Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

‘Haystackish.’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘Attention please!’ The voice calling from the door did indeed catch the attention of everyone in the room. It was the kind of voice designed to catch attention: deep and carrying, with a slight burr in it. The little man it belonged to wasn’t nearly as impressive, but his uniform made up for it. From all the bright crests and golden tresses, I guessed he was some kind of Royal Herald. ‘Attention, everybody. The Royal Couple is approaching. Please take your places.’

Happily Ever After with Whiskers

‘Come.’

Mr Ambrose offered his arm to me, and I slipped mine into it almost without thinking. We retreated to the first row of chairs, but when I started to sit down, Mr Ambrose gripped my arm tighter.

‘No!’

‘But…that man said for us to take our places.’

‘Yes. Standing. You don’t sit in the presence of royalty.’

‘But…that’s stupid!’

‘Yes, it is. But until and unless someone successfully explains this to the reigning monarch, we stay upright.’ His free hand reached up and, gently, with the back of his knuckles, graced my hair. ‘Understood, Miss Linton?’

The way he said ‘Miss Linton’ sent a delicious shiver down my spine. I hadn’t heard him say this in months, and it touched some spot deep inside me I hadn’t even known existed.

I swallowed, trying to get out of my throat the lump that was suddenly lodged there.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Adequate.’

The Royal Herald pounded the floor with his staff. ‘His Highness, Prince Francis Albert Augustus Charles Emmanuel of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Duke of Saxony!’

I leaned over towards Mr Ambrose. ‘Is that two people he just announced, or three?’

‘One! Be quiet, Mr Linton!’

‘Miss Linton to you, Sir.’

‘Be quiet!’

A man entered the room. Except for the splendidly impressive scarlet uniform with golden tresses, he didn’t look much like a prince. He had a round face, and a rather silly little moustache perched on his upper lip. When he bowed and spoke to some duke or other, one could clearly hear the traces of a German accent, and his smile seemed just as silly as the moustache one floor above.

I leaned over to Mr Ambrose.

‘Why would anyone want to marry that?’

‘Miss Linton?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Shut up!’

‘Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir.’

Finally, the Prince of Saxe-So-and-so had worked himself through all the people present with a series of bows, nods and silly smiles, and had reached the front of the crowd where Mr Ambrose and I stood.

‘Follow my lead,’ Mr Ambrose hissed into my ear. ‘Do exactly what I am going to do!’

‘What? Stare at him icily?’