Five

THE NEXT DAY WAS SUNDAY. AUBREY FELT THAT GOING to chapel might be good for his soul, or for his conscience, or both. He roused George, who would have preferred to sleep in.

After the service, Aubrey shook hands with the minister on the stairs in front of the chapel. The minister fell into the short, round category of clergymen. Aubrey liked him because he was a practical, down-to-earth sort, whose sermons were short but had lingering effects. Aubrey often found himself thinking about them days after they were given.

'Thanks, Reverend,' he said. 'You put it all very clearly. To the church, magic is neither good nor evil – it's the user who turns it to good or evil ends. So it's a matter of free will again, correct?'

The minister chuckled. 'Free will. That's what it's all about, young Fitzwilliam. The church has come a long way since the dark ages.'

The sun was warm and golden. Aubrey stood with his cap in hand enjoying the moment as the masters and the other boys swarmed down the stairs and out into the day that stretched before them. The scent of the roses and lavender planted around the chapel came strongly to him and mingled with the smell of cut grass on the playing fields. One of the groundsmen was slowly working his way around the oval, marking the boundary with lime. High in the blue sky, an ornithopter flapped its way across the heavens, taking important people from one important place to another.

Aubrey enjoyed Stonelea and its challenges, but the world was out there and, with his usual impatience, he wanted to tackle it. Finish this year – but then which of his ambitions was he to tackle first?

'A beautiful day,' George said.

Aubrey wrestled briefly with his impishness and lost. Making sure George was watching, he glanced at the cloudless blue sky. 'Thank you,' he said and strolled off, leaving George gaping.

Aubrey had difficulty keeping the smile from his face as he ambled along the path towards the boarding house.

George caught up. 'You're not fiddling with weather magic again, are you? Remember what happened last time?'

Aubrey relented. He grinned. 'No-one's called you Gullible George for a while, have they?'

George thrust his hands in his pockets, after a quick glance to see if any masters were watching. 'Dash it, Aubrey. There's no need for that sort of thing. I was simply concerned for you.'

'Sorry, George. I don't know what got into me.' Aubrey paused. 'Going to this morning's lecture?'

George looked longingly at the cricket oval. Half a dozen fourth-formers were doing some catching practice. 'I have to. The headmaster put me on the list for luncheon with our guest.'

'You? With all of sixth form to choose from?'

'Yes.' George put his hands in his pockets. 'Who's our guest lecturer this time?'

'It's Dr Mordecai Tremaine. I'm looking forward to it.'

'The Sorcerer Royal? Of course you are, magic and all that.'

'Naturally. I hope I'll get the chance to ask Dr Tremaine a few questions.'

CLOUGH HALL WAS ALMOST FULL WHEN AUBREY AND George arrived. The Sorcerer Royal's notoriety had attracted a larger attendance than usual.

Ever since Aubrey had begun seriously studying magic, he'd admired Dr Tremaine. His copy of the definitive reference work – Tremaine on Magic – was battered and dog-eared through repeated readings.

Dr Tremaine had risen from obscure beginnings to become a public figure after being appointed to the post of Sorcerer Royal by the King. His shadowy past had given rise to many stories. He often featured in the popular newspapers, which were attracted by his feats. What was known was that he'd fought in duels, both magical and physical, over matters of honour. His output of poetry was small, but highly praised. He was a champion fencer and rider. His singing voice was legendary, and he was constantly sought for roles on the stage, all of which he declined. It was rumoured he'd fought in foreign wars, always on the side of the insurgents, and that he swam four miles across the Sardanis Strait to rendezvous with one of his many lovers.

Aubrey had also heard that Dr Tremaine had once been offered the throne of Baltravia but did not accept, much to the disappointment of all Baltravians, saying that the climate disagreed with him.

Clough Hall was one of the showpieces of Stonelea School and was naturally where Dr Tremaine's address was to be held. With a soaring fan-vaulted ceiling, arches, pillars and stained-glass windows, it was undeniably impressive. Its great failing was that its acoustics were dreadful.

In his early days at the school, Aubrey had sat on the hard wooden seats and struggled to hear headmasters and other speakers. For anyone beyond the first row of seats, speakers' voices became woolly, muffled and – further back – lost in muddy echoes.

