Confusion was writ large on Conor’s features. “No. It’s as clear as mud.”
“I myself gave her a very dull book, and she was delighted. But from you she wanted more than a present, she wanted a token.”
“Mud, mud. Barrels of mud.”
Victor slapped his own forehead. “The boy is a dunderhead. She wished a token of affection from you, because she has affection for you.”
A smile spread across Conor’s face. “Do you think so?”
“Good God! I see ivory. The first today. Where is the royal photographer?”
The smile winked out like a capped lamp. “You’re right, I think. It makes sense.”
“So if it makes sense, why once more the face of doom?”
“The original reason, which I had forgotten for a moment. Prince Christian of Denmark has requested tea with Isabella. It is the first stage of a royal courtship. Isabella has agreed to receive him today. This very afternoon.”
“Oh, not to worry. I doubt this Prince Christian can overturn fourteen years of friendship in an afternoon.”
“Yes, but he is a prince.”
“And you, sir, are a Sir. Anyway, Nicholas is a thoroughly modern king. Isabella will marry the man, or flying monkey, that she loves.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do. It is like the old fairy tale. The boy saves the princess; they fall in love. He invents a flying machine—along with his dashing teacher, of course. They get married and name their firstborn after the aforementioned dashing teacher.”
Conor frowned. “I don’t recall that fairy tale from the nursery.”
“Trust me, it’s a classic. Let Isabella have her tea; I doubt very much that an engagement will be announced. Next week we begin work on a plan of action. Perhaps it’s time for Shakespeare.”
Conor thumped his knee. This was progress. “Damn next week. We can work now. I could have a sonnet ready by this evening.”
Victor stood, pacing the length of his study, which also served as a lounge and classroom. “First, mind your language. You are fourteen and inside the walls of a palace, not to mention in the company of a genius. Second, I have work to do this afternoon. Important work. There is a man I must visit. And tomorrow morning, I have some imports to check in our new laboratory.”
Conor transferred his thoughts from one obsession to another. “Imports in our new laboratory. You spend almost every evening in this laboratory. When can I see it, Victor? Tell me.”
The Frenchman raised a warning hand. Wait, the gesture said. And be quiet. He closed the doors to the balcony, then checked that no one listened behind the door. “Let me ask you something,” he said to his intrigued student. “These romantic feelings you’ve been having. Why haven’t you talked to your father?”
Conor frowned. “I would. We are close, but this past year he has been preoccupied. The Knights of the Holy Cross grow stronger. There have been several incidents of violence against citizens and visitors. The Knights openly flout the king’s wishes. Father worries for the king’s safety.”
“He is right to worry,” confided Victor. “Bonvilain’s men grow bolder by the day. The marshall was almost prime minister and believes there may still be a chance of obtaining that exalted office. The king has plans for a parliament, but not one that will be presided over by the Knights. Serious political machinations are afoot on both sides. It is a time for caution and secrecy.”
“Is this tied to the man you must meet? And the new laboratory?”
“Yes. To both. The man risks his life to send news of Bonvilain’s hold over the prison authorities.”
“And the laboratory?”
Victor knelt before Conor, gripping his shoulders. “It is almost ready, Conor. Finally. The renovation is finished, not that you would know from the outside. And the equipment has arrived to build our flying machine.”
Conor’s heart thumped against his ribs. “Everything?”
“Yes. Everything we asked for, and more. Nicholas doubled the order and asked for anything else he could think of. A veritable Aladdin’s cave of wonders for two airmen like us. Six engines. Five crates of balsa. Silk and cotton by the roll; cable; pneumatic rubber tires, Conor. Expensive but worth it. Two pairs of dashing goggles, the latest precision tools. Everything we need to build a workshop like nowhere on earth; and thanks to a generous grant from Nick, we have an old Martello tower outside Kilmore in which to build it. A place where Bonvilain won’t be looking over our shoulders. We shall have our own wind tunnel, jeune homme. Think of it.”
