"London's a large town, Mr Jones. There must be dozens of women who look just like me."

"That I refuse to believe. Never mind, it'l come to me in time," he promised with a cheerful wink. "You just see if it doesn't."

Mary found it very difficult not to bring her broom down on his head. "Good-day, Mr Jones," she said in her frostiest tones.

He final y permitted Amy to drag him away. But as they reached the service gate that led into the parks, he glanced back at her just for a moment. He mouthed a sentence: "See you soon."

She didn't doubt it for an instant.

Eight.

That afternoon, as Mary approached Her Majesty's private drawing room carrying a tea tray, the first thing she heard beyond the improperly closed door was the Prince of Wales's voice, raised high in a querulous whine. "I tel you again, I cannot remember exactly what happened, Mother!"

The Queen's voice was cold and precise and quiet. "You were there. The dead man was your friend. You were surely concerned for his safety.

Why can't you remember, Edward?"

"Because ... because..." Prince Bertie, as he was known to the servants, heaved a sigh. "Because I was blind drunk, Mother, and and hysterical. I was screaming like a woman, because I was so afraid. There. Are you happy now?"

"I am far from happy, Albert Edward Wettin."

"It was a figure of speech, Mother."

"I am aware of that. I am appal ed to discover that my son and heir is not only a sot but a hysterical coward."

Sul en silence.

"You must try harder to remember. It is al there, in your brain." She paused. "Even such a mind as yours."

The Prince made an explosive sound. "For the love of G.o.d, Mother!"

"I do love my G.o.d, Edward. Your behaviour, however, suggests that you do not love yours as much as you ought."

"Oh, what is the use in trying to talk to you?!" The Prince's words were so anguished that Mary felt a moment's pity. Spoilt and selfish as he was, he was in an impossible position.

"How dare you speak to me like that? I am doing my best to shelter you from the consequences of your own actions! I desire only to protect your good name, spare you the shame of public exposure, eliminate the anxiety of your testifying publicly and you would speak so to me!"

A long silence. Mary dared not set down the tray, dared not move or even draw a deep breath. "Not before the servants" was an ideal, of course, impossible to uphold in a busy and heavily serviced household such as this. But she very much doubted that this particular conversation would have continued had either mother or son realized she was on the threshold.

Final y, Prince Bertie spoke. His voice was weary and contrite. "I beg your pardon, Mother. I shal try to remember what happened."

"Do your best, my son. It is vital y important."

Another brief pause. Then the Prince asked, "Mother, this sailor kil ed Beaulieu-Buckworth. He'l die regardless of what I remember. What does it matter whether it's a traitor's death or a murderer's?"

The Queen's tone sharpened slightly. "Does it matter to you, Edward?"

"Er wel ... not real y!" An awkward pause. "I mean, yes, I suppose it could. Does, I mean. The truth wil out, and al that... That's in the Bible, isn't it?"

There was a long, taut silence. Then the Queen's voice came again, distant and precise and cold.

"'And ye shal know the truth, and the truth shal make you free': the book of John, eighth chapter, thirty-second verse. I believe that is the quotation you sought."

No response.

"You are correct in supposing that whichever is the case, this man wil die. He is a bad man, of course: a violent opium-smoker. But if he is also a traitor, we must make an example of him. An attack on you is, in effect, an attack on this nation. To permit a foreigner to threaten the crown is unthinkable especial y a Chinese, in the current state of affairs."

She paused. "Sift through your memories, Albert Edward Wettin. It is no smal thing to be the future King; to have a hand in laying the path for justice."

"I... I do not know what to say, Mother."

"Do you understand what I've told you?"

Prince Bertie's tone was resentful. "Yes!"

"Then there is nothing more to be said." Her skirts rustled, and Mary heard the Prince scramble to his feet. "I have a headache, Edward. I shal not take tea this afternoon."

"Yes, Mother."

"I expect to see you at both supper and at evening prayers."

"Yes, Mother."

At the first swish of Queen Victoria's skirts Mary retreated round the corner, heart pounding furiously.

This was a significant reversal of her earlier position: the Queen was interested not only in the truth of what had happened that night, but in the general ideal of truth! What if the Prince succeeded in remembering something that might clear Lang Jin Hai of the gravest charge, high treason? Would Her Majesty find a way to make that known to the police? Or what if Lang had acted in self-defence, and Beaulieu-Buckworth's death had been a terrible accident?

Mary's hopes rose despite her attempts to squash them down. With sufficient evidence, Prince Bertie's memories could even mitigate Lang's death sentence.

A delicate rattling of china reminded her of the tray in her hands, and it took a long moment for her to calm herself sufficiently to enter the room and set the tray before Prince Bertie. "Your Highness." She curtseyed.

His head swivel ed. He looked at her with sightless eyes.

"Do you require anything else, sir?"

"N-no. You may go."

"Very good, sir." She curtseyed again and began her retreat.

She was half-way across the vast rug when he cleared his throat. "Er Her Majesty wil not be taking tea this afternoon."

"Very good, sir." She hesitated. "Do you expect Mrs Dalrymple?"

A morose shrug was his only answer.

In that case... "Shal I pour you a cup of tea, sir?"

"Yes, do."

"Would you like a b.u.t.terfly bun, sir?" It was the nursery choice: the Prince of Wales didn't seem in the mood to appreciate the pungency of a fruit-cake.