One of Aubrey's current duties was to adjust the recently installed equipment that was meant to solve this problem. The headmaster had chosen an expensive, newly developed magical amplification system instead of non-magical mechanical devices, as a sign of Stonelea's being at the forefront of all things. Aubrey approved of this, but when the system proved to be temperamental, he was given the task of the necessary periodic adjustment.

Aubrey thought the theory of the system was good. Using spells that applied a reciprocal function of the Law of Attenuation, the company manufactured a number of brass horns that were magically linked. One horn was to be positioned on the lectern to capture the speaker's voice, the other horns were to be arranged around the hall and the speaker's voice would emerge clear and undistorted, to be heard by those assembled.

But applying the Law of Attenuation was notoriously fiddly, and inverting it made things even more of a headache. The positioning of the outlet horns was important, and they tended to lose their connection with the capture horn with changes in temperature, fluctuations in light, numbers of people present, or even phases of the moon. Aubrey was given a manual with a range of maintenance spells and his role was to attend to the system and make sure all was well. Some of the spell elements used derivations of the Inorian language and Aubrey enjoyed the challenge.

He'd been doubly careful before the Sorcerer Royal's lecture. It wouldn't do to have the foremost magician in the land let down by magical apparatus.

Aubrey sat with George and the rest of the sixth form at the rear of the Assembly Hall. He could see the brass horns, situated on brackets high on the walls. Of course, the privilege of the sixth form in their last year at the school – to sit at the back of the hall and doze through the unintelligible announcements – had been ruined by the installation of the system. Aubrey had been offered bribes to make the horns fall out of synchronisation but, despite the temptation, he'd refused.

Dr Tremaine stood at the lectern. He was a large man, with a build more like that of a wrestler than an academic. He wore his wavy hair to his shoulders, and parted in the middle. His eyes were very, very dark and Aubrey thought he looked liked a gypsy; he was sure Tremaine would have ladies swooning whenever he appeared. He wore a long frock coat and he carried a cane with a large baroque pearl as a knob, though Aubrey could see no reason for it, since Dr Tremaine didn't appear to limp at all.

The lecture, which Dr Tremaine gave without using notes, was about his life in magic. Throughout, he used his deep, musical voice to charm the assembly and he paced across the stage with the energy of a tiger. He used anecdotes which were humorous and thrilling and he emphasised the challenge of dedicating oneself to the world of magic.

Aubrey was struck by how Dr Tremaine ended his lecture. He stood, hands grasping the sides of the lectern, leaning slightly forward, sweeping his dark gaze across the boys, teeth bared in a fierce grin. 'We are standing on the brink of a great age,' he said after a long pause. 'Nations are striving against nations to redefine our globe. Our understanding of the fundamental nature of magic is being torn down and built up again. Science and technology are changing the way we live our lives. In front of me I see young men, lucky young men. You are embarking on a voyage that will take you into times that our grandparents could not imagine. Young as you are, you will see more of it than I, and I envy you for it.' He bowed. 'Thank you for your attention.'

LUNCHEON WAS NOT IN THE DINING HALL WITH THE REST of the school. For special meals, the school opened the old Refectory.

The stone walls of the Refectory had small windows, high up, which meant that artificial light had to be used even in the middle of the day. Proudly, the headmaster showed Dr Tremaine the magical lighting orbs that floated over the long table. 'More than three hundred years,' the headmaster said from his position at the head of the table, 'those orbs have been shedding light uninterrupted.'

'Remarkable,' Dr Tremaine announced after gazing around the chamber. He was seated in a high-backed chair at the headmaster's right, and had propped his pearl-headed cane by his side. Aubrey was on the headmaster's left, directly opposite Dr Tremaine, with George next to him. George sat glumly, running a thumbnail over the tablecloth.

A dozen boys from the sixth form had been invited to the dinner. Most were from the Advanced Magic class, with a few others – like George – for variety. Aubrey's prime position was thanks to his excellence in magical studies.

As the meal went on, the headmaster became increasingly nervous, watching Dr Tremaine dispatch vast amounts of the school's best wine. As far as Aubrey could judge, the Sorcerer Royal was not affected at all, apart from the gleam in his dark eyes becoming brighter.

Dr Tremaine dominated conversation around him, telling story after story. But Aubrey noticed how he made sure to include everyone at the table, calling for responses and opinions from those at the far end of the table as well as nearby, pointing at boys with his cane and refusing to allow them to sit unengaged in the middle of the animated discussion he was conducting. He even managed to engage George by accurately guessing that George would rather be elsewhere and admitting that he enjoyed the outdoors more than being cloistered on such a fine day.

