Captain Bravey gritted his teeth. “Stuff it all to bits, Crash, but you’re right. I only did it because our Brunt is such a nasty little grump, of course. I try to forget things like Brunty so that I can stay happy and on the upbeat.”
The Captain reached into his coat and drew out the great book that had, not so very long ago, been a fat man running through the Keighley moors toward a train station. It seemed far too big to fit in his breast-pocket, but Captain Bravey kept pulling and pulling until the book popped free. The Duke’s horn sounded again outside Bestminster, this time much louder, more urgent, and somehow, even a little annoyed.
“Nothing for it,” said Sergeant Major Rogue, rubbing his wounded eye under the patch. “Brunt-o will have to wait, the stonking old tome.” He kicked the book roughly. “We’re wanted, and you know how the Duke is when we’re late, Captain. I don’t wanna bunk with Copenhagen tonight. Not again.”
“Copenhagen?” Anne asked sweetly.
“The lion,” answered all the men at once, in voices heavy with the knowledge of a lion’s snores.
“They’re very close,” said Bombadier Cracky.
“Just like Boney and his rooster Marengo,” Rogue sighed, rolling his eyes. “Great men and their pets, you know.”
“Sir!” cried Branwell, snapping his hand to his brow in his best salute. “Private Branwell reporting for duty, sir!” He faltered then. He’d only gotten that far in his head, sure they’d shout him down for giving himself a rank. Anne got one. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t, having been killed in the line of duty and all. But they didn’t shush him, which made Bran think he should have picked a higher one. But before he could show how gallant and brave he really was, Charlotte stepped all over his glory, just like she always did.
“We could deliver Mr. Brunty to his cell, if it would be a help to you,” she said graciously. “It’s the least we could do after all you’ve done for us.” And perhaps, just perhaps, if they did well, they might get to meet the Duke. Even if he wasn’t the Duke of Wellington, he was a Duke of Wellington, and the idea of shaking his hand shivered Charlotte down to her toes. And if they did really splendidly, unreasonably well, it was just possible that they’d rise high enough in the ranks to get a look at that moon-colored stuff that brought people back to life. A look or a swipe.
Rogue and Bravey looked quizzically at them, sizing them up. “Are you quite sure? He’s a dangerous animal, our B, liable to bite and scratch and make you listen to his poetry at a moment’s notice. And it’s dash far to Ochreopolis.”
“But we have Bestminster!” squealed Anne joyfully. The moment she’d heard the Valise could turn into a carriage or a balloon or a stallionocerosupine, whatever that was, she’d longed to try it out. “Only . . . will we be able to catch the Royal Express train home from Ocha . . . Ochi . . . ?”
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“Ochreopolis,” Crashey said helpfully, for he was very sympathetic toward anyone who had difficulties with pronunciation. “Most certaintively. The Main Line connecticates all the cities of Glass Town—at least it did, before Gondal invaded. Now it’s only the GT hotspots on the big track. But you won’t be going to disputed areas, nohow, so that’s all right! Still, to leave a pack of breather children all alone with Brunty . . . Cap’n . . . is that wise or foolish? I can’t decide.”
“We’re not children,” Emily said indignantly, straightening her ten-year-old back as proudly as any soldier. “We’re us! And we’re clever and strong and very good with books.” She longed to take the inexplicable mess of the story they were in and iron it all out neat and orderly, so that everything made as much sense as a pressed shirt, and the only way to do that was to keep moving through the thing.
“It’s no trouble, sir.” Branwell hurried in to reclaim his place at the front of the squad. “They make us quite tough in Yorkshire.” It felt like something his father would say.
“Very well, then! We are most indebted to you all!” Captain Bravey said. They could all see relief settle onto his wooden shoulders. “I shall have our Quartermaster deliver the appropriate maps to your Valise. Deposit Brunty with Mr. Bud at the P-House in Ochreopolis by sundown and he will reward you handsomely. Do not, under any circumstances, open him! He’s a dreadful read, I promise you. Full of tricky devices.”
Anne took a deep breath. Now was her chance. She tried to sound as casual as she could, but her heart stuck in her throat. She was too afraid they would say no to ask. But, out of nothing and nowhere, Emily stole her words out from under her.
“Perhaps,” said Em, tucking her hazelnut hair humbly behind her ears, “seeing how it is so far, and we are only four, you ought to let us have a bit of that medicine you used to make our Bran and the Leftenant unshot and unkilled.”
“Grog,” Sergeant Major Rogue said uncertainly. His brow furrowed. He reached up under his eye patch to rub at the empty wooden socket there. “You mean grog.”
“Why’dya have to call it that, Roguey,” complained Crashey. “It has got a nice proper Latin name, you know. Scientific as bloody bromide in a bloody beaker.”
“Everyone calls it that.” Quartermaster Hay-Man shrugged. “Latin’s too many syllables. And the syllables are murder on the mouth!”
“Latin is the boiled jelly left over at the end of supper!” Corporal Cheeky laughed at his own joke before he’d finished it. “Yeah, it still looks nice, but that’s only because no one wanted any!”
Private Tracky thumped his knee in agreement. “Here, here! Who has time to say rhodinus secundi vitae? I don’t even know if that’s right! It’s GROG, man!”
“Grog, then,” Emily said peaceably. Charlotte might have only just become the oldest, but Emily had been a middle child for ages, and she knew very well how to mend everyone else’s tempers. “I only mean to say that it might be very nice and useful to have a bit of it in our back pockets. Just in case. Nice things are often useful, and useful things are the nicest to have.”
Sergeant Crashey raised his eyebrow at her. He pursed his lips, shrugged, and reached for his belt—then thought better of it. “I . . . think perhapsbe no. It’s powerful stuff, girl. State secret. Can’t just go handing it out like ice crustard. Enemy’s everywhere and all that.”
Emily accepted her temporary defeat with grace. Anne squeezed her fists till they turned red. There was still plenty of time before the evening train, she told herself. They would have another chance. And with Emily on her side, stealing life in a bottle would be as easy as stealing seedcake for the birds in the garden.
“Oh, of course, sir!” Emily laughed as though it didn’t matter at all. “It was nothing really, only a thought. I’m sure we won’t need it.”
“You’re a gang of right toughies!” Leftenant Gravey assured them. “You’ll be there and back before you can say ‘Old Boney sucks eggs.’ You have Bestminster, as you say!”
“We’ll do you proud, sir!” Branwell crowed. “You’ll be pinning medals on us like darts on a board, I swear!”
Charlotte and Emily set about securing the single-volume Brunty tightly against the sofa. It was easy, really, since the sofa was made out of their Sunday boots. All they had to do was pull the laces out and tie them down again in fast double-knots. Done and dusted. Now they could see Brunty up close, they could read his rather overwrought title, plain as postage, printed on the cover in little blue agate beads: