CHAPTER 10

IN A SWIRL OF CAPES, A FLURRY OF FLOPPY hair, and a cloud of musky perfume, a man whirled into the shop. Cordelia jumped up as he flung himself onto the carpet, moaning.

“To be … or not to be!”

“Are you all right, sir?” Cordelia asked, afraid that the man rolling on the floor was gripped with pain.

“Alas! Poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio,” he wept into the carpet.

“Can I get you anything, sir? Or would you like something for Horatio?”

The man turned to stare at Cordelia.

“GET THEE TO A NUNNERY!” he roared at her, leaping to his feet.

“WHY SHOULD I?” she roared back, so shocked by him that she couldn’t help shouting her reply.

Then the man swept his hair out of his face, leaned wretchedly against the counter and muttered, “Miss Hatmaker, I need your help! I perform my Hamlet tonight at Drury Lane and I have an awful case of stage fright!”

Now Cordelia understood: this man was an actor. He could not help how ridiculous he seemed, rolling around on the floor and clutching himself. That was simply how actors behaved! She smiled encouragingly at the desolate expression on his face and his bottom lip wobbled.

“Help me, Miss Hatmaker!” he rasped, falling to his knees. “Princess Georgina will attend tonight’s performance and I fear I shall make an ignoble fool of myself!”

“Princess Georgina?” Cordelia repeated.

“Aye! That nymph of rare beauty and virtue!” the actor began. “She is an exquisite damsel of peerless distinction—”

He continued gushing lyrically about the princess, but Cordelia was not really listening.

If I could get to the theater and see the princess, she thought, I could persuade her to lend me a boat so I can go and rescue Father. She was about to say yes to me at the palace, but that lord stopped her. I’m sure if I was allowed to explain things properly, she would lend me a boat in an instant. I can set sail on the tide tonight!

“Not to mention, of course, that she is extremely rich,” the actor finished.

Cordelia smiled.

“If I find you the perfect hat, will you do me a very important favor?” Cordelia asked.

“Name it, O Maker of Hats!” he cried.

“Will you give me a ticket to your play tonight?”

“Indeed I shall, fair Hatmaker!” the actor declared, but then his expression crumbled. “Tonight! So soon! I fear the stage and all its dreadful boards!”

Cordelia patted him on the head. “Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll find you the best hat we have.”

She gazed up at the shelves, at the hundreds of hats in every color and style.

“How about this nice Aplomb Beret?” she suggested. “In a very impressive shade of purple?”

But the actor waved his hands impatiently. “No, no, no! I must have a hat as unique as I am! It must be made for my head, and my head alone!”

Cordelia paused. She must have had a thousand Hatmaking lessons, but, of course, she was strictly forbidden to Make a hat by herself.

She chewed her lip. The actor looked at her expectantly.

“Listen,” she said. “If I Make you a hat from scratch, I’ll have to block it and sew it together, and it wouldn’t be ready for two days at least.”

“But I must have it right away!” The actor turned pale. “The play is tonight!”

“So let me choose one of these hats for you, sir. I’m sure I can find you a marvelous one, just right for chasing away stage fright.”

She waved her arm around the shop, at the hundreds of beautiful hats waiting for the right person.

“All right,” he agreed meekly. “But … maybe we could add an extra feather to it or something? If it doesn’t have enough decoration.”

Cordelia nodded. “Very well! That’s what we’ll do!”

She climbed the ladder and started taking hats down from the shelves. She handed the actor tricorns and bicorns, felt stovepipes and straw cloches, armfuls of bonnets, velvet turbans and linen nightcaps and even a gleaming helmet. After trying on and discarding about fifty hats, he eventually chose a tricorn in a thrilling shade of turquoise.

“Excellent decision, sir,” Cordelia congratulated him, climbing down the ladder. Uncle Tiberius always said it was best to tell the customer that they were making wise and insightful choices.

She read the paper label pinned to the inside of the hat.

“This hat is trimmed with Warble Ribbon and decorated with a Singing Sapphire,” she told the actor. “And it has these—” She pointed at the three fat brassy buttons on each point of the three-cornered hat.

“Yes!” the actor enthused. “Buttons of gold.”

Cordelia did not tell him they were called Braggart Buttons.

She thought the hat was very generously decorated already, but he clapped his hands and cried, “A feather, O Seraph! I must have a feather!”

Aunt Ariadne’s face swam before Cordelia’s eyes. You are not allowed to Hat-make, Cordelia. End of story.

But there was something much more important at stake than breaking Aunt Ariadne’s rules.

And she’ll be so happy when I bring Father home, Cordelia thought.

She dashed upstairs and fetched down a bouquet of exotic feathers from the Hatmaking Workshop. She fanned them out for the actor and he promptly chose the glossiest one in the bunch.

“The tail feather of an Upstart Crow,” she informed him. Then she thought for a moment. “You know what would go beautifully with it …”

“More feathers?” the actor suggested.

“No …”

She darted up the spiral stairs, all the way to the greenhouse. It was lush with the green tendrils of vines and the warm, damp air was perfumed. A new Loquacious Lily had opened, dropping fragrant pollen from its golden stamens. Carefully, Cordelia picked the lily and carried it out as gently as if she was carrying a live butterfly.

On her way back down the spiral staircase, the glint of instruments in the Alchemy Parlor made her pause. She should really be weighing and measuring, checking star charts and calculating … How would this lily behave side by side with the Singing Sapphire? Would Braggart Buttons and the tail feather of an Upstart Crow be too much for one hat?

Then something infinitely more interesting than Hatmaking equations caught her eye. Lying on the alchemy workbench were a dozen little star-shaped sequins, cut from thin gold. Their points, snip-sharp and sparkling, were pure glory. They would look magnificent on the actor’s hat.