After a particularly fine steamed pudding and custard, Dr Tremaine pushed his plate aside, put an elbow onto the table and dropped his chin into his hand. Hair fell over one eye as he jabbed at Aubrey with his cane. 'Fitzwilliam, you're Sir Darius's son, aren't you? And don't sigh or roll your eyes.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I thought so. Tell me, Fitzwilliam, you're in sixth form, finishing up here at Stonelea, fine school as it is.' He grinned at the headmaster, who smiled back awkwardly, then he turned his intensity back to Aubrey. 'What's next? What are you planning for your life? I'm interested.'

Aubrey folded his napkin and smoothed it in front of him. 'Army and university. I'm not sure in what order.'

Dr Tremaine pursed his lips. 'And then?'

Aubrey wondered at his interest. Dr Tremaine had questioned others at the table about their plans, but there was something insistent about this attention. 'I'm not sure,' he said, and he spread his hands. 'Travel? Stay in the army? More study? I've plenty of time to decide.'

Aubrey wasn't sure why he didn't reveal his true ambitions. He'd been impressed by Dr Tremaine. His immense energy, his spirit, and his profound knowledge of things magical set him apart from most of those who chose magic as their life. While most magicians were retiring, studious types, Mordecai Tremaine swaggered through the world of magic as if it he was a pirate captain on the deck of his prized flagship.

Is that why I don't want to tell him that magic won't be my entire life? Aubrey thought. Is it that I don't want to disappoint him?

He felt Dr Tremaine's compelling gaze as he tried to frame a suitable response.

The headmaster coughed, and Dr Tremaine seemed to remember he was there. 'Headmaster! You do fine work here!' He swept his arm around the table. 'Your students! I drink to them!'

He raised his wine, drained it and studied the empty glass. 'Fine vintage, headmaster.'

'Yes, well . . .' The headmaster grasped for a conversational straw. 'Tell us, Dr Tremaine, what are you working on at the moment?'

Dr Tremaine sat back in his seat and placed his arms on the rests. 'Many things, headmaster, many things. Foremost is my work heading up a top secret research establishment. Some fascinating magical work going on there. Can't say much, though.'

'Of course,' the headmaster said.

Aubrey couldn't help himself. 'Defence-related, is it?'

Dr Tremaine narrowed his eyes. 'Why do you say that, Fitzwilliam?'

'Well, doing work for the army or the navy would be the quickest way to earn top secret status, especially with the way things are going on the continent, hints of war and such.' He paused, then plunged ahead. 'There are rumours of Holmland aggression in the Goltan states, and even that they've used new magically enhanced weapons.'

Dr Tremaine was silent for a while, then he grinned and slapped the armrest. 'Damn me, Fitzwilliam, I like the way your mind works!' He turned to the head of the table. 'Headmaster, let me know if he wants to study magic at university. I'll put in a good word for him.'

Aubrey smiled, but he didn't fail to notice that Dr Tremaine hadn't answered his question.

Dr Tremaine pounded a fist on the table, pushed back his chair and stood. 'Staggeringly good meal, headmaster!'

The headmaster rose and looked worried. 'You'll stay and talk to some of the boys?'

Dr Tremaine shook his head and picked up his cane. 'I'd love to, but I have a young lady I promised to meet at the theatre. Hopeless actress, but you can't have everything.'

The headmaster looked nonplussed, but Dr Tremaine saw the direction of Aubrey's gaze. 'You like my cane, do you, Fitzwilliam?'

Aubrey had actually been wondering how he'd look with a cane like that. It was a dashing accessory. 'Yes, sir.'

'Well, I'd love to give it to you as a reward for your stimulating company, but,' he held it up in both hands, at chest height, 'this is special. Damned nuisance, but special.'

'It's handsome, sir.'

Dr Tremaine rubbed the pearl head with a thumb and stared at it. 'My sister gave it to me. Just before she died, she made me promise that it would never leave my side. Like a fool, I agreed.'

'Is it magical, sir?'

Dr Tremaine's face was thoughtful and he didn't take his gaze away from the pearl. 'No, not unless you mean the ordinary magic of memory.' He sighed. 'Every time I look at it, I remember her.' He shook himself. 'Enough of that.' He seized the headmaster's hand. 'Goodbye, headmaster. Best of luck with the gout!'

