At Windsor, Tom determinedly took the upper hand. “We will not attempt to enter the castle,” he declared. “Instead, we will inform the police about Morvath’s plot.”

“That makes good sense,” Constantinopla agreed. “After all, what pirate doesn’t seek help from the police in relation to her business? But perhaps we ought to change our clothes first, since we are rather dirty from our travels?”

Tom could see no harm in this. Therefore, Constantinopla followed him into a department store, where she modestly refused his offers of pink silk and creamy lace, choosing instead a simple black dress, which was less costly (not that Tom actually paid for them, since the store was not open for business at this early hour). They ate bonbons from the confectionery counter while changing clothes.

“But wouldn’t you prefer a velvet hat with a feather?” Tom asked, perplexed, as Constantinopla set a white mobcap on her head.

“I want to be a good, frugal wife for you,” she explained. “Let me help with your tie.”

“I look like a butler,” he said, scowling at his image in a glass cabinet as she reknotted the tie he was sure he’d got perfect.

“Not at all,” Constantinopla murmured. “Not at all.”

They left behind their own clothes and exited through a back door, politely locking it again behind them.

“Our clothes were worth far more than these ones,” Tom said, “so it’s not really stealing. In fact, the store is stealing from us.”

“You are so clever,” Constantinopla replied dreamily.

He smiled and puffed out his chest, and from there was easily persuaded that his idea of taking a shortcut along Queen Charlotte Street was an excellent one . . . then provoked in his protectiveness to enter a doorway when Constantinopla was sure she felt raindrops . . . and then inspired to climb a wall, follow a side path, duck out of the sight of a guard, turn left instead of right, and risk another door that would surely lead them out of this maze . . .

Whereupon they found themselves inside Windsor Castle’s laundry room.

“Goodness me, what a surprise!” Constantinopla declared.

Tom frowned at her.

“I can see from your grim expression that you’re thinking now we’re here, and by pure chance dressed like servants, we might as well try to find the Queen. Very wise, my love.”

She turned away from his darkening eyes, for if there’s one thing midnight fudge-making teaches you (along with cunning, careful measuring, operating dangerous equipment in the dark, avoiding burns, and where to hide your sugar), it’s how to not let things boil over. She heard Tom take a deep, calming breath, and by the time she turned back he was smiling with reluctant admiration for her machinations.

“All right, pirate girl,” he said, bowing. “You win—this time. But understand for the future that I intend to be the head of my household.”

“Of course, dearest. I defer to your greater understanding.”

He grinned. “Since we’re here, let’s go find a queen.”