    This time, the corporal smiled through his moustaches at her. ‘Your Highness is to wait in the office for the Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘He’ll not be long.’ She smiled back at him, and he opened the door for her with a flourish. She held her head up and strode into the office, feeling slightly grand.
    The door shut behind her. In the Prime Minister’s absence, the room seemed much larger. Beneath the gaze of her father’s portrait, she wandered around the room, noticing how it had changed. His battered old desk was gone. She remembered him picking her up and sitting herin the middle of all his papers, so that she could play with his blotter, rocking it back and forth and pretending it was a ship battling through a storm at sea. That desk had been replaced by a grand affair of polished mahogany and inlaid leather.
    In the far corner, partly screened by a tall cupboard, she spotted another door and remembered her father’s extraordinarily grand privy. She ran across and flung open the door. It was all still there – the most beautiful water closet she had ever seen. It had a giant wooden thunderbox and a large marble sink with a tap for hot as well as cold water. She couldn’t resist. She turned on the hot tap. The water splashing into the basin was cool at first, but it soon warmed, and Charlie held her hands under the flow. What a marvellous extravagance! Warm water from a tap rather than icy cold in a jug that had been toted up dozens of stairs. No wonder Alistair Windlass looked so clean. If she had such a thing, she might enjoy washing too. Although she doubted it.
    ‘…five minutes. I have an appointment.’
    Charlie froze at the sound of Windlass’s voice. She felt her face burn red. He would think… She turned off the water, hesitated, uncertain what to do. The sound of his visitor’s voice decided her, and she pulled the door almost closed and stood beside it, listening.
    ‘I’m sorry to bother you, I’m sure,’ said Mrs O’Dair. Her words chewed the air like grindstones, ponderous and implacable. Charlie was shocked by the resentmentsnarling in the housekeeper’s voice. How dared she speak like that to the Prime Minister? ‘But I requested a meeting last week. I have had no response. Not one word!’
    ‘Pressure of work, dear lady.’ Windlass’s voice was as smooth and glossy as mayonnaise. ‘Come, seat yourself. I can spare a few minutes. Indeed, although this is not the ideal time, I have been intending to clarify my instructions concerning Her Royal Highness.’
    ‘It is precisely those instructions I wish to discuss,’ said O’Dair.