Flying machines were already taking off in Conor’s mind. “When can I see it?”
“Soon,” Victor promised. “Soon. Only two people on the islands know about our equipment. Three now, including you. To others it is simply a hugely expensive collection of mismatches. An idiot’s shopping list locked inside a ruin.”
“But why the secrecy?”
“You do not yet understand the magnitude of what we attempt. When we succeed, the Saltee Islands will be the toast of the civilized world, and King Nicholas will be the man who taught the world to fly. His position will be secure for as long as he lives. Until then, he is a crackpot king, selfishly emptying the Saltee coffers. We are a stick to beat him with. This consignment is huge. It must be kept secret until we are ready. Until then, we can pretend that our trips are educational.”
Conor understood, but his excitement made him reckless. “Curse Bonvilain. He holds back science.”
“Not for long,” said Victor soothingly. “Very well, I will sneak you across on the ferry next weekend. You can peruse our new engines.”
“Next weekend. Good.”
“We can read some Shakespeare on the boat.”
Conor’s face was blank. “Shakespeare, I . . .” Then he remembered and jumped to his feet. “Oh. Isabella will be at tea now. I must talk to her directly afterward. What time is it?”
The Frenchman ignored the carriage clock on his mantel, consulting instead the sun dial on his balcony.
“I would say, perhaps a quarter past five.”
“How could you know that?” asked Conor in disbelief. “You can’t see the sun today, not through all those clouds.”
Victor winked. “Other men may not see the sun, jeune homme. But I am a visionary.”
Conor’s head buzzed with new information as he crossed the keep toward the Broekhart apartments. The day was gray, with dull light falling on the granite walls, rendering them close to black. There was nothing to distract him from his thoughts of invention and romance. Victor was right. Isabella sat beside him every day for Latin, French, mathematics, and now Shakespeare. He would have his chance. And what better way to impress a girl than by building a flying machine for her? A real aeroplane, not a toy. He would name it The Isabella, if Victor agreed, and how could a dashing romantic such as the famous La Brosse stand in the way of young love?
Conor crossed the inner courtyard, the intensity of his thoughts hurrying him along. He ignored neighbors and failed to notice friends, but rather than think him rude, these people smiled. Look at young Broekhart with his head in the skies. No surprise there; was he not born in the clouds?
A pig crossed his path, and Conor bumped into its filthy flank. “Sorry, princess,” blurted Conor, his thoughts mixing with reality.
The drover scratched his chin. “Who are you calling princess? Me or the pig?”
Conor apologized twice, once to the pig and again to its owner, before hurriedly continuing across the yard, this time with his eyes focused on the here and now.
“Porkchop says she’s free on Wednesday,” the drover called after him, much to the amusement of anyone within earshot.
Conor took himself and his burning cheeks around the nearest corner, which was not the way he wished to go, but at least he was out of the drover’s sight. He rested against the wall for a moment, until his scarlet embarrassment faded, ignoring the passing traffic of militia, civil servants, and merchants. A couple of Bonvilai
n’s knights stumbled by, obviously drunk, plucking whatever they wished from the market stalls. No payment was offered and none asked for.
Conor heard an unfamiliar singsong accent waft through an open scullery window. “. . . so very handsome,” the voice said. “Gretchen, you know that little German princess, with those ears and the estates, she would kill, kill, to have afternoon tea with Prince Christian. But he is with the choosing your Isabella. She should be honored. If you to ask me, he will making all the talking today. He will not the coming back. Christian does not like the boating, with the big waves and sick making.”
Christian would do all his talking today. Conor came close to panicking in the street. He felt sure that the struggle to keep such powerful emotions under control must surely have resulted in some disfigurement of his forehead. I must talk to Isabella now.
He would go to the princess. Tell her that the spring-loaded glider had been a bad idea. He would gather some flowers and wrap them in paper, and on the paper write a poem.
