Behind her, Philip studies her shimmering reflection in the glass. She looks mysterious, unknowable.

‘Do you remember the conversation we had that Christmas at Windsor?’ Elizabeth asks at last, still without looking at him.

‘Of course. We talked about marriage.’

‘We said we would see how things were after the war,’ she ploughs on, ‘but now the war is over, and I suppose … I suppose I’d like to know what you think now.’

‘About marriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘To you?’

She lets out a little breath. ‘Yes.’

‘It wouldn’t be straightforward,’ Philip says carefully, talking to her reflection. ‘It’s not just about what we want. I’m still seen as a foreign prince, and you need your father’s permission to marry. He’s not in favour of the match, you know that.’

‘But in principle?’

It’s now or never. He can practically hear Uncle Dickie’s voice in his ear.

Philip lays his hands on her shoulders and turns her gently to face him. ‘In principle, I think I’d like that very much,’ he says, ‘if you would.’

She swallows. ‘I would too.’

‘That’s settled then.’ Ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the door to a gilded cage yawns ahead of him, he smiles down at her.

‘So what should we do now?’ Elizabeth asks.

‘I think I should talk to Uncle Dickie and to Uncle Georgie in Greece before I talk to the King.’

‘All right.’ Her shoulders have relaxed and she looks happier. Philip is conscious of a pang of contrition. It must be hard for her.

‘But before that …’ he begins, and she looks up enquiringly when he trails off.

‘Yes?’

‘There’s something else we should do. Something more important.’

Elizabeth looks faintly alarmed. ‘What?’

‘I think we should kiss, don’t you?’

His arms slide down her arms as her eyes widen and an adorably uncertain smile trembles on her lips.

‘Maybe we should,’ she says.

Chapter 21

Germany, Schloss Salem, April 1946

The driver pulls up outside the arcaded entrance to the Schloss and hauls on the brake. ‘This it?’ he asks dubiously.

Philip looks up at the familiar façade, pockmarked with artillery fire, its white paint peeling and stained with God knows what. At the decorative brickwork around cracked windows and the red roof tiles patched here and there. An image of the castle as it was before the war shimmers in his head and he tries to superimpose it over the bleak reality.

‘Yep,’ he says, twisting round to get his kitbag. ‘This is it.’

The Canadian studies the array of windows stretching to either side of the crumbling entrance. ‘Guess they’ll have room for you, anyway,’ he says and Philip grins as he drops his kitbag onto the gravel and swings down from the cab.

‘They should be able to squeeze me in.’ Thumping the door with the flat of his hand, he calls a farewell through the window. ‘Thanks for the lift!’

He watches the truck trundle away down the avenue before turning back to face the schloss. It is not a place of particularly happy memories for him. The year he spent at school here was not one he enjoyed and it was a relief to be sent back to England.