Constantinopla suffered one second of sheer blank terror before inspiration struck. “She telephoned down to the housekeeper.”

“And what is the housekeeper’s telephone number?”

“One-two-four-three,” Constantinopla said promptly, guessing that he did not actually know himself.

He sighed, mouth flattening, as if disappointed. “Very well. You may enter.”

Tom reached for the door handle.

“But—!”

They froze, staring anxiously at him.

“Be careful,” he advised in a low voice. “Watch out for flying toast. And if she asks you to pull her finger, don’t. Just—really don’t.”

They nodded and opened the door.

An odor of old dog wafted out.

Constantinopla and Tom glanced at each other nervously, then entered, the door swinging shut behind them.

Queen Victoria sat in an enormous four-poster bed at the center of the room, eating a buttered muffin. She was at once tiny (vertically) huge (horizontally) and terrifying (psychologically). Her round face moved as she chewed, but her small, dark eyes seemed fixed on a point in the mid-distance. Two dogs lay on the floor at the end of her bed, a large green parrot sat on a lampshade, and the long-departed Prince Albert reclined on pillows at the Queen’s side—which is to say, in the form of a black-framed portrait.

Tom was struck insensible by the majestic, albeit domestic, vision of the Queen. But Constantinopla had been raised among women who considered themselves Victoria’s equal, at least, and stepped forward undaunted. She laid her stack of linen on a nearby chair, then curtsied. “Your Maj—”

The Queen held up a silencing hand. Constantinopla waited as Victoria finished masticating. At last the Queen sighed with satisfaction and looked up.

“Yes?”

“Your Majesty, my name is—”

“Thief!” squawked the parrot. Constantinopla almost leaped out of her skin.

“I swear, I’ve stolen nothing,” she said. “From—from the castle, at any rate. I am a pirate, it is true, but—”

“A pirate!” the Queen declared, not amused. “You warned me this day would come, Albert. The assassins have reached my inner chamber!”

“No, no.” Constantinopla rushed forward two steps, then froze as the Queen grabbed for some toast. She curtsied again urgently. “I assure you, I mean no harm. My name is—”

“I could have been a pirate if I wasn’t Queen,” the Queen warned. She squinted as if calculating the best angle at which to take out Constantinopla’s eye with a square of marmalade-covered sourdough. “One more step and I’ll impale you.”

“Death to thieves!” hollered the parrot, and one of the dogs lifted its head and barked.

Constantinopla’s thoughts began to spin. But she was a pirate maiden, she had been trained for battle, and she could surely withstand a conversation with the Queen. “Your Majesty, my-name-is-Constantinopla-Brown-and-I-bring-you-urgent-news.” She paused to take a breath, and Queen Victoria bit sharply into the toast. Marmalade oozed.

“Well? What news?” the Queen asked through her mouthful. “Hurry up, I don’t have all day. As soon as we’ve finished here we have to go down to breakfast, don’t we, Albert dear?”