Pathetic. That sounds pathetic even to me, and it was my idea. I am no poet. If Isabella likes me, it is not for my poetry.
He would go to her and be himself. Just remind her of his existence before Prince Christian charmed her off to Denmark. Maybe tell a joke. One of Victor’s.
What’s happening to me? he asked himself. Conor had always thought that the most powerful emotion he would ever experience was the thrill of scientific discovery. To do something that no one in the history of the world had done. What could compare to that? But then he began to see Isabella through different eyes. He noticed how she brightened the classroom with her jokes and attitude, and even her constant insults and threats of torture seemed somehow endearing. He realized that her brown eyes could make everything else in a room disappear. He wished the mornings away until she appeared in the classroom.
I must talk with her. Even my flying machines will not fly to Denmark!
The princess’s rooms were below the king’s in the rebuilt main tower. There was a sentry on the Wall above the tower door. Conor knew him as one of his father’s favorites, in spite of his relaxed attitude to authority. That Bates will be the death of me and himself, Declan often complained. I don’t know which is sharper, his aim or his tongue.
Conor saluted him. “Corporal Bates, nice evening.”
“Really? Not if you’re up on a wall with an ocean breeze blowing up your trouser leg, it isn’t.”
“I suppose. I was just making conversation. I’m really here to . . .”
“See Isabella, as usual. You have that big lovestruck gombeen head on you again. Go on up there before the Denmarkian fellow steals her away on his hobbyhorse.”
If Conor had been really listening, the “hobbyhorse” comment might have made him pause. “It’s Danish, and do you think he can steal her away? Have you heard anything?”
Bates stared at Conor as though he were mad, then smiled slowly. “Oh, I think he has a good chance. Strapping lad like him. And the way he eats up all his dinner. Very commendable. I’d get up there if I were you.”
“Should I wait here while you announce me?”
“No, no,” said Bates. “You go on up. I’m sure the princess would love to see you.” Not exactly procedure, but Bates’s cavalier disregard for protocol was legend.
“Very well, I will go. Thank you, Corporal Bates.”
Bates saluted merrily. “You are so welcome, young Broekhart. But don’t thank me now, just make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.”
Conor hurried up the staircase and was panting by the time he reached the princess’s floor. The stairway opened to an arched vestibule with four glowing electric globes, a spectacular Norman medieval tapestry and a cherub fountain, which generated more noise from its two pumps than it did water. The vestibule was deserted apart from Conor, who steadied himself against the wall, wishing he wasn’t sweating and covered in mud. Of all the days to be wrestling pigs and running up stairs.
From behind Isabella’s door came peals of delighted laughter. Conor knew that laugh well. Isabella saved that particular laugh for special occasions. Birthdays, Christenings, Mayday. Pleasant surprises.
I have to go in there, to hell with the consequences. Conor drew himself up, pasted his hair down with a licked hand, and barged into the private apartment of a royal princess.
Isabella was kneeling at her small gilded reception table, hands dripping red.
“Isabella!” shouted Conor. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just paint,” said Isabella calmly. “Conor, what are you doing here?”
There was a well-dressed little boy at the table. “This funny man is smelling of the poo-poo,” said the boy, pointing at Conor with a finger dripping in green paint.
Conor suddenly felt ill. Oh my God. Little child. Paint. Eats all his dinner.
Isabella’s face was stern. “Yes, funny man, explain the poo-poo smell to Prince Christian.”
“This is Prince Christian?”
“Yes, he is painting a masterpiece for me, using only his fingers.”
“And also the paint,” the prince pointed out.
Isabella patted the boy’s head. “Thank you, Christian, you are so clever. Now, Conor, explain the odd smell.”
“There was a pig in the courtyard,” said Conor weakly. “Porkchop, I think her name was. We bumped into each other.”
Christian clapped his hands in delight, splattering paint over himself. “The funny man does not have money for the horse, so he is riding the pig.”