After Dr Tremaine left, driving an outrageous open automobile, Aubrey and George strolled back to their rooms. A spindly figure appeared around the corner of the gymnasium and tottered towards them.

'I wonder what Addison wants?' Aubrey said.

Addison was by far the oldest porter at Stonelea School, being young when Aubrey's grandfather was at the school. It was rumoured he'd been in the place longer than many of the buildings.

Bandy-legged and bald as an egg, he hurried towards them. One outstretched hand held an envelope and he had a newspaper tucked under his arm. 'Master Fitzwilliam!' he called. 'Master Fitzwilliam! Letter for you!'

'On a Sunday?' George said. Aubrey shrugged and held out his hand.

It was obvious that the letter was important. The envelope was a heavy, cream paper and when Aubrey turned it over the blob of red sealing wax stood out. He scratched at it with a thumbnail and its greasy solidity spoke of someone with money, a sense of tradition and extremely good taste. Someone very familiar.

A very formal approach, Father, he thought, then he read the letter. When he had finished, he carefully folded it and placed it back in the envelope. He ran one finger along the length of the envelope, thinking. 'Thank you, Addison,' he said vaguely.

Addison tipped his cap. As he turned to go, he remembered what was under his arm. 'Your newspaper, Master Doyle.' He thrust it at George and hurried off.

Aubrey began walking towards the boarding house, thinking deeply. George fell into step beside him. As they walked past the cricket nets, he burst out, 'Dash it, Aubrey! Who's that letter from?'

Aubrey blinked. 'Sorry. I was miles away.' He stopped and rested against the fence. He looked down at the envelope he still held. 'It's from my father. It's his official stationery and seal. He wants me to do something for him.'

'Something official?'

'Yes.'

'And you're wondering why he didn't ask you last night.'

Aubrey glanced sharply at George. His friend's broad, friendly face frowned back at him. With his height, massive frame and sandy hair, George looked every inch a country bumpkin, but Aubrey knew his friend was no fool. People don't know how shrewd you are, do they? he thought.

'Am I that easy to read?' he laughed. He set off again, striding comfortably. He felt strong, eager and alive, ready to challenge the world.

'Well, it's obvious that's what you'd be thinking,' George persisted.

Aubrey stopped and turned. He thrust out his chest, drew in his chin and looked at George over imaginary spectacles. 'Obvious, Doyle?' he barked in his best imitation of the Advanced Magic master. 'Be so good as to share the obvious with us all!'

George laughed. 'One day, Mr Ellwood will catch you doing that, Aubrey, and you'll be suspended from his classes. Then you'll be sorry.'

'You cannot deny an artist his craft,' Aubrey said. 'When the impulse comes on me, the actor comes out.' He chuckled. 'But I'm still interested in why you think I was wondering about my father.'

'It's not difficult. When you look particularly thoughtful and sombre, it's usually your father you're thinking of.'

Aubrey let out a long sigh. 'You've known my family for too long.' He looked away. 'Perhaps he simply couldn't ask me face to face.'

'Of course he could. Whatever it is.'

'You know, this is the first time he's ever asked me to do something official like this. I've been impatient, but now it's come I'm feeling a little –'

'Anxious? Nervous? Petrified?'

Aubrey glanced sharply at George. 'Anxious will do, old man.'

He turned away and gazed over the oval. How do you live up to a man like Darius Fitzwilliam? he thought. It was hard enough for the men he commanded in the army. But for me, his only son?

He knew many people simply wouldn't try. Casting such a bright light makes all others seem pale and insignificant. Better to turn away, not attempt the impossible. Achieving even some portion of his success would be a fine achievement. To others, though, having the bar set at such a dizzying height meant the challenge was greater.

Aubrey wasn't about to give up. His ambitions were very, very lofty.

'Well?' George said. 'Are you going to tell me what this mysterious task is?'

Aubrey considered for a moment. 'How's your aim?'

'My aim?'

'Shooting, George. A country boy like you should be a crack shot.'

'I do well enough.'

'Grand. You're doing nothing next weekend, I take it?'

'Aubrey, you know very well that I'm stuck at school every weekend during term time, home being so far away. What are you getting at?'

