I don’t know how we would have gotten through there if it hadn’t been for Karim. The huge Mohammedan strode ahead, one hand on his sabre, and as soon as people caught sight of him, they stumbled out of the way. Even the Queen’s guards retreated so fast they nearly lost their giant fur caps. Only one remembered his duty to Queen and country and dared to step in the way of the bearded mountain.
‘Name, Sir?’
Karim gave him his most sinister look, which, if it comes from a seven-foot man whose black eyes and crooked nose are practically the only thing you can see of his face because of all the beard growing everywhere, is pretty sinister indeed, let me tell you. But when it still proved insufficient to make the guard retreat, he growled: ‘Karim.’
‘And are you invited, Sir?’
‘No.’ Karim pointed over his shoulder. ‘But the Sahib is.’
‘The Sahib? Who… Oh.’
The guard caught sight of Mr Ambrose striding towards him. What little was visible of his face beneath the fur cap paled significantly.
‘Mr. Ambrose, Sir. So you could come after all.’ He gave a salute. ‘We are honoured, Sir.’
‘Yes, you are.’ Mr Ambrose strode past the guard without giving him a glance. Divesting himself of his wet coat, he thrust it at a butler waiting in the entry hall. ‘Let’s get this over with. Where is the Queen?’
‘Um…Her Majesty is preparing herself, I believe, Sir.’
‘What does she need to prepare herself for? She’s had three months of engagement time for that.’
The butler cleared his throat delicately. ‘I couldn’t say, Sir.’
‘Well, where is this whole thing going to happen?’
‘In the Chapel Royal, Sir, but - Wait! Wait, Sir! You can’t go in there yet!’
‘Don’t bother.’ In passing I patted the butler on the shoulder. ‘It’s not worth even trying.’
The poor man stared at me, his eyes widening in shock - then his gaze snapped back from me to Mr Ambrose. He looked back at me again, once more at Mr Ambrose, and again at me.
His mouth dropped open.
‘Yes,’ I answered his unspoken question. ‘I really am with him. Poor taste, I know.’
He flushed. ‘Miss…I…um…I didn’t mean to appear inappropriate. I’m sorry, if…’
‘Don’t worry about it. Only, could you perhaps find me a towel?’ I shook myself, sending droplets flying in all directions. ‘I don’t think it would be very appropriate to be wet all the way through a royal wedding.’
‘Yes, Miss. Of course, Miss. And…’
‘Yes?’
‘May I ask your name, Miss?’
‘Linton. Miss Lillian Linton.’
‘Welcome to St James’s Palace, Miss Linton.’ The butler sent a dubious glance after Mr Ambrose’s rapidly retreating back. ‘And, um…the best of luck.’
I smiled at him. ‘A towel would do.’
‘Coming immediately, Miss.’
The butler bustled off, and I rushed across the entry hall, after Mr Rikkard Ambrose, dripping rainwater on the red carpet.
Yes, you heard correctly. Red carpet. In the entry hall. That wasn’t the only thing that was red: the walls were too, and gold besides. The ceiling was the only white surface anywhere within fifty feet. Crystal chandeliers hung from above, glittering in the light of hundreds upon hundreds of candles. The serious faces of late monarchs, Royal Navy admirals and various archbishops stared down at us disapprovingly. And Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode through all that splendour as if it weren’t even there. His strides were so long even Karim had trouble keeping up. I had to run to catch up to them.
‘Where are we going?’ I demanded.