"Yes."

She chose the fattest, creamiest cake, so thickly dredged with icing sugar that it gave off a puff of white powder as she set it gently on a plate. "Is there anything else you require, sir?"

"N-no. I mean, yes. I mean, I don't know!" The Prince let the plate clatter onto a side table and buried his face in his hands. He made a curious, treble sound a kind of animal shriek and Mary realized, with wonder, that he was sobbing. His shoulders quaked. He shook and heaved and gasped for breath. But when Mary caught a glimpse of his scarlet face, his eyes were dry.

"There, there," said Mary with caution. She suspected he'd not take kindly to a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, or the offer of a handkerchief.

But she didn't want to summon help. He might yet tel her something meaningful.

She watched the Prince a few minutes longer. His was a hysterical sort of sobbing theatrical, even.

Final y, when it began to subside, Mary knelt beside his chair. "It's not an easy life, yours," she said quietly.

"Nooooo," he agreed, with a sort of wail.

In other circ.u.mstances, it would have been difficult not to laugh. Yet there was so much at stake just now. Every word of Bertie's was precious. "n.o.body real y understands what it's like."

His eyes wel ed up with tears in earnest, now, and he began to blub again. "I I'm so miserable ... and so alone."

"Because there's n.o.body in your family like you,"

said Mary. "n.o.body with your duties and people's expectations of you." She hated the words, even as they left her mouth. The last thing she needed to encourage was the Prince's sense of injured ent.i.tlement. Yet it was, she felt certain, the swiftest way into his confidence.

He looked at her for a moment, amazed. "How did you know that? How can a servant girl like you understand so much?"

Because self-absorbed man-children are common as weeds, thought Mary. But she said, "I don't know, sir. I only guessed."

"I'm entirely alone, for al I've equerries and friends and my parents; I'm more alone than the poorest orphan ever born." It was fortunate that the Prince of Wales couldn't see the twist of Mary's mouth as he uttered this. "And I'm even more alone now, because of what happened on Sat.u.r.day night, and I can't even cry for my friend who's dead. I can cry for myself, al right; that's easy. But before, when I was thinking of him, I tried to make myself cry and I couldn't. I just couldn't. What's wrong with me?"

She poured a fresh cup of tea.

He gulped it down in one. "Eh? You haven't answered me that one."

"I'd not presume to know, sir."

He stared at her through swol en, bloodshot eyes.

"What's your name?"

Mary bit her lip, sudden misgivings making her stomach rol over queasily. What was she thinking, addressing the Prince of Wales directly? Servants were sacked for less every day. "Quinn, sir," she said very quietly.

"I meant your other name."

"It's Mary, sir."

"Mary." He considered her, real y looking at her now. "You're new, aren't you?"

"I began in January, sir."

"Clever." He looked her up and down. "Nice-looking, too."

"Th-thank you, sir." She edged very slightly backwards. This was not going as she'd hoped.

She'd been mad trying to gain the Prince's confidence.

Just as he leaned forward to speak again, the door flew open to admit Honoria Dalrymple. Prince Bertie snapped back in his chair, as though on a puppeteer's string.

"Your Highness," said Mrs Dalrymple, making a light, graceful curtsey. "Her Majesty has told me al about your terrifying ordeal, of course. I am so very relieved to see you unharmed."

"Thank you," he said in a slightly strangled voice.

He flicked a reluctant glance at Mary, which Mrs Dalrymple promptly interpreted.

"Enough dil y-dal ying, Quinn," she said, making a shooing gesture with her fingers. "I'l pour for His Highness. You must have a great deal of work awaiting you." Her tone made it clear that she thought Mary the laziest of malingerers.

"Yes, ma'am." Mary retreated with a sense of relief. She'd never expected to be glad to see Mrs Dalrymple, but the lady-in-waiting's entrance couldn't have been better timed. Mary closed the door behind her with an audible click, then retreated round the corner. She hadn't long to wait: in a few seconds' time, the door opened again and she heard Honoria Dalrymple sniff. This might have expressed either disappointment (that she'd not caught Mary eavesdropping) or satisfaction (that she was alone with the Prince). Whichever the case, the door banged shut again. Mary waited three minutes, then very quietly edged towards it.

"...such a nightmare!" tril ed Mrs Dalrymple. "You must be more careful of your safety; you don't know how your nation loves you, my dear sir."

"I I shal try," said His Highness. He sounded rather bewildered.

"Why, whenever I hear your name mentioned, it's with respect and eager antic.i.p.ation. Your subjects your future subjects, I mean bear you such uncommon goodwil and affection."

Mary listened with bemus.e.m.e.nt. What did the lady-in-waiting hope to accomplish with such flattery?

"You are too kind." But the Prince's tone was guarded, rather than gratified.

"Another cup of tea?" persisted Mrs Dalrymple.

"Or perhaps a cream cake?"

"Thank you, no."

"I don't doubt that trauma has quite dampened your appet.i.te. But you must keep up your strength, dear Prince. Your country needs you."

"I've had sufficient," said Prince Bertie, sounding a trifle sulky now. Apparently, even spoilt young princelings could tire of gushing concern.

There came a brief pause. When Mrs Dalrymple spoke again, her pitch was considerably less shril .

"Wil not Her Majesty the Queen be joining us today?