Suddenly the castle had tilted, making everyone gasp. But Victoria had stomped a tiny foot, roaring the incantation less with the power of a queen and empress than with that of a mother of nine children. The castle had meekly righted itself and gone on rising, and from there it had been smooth sailing. Servants had brought tea for the Queen’s parched throat, and Constantinopla had found herself getting her flight practicum in the grandest way possible, helping to navigate England’s literal battlehouse on a course to Blackdown Hills.

Unfortunately, no one present had the skill to maneuver a hulking great castle in aerial battle. The captain of the troops had suggested simply landing on top of the abbey, thereby getting rid of Morvath and the Wisteria Society in one foul swoop. He had then proved his mettle by not flinching when the Queen threw a vase at him.

“There are ladies inside that abbey,” she’d reminded him. “Have better manners!”

The captain, who often had been sent by the same queen to try arresting those ladies as they smuggled untaxed tea into England and jewels into their own purses, had felt disinclined to be polite toward them now. However, he had bowed in surrender to the Queen’s changed opinion.

And so they could only moor Windsor Castle beyond the range of Morvath’s guns and sit out front beneath large parasols, drinking lemonade served by dispassionate servants and watching the skirmish unfold.

“That smaller town house darts like a wasp,” Queen Victoria commented. “I never thought to see such grace and speed in an edifice.”

“That’s Darlington House, Your Majesty,” Constantinopla told her. “Miss Darlington is one of the greatest lady pirates. They say the spirit of Black Beryl rides her.”

“I should like to meet her,” the Queen declared.

“Oh, she’s been dead almost two hundred years,” Tom said.

The Queen gave him a look that suggested she would have taken off his head if she really was like her ancestresses. “I meant Miss Darlington.”

“I’m sure it can be arranged, Your Majesty,” Constantinopla said.

“She may attend our Jubilee Banquet,” the Queen proclaimed airily.

If she survives, Constantinopla thought, and winced again as the cannons roared.

It was not altogether certain that Miss Darlington would honor the Queen with her presence at the banquet. Not only did she suspect Victoria was rather unhygienic, considering all those children the Queen had conceived, but there was also the slight impediment of Miss Darlington herself being half-dead.

Pleasance huddled with her in the tiny bedchamber they had limped into after an agonizing escape from the melee. Pleasance’s knee was gashed, her ribs bruised, and a serrated knife protruded from her left bicep.

Yet she had carried her mistress along several corridors, up a flight of stairs, and into a room where they could hide behind a narrow, rusting bed. Miss Darlington was deathly pale where she was not deathly blood-soaked, but still she strained against Pleasance’s arms, wanting to rejoin the fight.