George's home may have been far away, but Aubrey had spent much time at the small farm in the weary old hills near Green River. George was an only child, and Mr and Mrs Doyle were always happy to have Aubrey visit – and it gave Mr Doyle and Sir Darius a chance to reminisce in the guarded, elusive way that old soldiers often have. Aubrey remembered lingering in the warm kitchen, amid the hunger-inducing smells of baking bread and spice cake, hoping to hear stories of the old regimental victories, but the two men tended to talk of comrades and their circumstances, Sir Darius usually providing most of the details.

'Bertie is hosting a shooting weekend at his estate and my father has been invited. Unfortunately, he's been called away, can't be there. He's asked me to deputise for him.'

'Bertie?'

'The Crown Prince, George. The heir to the throne of Albion. The oldest son of the King. My cousin. You know the one.'

'Ah. Prince Albert.'

George had never grown used to Aubrey's closeness to the Royal Family. Prince Albert was only a few years older than Aubrey and they'd spent much time together when younger.

Aubrey felt sorry for Bertie. He would have made an excellent banker or a businessman but instead he was destined to be a king. Fortunately, he had a strong sense of duty. He never complained and, in time, Aubrey had come to the conclusion that Bertie's sense of duty – and his thoughtfulness – would mean he'd work hard to become the best king he could.

And that should be very fine indeed, he thought.

'Think, George,' Aubrey continued, 'a relaxing weekend in the country. Plenty of good food, fine accommodation, interesting company . . .'

George grinned. 'A pity you're perfectly dreadful at shooting.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I've had all the lessons. I'm adequate.'

'Adequate? I suppose it depends on what you mean. If you mean that you haven't actually shot yourself by accident, then by all means describe yourself as adequate.' George laced his fingers together and placed them on his chest. 'I'll come, then. I might be able to spare you some embarrassment.'

'I'm honoured.'

Aubrey's father shot, of course. And played golf off scratch, was an expert bridge player, a champion horseman and sailed in international ocean races. Any pursuit that important men indulged in, Sir Darius Fitzwilliam was a leading light.

And here Sir Darius was asking Aubrey, for the first time, to deputise for him.

Aubrey decided that the official request meant that this was too important for an informal approach. This was the Leader of the Opposition needing someone to stand in for him. Aubrey felt a momentary glow at the trust this implied, but it faded when he realised that it was also a challenge, as was Sir Darius's wont.

Deputise. A simple word, but it was full of meaning. Aubrey knew he was able to chat to Bertie well enough, but 'deputise' meant more than that.

He tapped the letter in his pocket. Why didn't he give me a list of duties? he thought, but he knew the answer. It was like the dinner table challenge of the night before. The test was how Aubrey responded to such a broad brief as 'deputise'.

Aubrey ran through some possibilities. Observe. Be discreet. Keep up the Fitzwilliam name. Be diplomatic. Report back.

They set off again. In the distance, past the hockey field, the cadet corps were drilling. Fragments of shouted commands drifted to Aubrey, sounding like the yipping of excited dogs.

'It's a special weekend, George,' he said as they mounted the stairs to their room. 'The Crown Prince has asked some Holmland diplomats along.'

George raised his eyebrows. 'So soon after the sinking of the Osprey? Won't that be a little . . . well, awkward?'

'That's one of the things the Crown Prince is good at, smoothing over awkwardness. Much better than the King, at the moment, anyway. The Elektor of Holmland has publicly apologised for sinking our cruiser, the Holmland navy has expressed regret and called it a tragic error. Our government is apparently taking them at their word and trying to patch things up.'

Aubrey was sure that the King had had something to do with the invitation. It was probably another of his efforts to show all Albion what splendid fellows the Holmlanders were. As they had to be, ruled by the King's cousin. The Elektor of Holmland was one of his many kin on the continent and the King couldn't bear to see disharmony between the two countries. His efforts were genuine – as were the headaches they caused the Crown Prince and the government.

With the messy situation on the continent, especially the constant strife between the nations on the Goltan Peninsula, Aubrey was not about to disagree with attempts to keep the peace. Although he wondered what the wives and children of the lost sailors from the Osprey would say.

'Prince Albert enjoys hunting?' George threw open the door. The help had made the beds and rearranged the mess so it looked almost habitable again.

'Lord no, he can't stand it.' Aubrey stood at his desk, pushing his hair back out of his eyes.

George sat in the comfortable chair and unfolded the newspaper. 'I must have missed something. Prince Albert hates hunting but he's holding a gala shooting weekend and inviting a horde of Holmlanders to come along?'