She won’t miss three of them, Cordelia told herself, peering into the dark parlor to check that her great-aunt was sleeping.

Softly, she slid three sequins into her pocket, sneaked from the room and sped downstairs to the shop.

“Ah!” the actor exclaimed when he saw the beautiful lily. “Plucked from the lofty heights of heaven itself!”

Cordelia beamed and put her hand in her pocket. The actor’s eyes lit up when he saw the golden stars.

It was excellent fun adding things to hats.

She stood at the counter and sewed the sequins, feather, and lily onto the turquoise tricorn. As she sewed, the actor entertained her with a zestful series of his favorite speeches. He flung himself to the floor (again) and cried about a girl called Juliet. Then, standing on the chair, in a voice as high as a tight violin string, he whined about a boy named Romeo. He plotted to kill someone by the name of Caesar, sang a song called “Hey Nonny Nonny,” and finally put on an alarming Scottish accent and pretended to see a ghost.

When Cordelia presented him with the finished hat, he swept it onto his head and struck a gallant pose. The Impression Measurer read, Splendid Swaggerer!

“Aah!” he exclaimed. “You have truly made me a hat fit for an emperor, my lady!”

There was a rather long pause as he admired himself in the mirror. Cordelia was reminded of a pigeon cooing at its own reflection in a window. The stars on the hat flashed and winked.

“I, Sir Hugo Gushforth, am ever in your debt, Mistress Hatmaker,” he said, in a voice choked with emotion.

He kissed Cordelia’s hand and the new feather in his hat tickled her nose.

“If you give me a ticket to the play tonight, your debt is repaid,” she said, trying not to sneeze. “And can I also bring my friend Goose?”

“My bountiful lady, any friend of yours shall be treated as a prince among paupers!” he declared. “Give your name at the theater and you shall have the second-best box in the house!”

And, with that, Sir Hugo Gushforth swaggered from the shop. She could hear him bellowing poetry all the way down the street.

Sir Hugo’s verses had not quite faded from the air when Cordelia heard the rumble of the carriage pulling up at the front door of Hatmaker House.

Aunt Ariadne and Uncle Tiberius hurried into the shop.

“What ingredients do we need?” Uncle Tiberius was saying.

“Lullwool felt from the Welsh mountains,” Aunt Ariadne answered.

“Paxpearl Shells, from Ease Bay.” Uncle Tiberius was rolling up his sleeves with purpose.

“Cordial Blossoms,” Aunt Ariadne added. “And a little sifted starlight.”

“What’s happening?” Cordelia asked.

Aunt Ariadne kissed Cordelia on the forehead, while Uncle Tiberius turned a serious face to her. Both seemed so distracted that they did not notice what a state of turmoil the shop was in, with Sir Hugo’s rejected hats scattered everywhere.

“Princess Georgina has called for peace talks,” Aunt Ariadne told Cordelia. “With that wild youth the king of France.”

“He has been sending ruder and ruder letters to her,” Uncle Tiberius growled.

“Sage Ribbons. And Politic Cord too,” interrupted her aunt.

Her uncle nodded. “We shall need them post-haste.”

“We have been ordered by the princess to Make a Peace Hat, Cordelia,” her aunt explained. “It must be ready by noon, three days from now. And the other Makers are to Make Peace Clothes too—”

“Hah! Much good the boots will do!” Uncle Tiberius exploded. “More likely they will cause the princess to ride roughshod over diplomacy—stamp out any chance of peace! The hat’s the important thing! The head is where the thinking is done and the hat is what goes on the head!”

“Now, now, Tiberius, we should lay aside our differences in times like these,” Aunt Ariadne said. “We hope that all the Peace Clothes will have the desired effect, and there will be no war.”

“Where will the peace talks take place?” asked Cordelia.

“On a ship in the English Channel,” Aunt Ariadne told her.

“That’s not what the French call it,” Uncle Tiberius muttered darkly.

Aunt Ariadne fished a silver astronomic watch out of her pocket to consult it.

“When Venus rises this evening, we will begin,” she announced. “And Aquarius is in the ascendant, so that will help Great-aunt Petronella. She must distil some Esprit de corps.”

Uncle Tiberius went thundering up the stairs.

“I shall consult the Orrery!” he called down. “Before beginning the ribbons!”

“We must close the shop for the rest of the day,” Aunt Ariadne told Cordelia, locking the door. “All our efforts must go toward Making the Peace Hat!”

Cordelia felt suddenly uncertain.

“Will there really be a—a war?” she stammered. “I must rescue Father before it starts!”

Aunt Ariadne gazed down at her.

“If we Make the Peace Hat the best we can,” she murmured, “perhaps war can be avoided.”

“What can I do to help?” Cordelia asked.

Her aunt hesitated, so Cordelia fixed her most determined expression on her face. It was a mixture of very earnest and decidedly stubborn. It seemed to convince her aunt.

“Look in the books and find the runic symbol for peace. Trace it onto paper and your uncle will stitch it inside the brim with silver thread,” her aunt said, and hurried upstairs.

Alone in the shop, Cordelia felt cold and shaky, as though she had just been plunged into the icy sea.

She wondered if the peace talks would stop the princess lending her a boat so she could search for her father.

She shook her head. No. She would set sail on the midnight tide and would probably find him before noon tomorrow.

“I’m coming to find you, Father,” she said.

Then she hurtled upstairs to the Library and began pulling books from the shelves, hunting for the peace rune.

Then she hurtled upstairs to the Library and began pulling books from the shelves, hunting for the peace rune.