“I’m not sure I’ve managed to capture the deep red of the fire in that gable. What do you think, Albert dear?”

The portrait of Prince Albert, propped on a chair beside her, advanced no opinion.

“It’s lovely, Your Majesty,” Constantinopla said. And winced at yet another explosion. This one sent dirt and grass in an eruption terrifyingly close to the royal troops. Northangerland Abbey was fighting back. Although the Queen had brought two cannons and fifty armed men, and although three battlehouses swooped and dove above, firing on the abbey, Morvath was well stocked to fend off assault. If he got his premises in the air, there would be little hope of stopping him.

Mind you, if they got Windsor Castle in the air, he would be defeated within moments.

Constantinopla had been stunned when Queen Victoria offered her castle for the rescue effort, declaring that she’d seen enough uprisings for one reign and would put a stop to this one herself.

“But, Your Majesty,” Constantinopla had said, curtsying apologetically, “I don’t have the qualifications to lift a building of this size. I am but nineteen.”

Tom had shot her a dark look but said nothing.

“Pish,” the Queen had replied, waving a fork dismissively. “I am Queen; it will rise for me.”

“You know the pirate’s flying incantation?” Constantinopla had been shocked out of Your-Majestying.

“Of course I do. You simply haven’t taught it to me yet.”

Constantinopla had blinked, trying to parse this logic. She could only conclude that royal time operated differently from that of ordinary people.

Tom had pulled Constantinopla to one side. “We can’t teach her the incantation,” he’d whispered. “Think what your grandmother would say!”

“If she is alive to say anything at all,” Constantinopla had replied, “then I will be pleased to hear it. You know Morvath is going to kill the Society. I will gladly teach the Queen if it means getting troops to the rescue.”

And so Tom and Constantinopla had tutored the Queen in sorcery. They’d been surprised to find Her Majesty an apt student.

“We are descended from the great warrior queens of yore,” Queen Victoria had reminded her. “It is in our blood to ride into battle and destroy the enemy.”

She had paused to sip tea from a delicate porcelain cup, and Tom had taken the opportunity to ask Constantinopla in a whisper where Yore was. She’d sighed. If only she could be a lesbian and yet still have a grand public wedding.

The Queen caught her expression and waved her over. “My dear,” she whispered. “Some advice from a long-married woman: every time he speaks, close your eyes and think of England.”

A wheel had been procured, cannons and troops brought in, and the Queen had intoned the flying incantation in a voice that sent shivers through all who heard it. Windsor Castle had moaned and shuddered, then rose ponderously into the air. Constantinopla’s legs had trembled beneath her and she’d clutched Tom’s hand so tightly her knuckles blazed white. She’d been born a pirate; the idea of flying houses had always seemed ordinary to her. But standing now in a stone behemoth of one thousand rooms as it hauled itself into the air, she had felt the bend of gravity against sorcery, and had been horrifyingly aware that all that came between her and a crashing demise was one old lady’s ability to maintain a rhyme.