CHAPTER 13

CORDELIA AND GOOSE SQUEEZED BETWEEN THE rustling dresses of women in hooped skirts and ducked under the elbows of fops.

“Let’s stand here by the door, so when the princess comes past we can stop her and talk,” Cordelia said. “Can you distract Lord Witloof?”

Goose looked uncertain. “How?”

“I don’t know, maybe compliment him on his wig?”

Sir Hugo sashayed into the foyer, still wearing his spectacular hat. The starry sequins winked and the Loquacious Lily filled the air around the actor’s head with a halo of golden pollen. He was immediately encircled by an admiring gaggle of aristocrats, all giving him compliments and flowers and blowing him kisses.

“Ah! Some have already said ’tis my finest performance yet!” Sir Hugo announced loudly. He caught sight of Cordelia and winked. The lady next to her keeled over, taken by a fit of the vapors.

“Make way for Her Highness!” a guard barked.

The princess appeared and a swathe of ladies curtsied and whole legions of gentlemen in white wigs and gold-buttoned jackets bowed. Everyone crowded forward, eager to compliment her. Cordelia was jostled in the mob and Sir Hugo managed to end up at the front of the crowd.

“O Royal Highness!” he began. “Upon thy pale cheek, a lily of Eden would seem shabby—”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Witloof said, taking the princess by the elbow and ushering her along.

Cordelia struggled to see through the horde. The princess was almost at the door, and Cordelia was going to miss her chance—there were a dozen people pushing in front of her. Then the crowd surged, and Lord Witloof was swept away from the princess.

“It’s now or never, Goose!” Cordelia hissed.

She crouched down as low as she could and pushed her way through a thicket of stockinged legs and swishing skirts. She heard Goose struggling along behind her. They popped up right in the princess’s path.

“Your Highness!” Cordelia cried.

“Oh, Miss Hatmaker!” the princess gasped. “What a relief to see a familiar face … All these people are a little too friendly.”

Cordelia wasted no time. “Please can you lend me a boat?” she asked. “I’m certain my father is alive but I need a boat to go and find him!”

The foyer was loud. The princess leaned in close.

“I wish I could help you,” she whispered.

“I’ll only need to borrow the boat for a little while,” Cordelia urged. “Just long enough to find my father. He’s been out there for nearly three days.”

Princess Georgina put her hand on Cordelia’s arm and said quietly, “This afternoon the palace received word that the Jolly Bonnet’s cabin boy survived the wreck.”

Cordelia felt her eyes widen. “Jack?” she gasped. “Is he all right? Where is he?”

“He is at the sailor’s sickbay at Wapping Docks,” the princess said. “Lord Witloof went to visit him as soon as we heard there was a survivor. The poor lad was delirious, speaking nonsense—but from what Lord Witloof managed to piece together … Miss Hatmaker, I am so sorry, but—”

“O most esteemed Highness!” Sir Hugo swept toward them with a flourish, somehow getting himself between Cordelia and the princess.

And that was when it happened.

There was a shout. “Sacré bleu!”

And a gunshot rang out. The air ripped down the middle as though it was made of cloth.

Around Cordelia, everybody slowed. The hubbub thickened into blunt sounds till all she could hear was her own heartbeat.

People were silently pulling grotesque faces, faces like theater masks, hands splayed in the air.

Was that somebody screaming?

“Goose!” Cordelia tried to say, but her tongue was too big for her mouth.

Her eyes stung as plaster dust fell from the ceiling.

And suddenly she was in the middle of a seething sea of people. The crowd swelled, panic rising in a riptide. The air was choked with screams.

“ASSASSIN!”

Cordelia saw a guard scythe through the crowd. Lord Witloof, white with shock, was right behind him.

“Georgina! Are you hurt?” he cried.

The princess shook her head.

“An assassination attempt! Look! The bullet!” Lord Witloof pointed.

In the ceiling right above the princess’s head, the black O of a musketball was wedged in the bare bottom of a plaster cherub.

The princess turned a terrified face to Lord Witloof. “But—why?” she whispered.

“The French, I’m certain of it,” he barked. “Guards! The carriage!”

A dozen guards crashed into the foyer, flinging fops and ladies aside to get to the princess. They seized her and carried her out, Lord Witloof hastening behind. Cordelia staggered to the door and saw the carriage thunder off toward the palace, horses at a gallop.

Then Goose was at her shoulder.

“Come on—let’s get out of here!” he puffed, pulling her by the hand out into the London night.

They ran the length of several streets. Only when a sharp pain speared Cordelia in the side did they stop. She bent double, clutching the stitch.

Goose collapsed against the wall and slid slowly to the ground.

“Assass-in-ation,” he panted.

“Did you see him?” Cordelia asked. “The assassin?”

Goose shook his head.

“Me neither.”

“Did they catch him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is she … all right? The princess?” Goose managed.

Cordelia nodded. “Just scared. Not hurt.”

She did not trust her legs not to wobble, so she sat down next to Goose. Goose managed a wonky smile. She smiled shakily back.

She waited until her voice was certain not to tremble.

“Well, my plan didn’t work,” she said eventually. “No boat.”

Goose groaned. “I’m sorry, Cordelia.”

“But—Jack!” she suddenly remembered. “The cabin boy from the Jolly Bonnet!”

She jumped up. “Which way is Wapping?”

“You can’t go now! It’s really late,” Goose said, scrambling to his feet.

“I need to see him as soon as possible, Goose,” Cordelia cried. “He might know where my father is!”

Goose took her by the shoulders. “Let’s go first thing in the morning,” he said. “I’ll explain to Miss Starebottom when she arrives at my house for lessons. We’ll go together. All right?”

Cordelia sighed.

“All right,” she agreed. “First thing in the morning.”

At the corner of Wimpole Street, Goose took the Camouflage Cap off and his bristly face was smooth again. Cordelia was still so wrapped in her own thoughts that she did not protest when Goose gave her a peck on the cheek and gabbled, “Thank you for a—a very … um … a wonderful evening!” before rushing off home.

Hatmaker House was dark and quiet. Still lost in a tangle of thoughts, Cordelia climbed into bed and fell headlong into dreams.

They were dreams so deep and distracting that she did not hear the tread of the thief on the stairs, nor the creak of the door to the Hatmaking Workshop as it was eased open.