Constantinopla glanced at the portrait and then back at the Queen, dazed. “Captain Morvath has stolen a dozen battlehouses and presents a serious threat to your throne!”

“Egad! Such horror! Who is Captain Morvath?”

“Er, a dreadful pirate, Your Majesty.”

“As opposed to a nice pirate? You are all fiends! Do you know how much tax income I’ve lost because of you? How many ladies I’ve had come crying to me about stolen diamonds or stolen husbands?”

“Er, sorry,” Constantinopla said meekly.

“And who is that?” the Queen demanded, waving toast at Tom. He cringed.

“Moron!” squawked the parrot.

Constantinopla repressed a traitorous corner of her mouth. “Your Majesty, may I present Mr. Eames, my fiancé. He is a pirate gentleman. Your Majesty, Captain Ned Smith sent us as his official emissaries to warn you about Morvath’s evil plan.” She eyed the parrot, praying it did not squawk Liar!

Silence, thank God.

More silence. Somewhat worrying.

Even more silence. Constantinopla held her breath.

At last, the Queen swallowed toast.

“Dear Ned. Such a charming fellow, looks awfully splendid in shirtsleeves.”

“Hmm,” Constantinopla agreed, her eyes softening. Tom scowled.

“But what is he doing? I sent him to deal with Miss Cecilia someone. You might have heard of her father, a dreadful pirate, Captain Morris or Morepain or—”

“Morvath, Your Majesty?” Constantinopla suggested.

“No, I don’t think so. But then, when you’re surrounded by so many pompous men who think they can manage the realm better than you can, the names tend to blur together.”

“May I ask what you mean by Captain Smith dealing with Cecilia, Your Majesty?”

“I don’t think I shall tell you,” the Queen said. “That’s confidential Crown business. Don’t you agree, Albert dear?”

The portrait of Prince Albert did not reply.

Constantinopla felt her heart, stomach, and life span shrink. Was Ned Smith, alias Teddy Luxe, commissioned to harm or imprison Cecilia? And Constantinopla had left her alone in his company! Miss Darlington was going to kill her.

If Queen Victoria did not do so first.

“Your Majesty, I—”

The Queen held up a spoonful of porridge with the same attitude as a pirate holding a grenade, and Constantinopla took a step back.

“Enough talking, girl. You have ruined my appetite. I almost certainly won’t be able to finish these oats before going down to breakfast.”

“Your—”

“But I know just what to do with you. Adisa!” she called in a high, sharp voice, much like the sound a whip makes the moment before it connects with its hapless victim.

The door flung open and the enormous guard strode in, sword drawn.

Constantinopla blanched. Tom whimpered.

“Ha ha!” squawked the parrot. “You’re dead!”

15

cecilia’s tragic childhood—love at first sight—olga the ogre—between the devil and the deep blue sea—the portuguese baron—in the grim cellars—pleasantries—the ghost of emily brontë—tally ho (sotto voce)

Cecilia had never wished to be a girl again, half-wild and hardy and free. Although she had been brought fairly late to propriety and self-restraint, she found they suited her. Indeed, if she were a bird, she would happily allow a net to ensnare her.