Андреа Хёст - The Pyramids of London

Dismissing their attempts to bow to her, Princess Leodhild apologised instead for forgetting that Aunt Arianne might have difficulties with the location, and then Griff and Eleri got a look at what was on the table, and any hope of maintaining proper decorum was entirely lost.

“The vampire tunnels!” Griff crowed, and thrust head and shoulders over the table to study the diagram the princess had before her. “They are digging south of the river already!”

“Just survey digging,” the princess said, thankfully not affronted. “You think vampires are digging tunnels?”

“To get about during the day.”

“Not very cost-effective. A well-curtained carriage and a quick dash for the door have been working well enough for millennia. Tunnels would be an extravagance.”

Eleri, in the meantime, had drawn out one curling sheet that had been pushed toward the back of the table, and was studying it minutely. It was a flying machine, one quite unlike the lumbering dirigibles that ruled the skies. Eleri, being Eleri, found a pencil on the table and began making alterations.

“Your pardon, highness,” Aunt Arianne said. “I fear I overestimated this pair’s base level of courtesy.”

Her voice was as light as ever, but Griff straightened apologetically and Eleri at least glanced up.

Princess Leodhild waved an indifferent hand. “No matter: I rarely stand on ceremony. And I suspect them to merely be complimenting my character. You feel you have found a flaw in the design, youngling?”

“Only a suggestion.” Eleri put the pencil down, and then offered the sheet to the princess, as if being marked on a test.

Glancing down, Princess Leodhild said: “I’ll pass it on to Minister Trevelyan. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the feedback.”

There was no note of sarcasm to the words, and the princess saw them settled on cushioned seats before plying Eleri with questions about the process of adapting their grandfather’s old mannequin into an automaton. Griff immediately began to sketch the surrounding buildings, but Eluned hated to even look at the garden. Created by the Queen’s Consort, it was said to be an exquisite jewel, but currently shared with much of Prytennia a sadly wind-burned condition.

Peering instead at a small pile of new-looking books on the table, she found fearfully dull titles like The Principles of Ma’at and Prytennia’s Concept of Justice , and The Role of Auguries in Roman Decision-Making . There was one, Allegiance: Born, Territorial, Bestowed, Taken, that made her hand itch again, reminding her that Cernunnos now had a claim to her soul, but then a whole line of people arrived, and took the entire table away, replacing it with a fresh one that was rapidly filled with glasses of watermelon juice, and tiny sandwiches, cakes and ices, vivid and sweet and wonderfully cold on a hot summer afternoon.

Princess Leodhild kept them talking, asking questions about their parents, and their studies, and Forest House. She even knew about the visit from the dryw of the Order of the Oak, and what he’d said, though she shrugged off attempts to interpret the Speaking.

“Such a ridiculously vague collection of words. He might as well have recited his grocery list to you. There’s sure to be a great deal of fuss, but other than, perhaps, avoiding things with four eyes—or whatever you interpret a quartered glance as—I’d recommend just getting on with life. Put your energy to the task at hand rather than second-guessing the significance of anything so imprecise.”

“I fear it’s not our attitude that’s going to be the problem,” Aunt Arianne said.

“Yes. That storm will break today, which makes the timing of this meeting fortuitous, though it’s a pity Tanwen is away walking Nimelleth’s spine. But Our attitude will be positive, and it will give people something to talk of other than wind. And Egyptians.” Princess Leodhild shrugged, setting her curls bouncing. “The scrutiny may be uncomfortable, especially since you have such a romantic background. Do you paint or sculpt yourself?”

Aunt Arianne shook her head. “My parents gave me a great deal of training, but I had neither the talent nor the passion.”

During that first busy afternoon at Forest House, Eluned had heard her aunt answer almost the exact same way at least twice, and wondered how she managed to sound so unconcerned. Eluned could readily imagine the crawly little feeling of failure that would come each and every time she had to make the admission. At least Princess Leodhild didn’t respond with the flat ‘oh’ of those earlier questioners.

Griff tucked himself into Eluned’s side. Recognising this reaction, she looked about, and spotted the cause in the arms of a tall boy leading three girls from one of the residences.

Although Eluned had only ever seen a few grainy and distant photographs of them in the newspapers, it was impossible not to recognise these newcomers: Princess Leodhild’s three children, and Queen Tanwen’s younger daughter, Princess Celestine.

“Sorry, mother,” the boy said. “I don’t think this can wait.”

Prince Luc was a rarity: a son of one of the Suleviae, born before Princess Leodhild had ascended. He was thin, had skin, hair and eyes in similar tones of light brown, and was said to be a very quiet person. The animal he carried was far more distinctive: a puppy, white all over except for long, silky red ears.

“Has Arawn been visiting?” Princess Leodhild asked, but she frowned as she joked, for the King of the Dead came to the living world only in times of great need, or to hunt the spirits of the lingering dead. And it would be a remarkable thing, a doom-tiding, to leave one of his hounds, the Cŵn Annwn, behind.

“It was one of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, Mother,” said the tallest of the girls. This would be Princess Iona, who had her mother’s generous tumble of curls. “Walked in on us from nowhere, and said this was a birthday present for Cele.”

“And I would like him back, if you please,” said the next-tallest girl, whose hair was very long and straight and dark. “Luc, you had no right to take him.”

Eluned had to work very hard not to stare impolitely, for Princess Celestine was reputedly the daughter of a dragon, and thus naturally the most interesting person who could possibly interrupt afternoon tea. The history behind her birth was one of Prytennia’s greatest love stories—or grandest hoaxes.

“Named him Falinis, too,” Princess Iona said. “Have we done something to upset the Tuatha Dé?”

Princess Leodhild held out her arms, and Prince Luc handed the puppy over. The animal, obviously still very young, tolerated the transfer placidly, and briefly raised his slender head to consider his new custodian.

“A fortnight ago an Alban-bound airship was caught by the windstorms and blown right over Danuin’s mist wall,” Princess Leodhild said. “This may well be a pointed comment.”

“Showing that they can easily reach us, if we repeat the error?” Princess Iona stretched out her hand to allow the puppy to scent the back of her fingers, which he did with a grave dignity. “May I have permission to carry a weapon to lessons?”

“Not in this century,” Princess Leodhild said, then added: “Dimity!”

I‑i‑EE!

A whirling pinwheel of blue and white popped into existence, and Eluned cast a brief, delighted glance at Eleri, then drank in this up-close encounter with the most famed of the Suleviae’s creatures. The triskelion were completely Otherworldly, lacking mouths, or eyes, or anything but their wings. Their name meant ‘three legged’, for during pitched battle they had been known to roll along the ground. This one was tiny, its ‘voice’—a sound generated by its spinning—high and bright.