Conor did not rise to the jibe. He deserved it and more. I must look like a half-wit, he thought. Straight from fencing and pig wrestling.
Isabella cleared her throat. “Ahem, Sir Conor. Could you, in the minute left of your life before I have you executed, explain what you are doing here?”
Now that he was there, Conor was not sure what to say, but he did know that it should be something true. Something meaningful. “Firstly, Your Highnesses. Apologies for the intrusion. Isabella, I had something . . . I have something I need to say to you. . . .”
Isabella had not heard that tone from Conor before. Not once in fourteen years. “Yes, Conor,” she said, the mischievous twinkle absent now.
“About your birthday . . .”
“My birthday is not for a while yet.”
“Not this birthday, last birthday.”
“What about my last birthday?”
There was a stillness then, silence even below in the courtyard, as if the entire world was waiting for Conor’s answer.
“That spring-loaded glider . . .”
“You don’t want it back, do you? Because the window was open, and I . . .”
“No. No, I don’t want it back. I just felt I should tell you that it was the wrong gift to give you. I hope you were expecting something different. Special.”
“A spring-loaded glider is very very special,” said Prince Christian seriously. “If the princess is not the wanting it?”
Isabella held Conor’s gaze for a few seconds, seemingly dazed, then blinked twice. “Very well, Prince Christian, I think teatime is over. I hope you enjoyed your tea and cakes and the lemonade.”
Prince Christian was not eager to leave. “Yes, the lemonade was pleasing. I was wondering, may I have the vodka?”
“No, Christian,” said Isabella brightly. “You are only seven years old.”
“A brandy, then?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yes, but in my country it is the custom.”
“Oh, really? Let’s ask your nanny, shall we?”
Isabella pulled a bell cord on the wall, and seconds later a Danish nanny arrived, gliding into the room like a carriage on rails. The lady was not smiling, and looked as though she rarely did. She took one look at Prince Christian and rolled up her sleeves.
“I am the baby prince washing now,” she said, grabbing Christian by the forearm.
“Let go of me, servant,” squealed Christian, struggling v
ainly. “I am your master.”
The nanny scowled. “That’s quite enough of the master-servant talk, Christian. Be a good little prince and Nanny will make you wienerbrød for supper.”
Immediately mollified, the little prince was led from the apartment, trailing blobs of paint behind him. Isabella wordlessly disappeared into her washroom, and Conor heard water being poured. She’s washing off the paint, he thought.
Should I stay now? Or should I go? When she left the room, was that a dismissal?
Things had suddenly changed. They had always been equal before; now he was worrying about her every feeling, her every footstep. I should go. We can talk later. No. Stay. Definitely stay. Victor would not run away. If I go now, we will be back to confusion tomorrow.
“Who are you talking to, Conor?”
Conor was about to protest that he had not been talking, when he noticed that his lips were already moving. “Oh, I was just thinking aloud. When I am nervous, I sometimes . . .”
Isabella smiled kindly. “You really are a scatterfool, aren’t you, Sir Conor?”
Conor relaxed. She was teasing him. Familiar ground. “I am sorry, Princess. Will you have me garrotted?”
“I prefer hanging, as you well know.”
Conor took a deep breath and bared his soul. He did it quickly, like jumping into the ocean, to get the pain over with. “I came because you told me this tea was part of a royal courtship.”
Isabella had the grace to blush. “I may have said so. I was teasing.”
“I see that now. Too late to save me from embarrassment.”
“Christian’s father has business here. I am doing my royal duty, that’s all. No courtship.”
“None.” Conor’s shoulders slumped. At least now he did not feel like a participant in some kind of race.
“So you built up your courage and came charging up here to declare your love?”
“Well, I . . .” Do not panic. Do not panic. “Something like that.”
Isabella moved to the balcony and stood leaning on the carved balustrade, dark hair flowing down her back, white fingers on the stone. Beyond and below, the Wall lights were popping on like a regiment of orderly fireflies.