'Duty, George. It's all about duty. Host the Holmlanders. Show them what a decent lot we are really. Emphasise the family ties, too, with Bertie playing the expansive host with one and all.'

Aubrey pulled a book from the crowded shelf over the desk.

'This wouldn't have anything to do with the war?'

Aubrey raised an eyebrow. 'What makes you think that?'

'Well, with the way your father has been making noises . . .' George paused, then he nodded. 'Ah.'

Aubrey turned back to his book. 'You see why Sir Darius Fitzwilliam was invited to this shooting weekend? And you see why he has to send someone in his place so it won't seem like he's snubbing the whole affair, thereby insulting not only the heir to the throne but the Holmland delegation, thus adding to the tension between our two countries?'

'I see why you have to go. And what the deuce are you reading?'

'Tremaine on Magic.'

'I see. A racy little story?'

'I wanted to check something. I had a thought about a novel method of applying two disparate magical laws in a way that may have a useful effect.'

'Something to make the Snainton Prize even more securely yours? I can't imagine anyone else matching you for Dux of the school.'

'No. This is more to do with our engagement next weekend. I was thinking about a way to improve my aim.'

George snorted. 'Practice being out of the question.'

'No time for that, George.' He pointed at Tremaine on Magic. 'The Law of Animation is reasonably well established – how to give lifeless objects some vigour through a variation on the Law of Contiguity.'

'Walking broomsticks fetching water, that sort of thing.'

'Exactly.' Aubrey nodded. 'It's not foolproof, but the variables are fairly well worked out. I was thinking of the shot used in the cartridges. If I could apply the Law of Animation and find some way to guide them, the shot could compensate for my inadequate aiming.'

'Ingenious.'

Aubrey seized Tremaine on Magic and flipped through the pages. 'Here it is: "The Law of Propensity – the tendency of objects towards certain actions. For example, most objects have a tendency to fall when dropped from a height."' He snapped the book shut. 'I think I can work this law so that the shot almost has a desire to go in the right direction, towards the target.'

George frowned for a moment. 'If you can perfect this, there may be many people who'd be interested in such a process.'

'Of course. Our friends in the army would love ammunition that wouldn't miss.'

'Smart bullets. Clever shells. Intelligent bombs.'

'Hmm.' Aubrey narrowed his eyes. 'If I can do this discreetly, no-one need ever know.'

George picked up the newspaper. 'Very discreetly.' He tapped the front page. 'Some Holmlander archduke or other is making rather colourful suggestions about your father and the policies he stands for.'

'Again?'

'You're not worried?'

Aubrey took another book from the bookshelf and sat at the desk. 'It wouldn't do much good if I were. Father won't stop making speeches, nor would I want him to.'

'You think he's right?'

'In standing up to bullies? Certainly. In bringing us closer to war? I'm not sure, but I'm not sure of the alternative, either.'

'Tricky thing, international relations.' George shook the newspaper. 'Let's bypass them and concentrate on something important.'

'The Personal Advertisements?'

'Precisely.'

'George, I've never understood your fascination with the agony columns.'

'I'm simply curious. Insight into other lives, glimpses of how strangers live, colourful details. Interesting stuff.'

'That's right. "Mr G. Brown will no longer be responsible for any debts incurred by his father as he is now dead." Profound, that.'

'What about "C.J. Send £10 at once. D.W."? Anything could be going on there. Blackmail, embezzlement, secret plans.'

'It's more likely that D.W. needs money and thinks C.J. is a soft touch.'

'Where's your imagination, old man?'

Aubrey chuckled and returned to his reading.

'What are you going to wear, Aubrey?' George said suddenly.

'To the shooting weekend? No idea.' Aubrey didn't look up from An Inquiry into Enchantments of Motion. He'd found some interesting approaches to the problem of changing momentum by spells that worked on variables of mass and velocity. 'But I'm sure Grandmother will have sorted that out. She'll probably get a trunk or two of clothes organised.'

'Ah.'

'Don't worry. The Holmlanders are notoriously bad dressers. They spend enormous amounts of money on clothes whenever they're posted over here, but they have abominable taste. They'll either look like walking haystacks or they'll scare away any game for miles.'

'That's not much consolation. "There goes George Doyle. He doesn't dress quite as badly as a Holmlander."'

'George, you have tweeds, perfectly acceptable shooting clothes. You're from the country, we're going out to the country. You'll be at home.'

'I hate tweed,' George mumbled. 'It itches.'