The Twilight Prince

Chapter Thirteen: Mrs Cavendish

Dad had a name for buildings like the Old Royal Naval College.

"The Noble Fleet."

Abigail shot me a suspicious glance in the mirror.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

I didn't realise I'd said it out loud.

"It's just something Dad used to say," I said.

"What does it mean?" she asked again.

"Just...there are a lot of big ideas in London," I said. From the way Abigail looked at me, that clearly wasn't good enough. I continued.

"Dad said London takes big ideas from everywhere around the world," I explained. "The whole city is a museum. And the ideas are so big that they had to come here by boat, and people put walls around them, so no-one could take them away.

"Whenever Dad took me up to London, it was to visit one of those buildings. We would take the train to Waterloo, grab lunch at Covent Garden, and visit the Globe Theatre, or the British Museum, or Kew Gardens, or Alexandra Palace, or Horse Guards Parade."

"And he called those places the Noble Fleet?"

"Right. For years, I thought—"

"Hang on."

Abigail executed a slick parallel parking manoeuvre into an empty space.

"We're here," said Abigail. "What were you saying?"

"No, nothing. Only that, for years I thought Dad's ships were really real, and that there was an actual fleet of ships under all those buildings. I didn't get that he was just being colourful."

Abigail hissed derisively. "Parents lie and call it stories," she said. "Come on."

She slipped a card onto the dashboard that showed we were here on military business.

We walked up to a house with blooming flower boxes under shutter-framed windows, and we entered the side-alley through a gate that led to a small, pretty garden with wildflower beds and an ornamental archway to nowhere. A worn stone sundial acted as a birdbath for a couple of merry finches, and a wicker armchair stood in the shade of a young tree. Beside the chair was a mosaic-topped table that held a long summer drink and a book, open and face down. 'The History of the East Midlands Railway'.

"She reads a lot," said Abigail. "Go down to the pool room and let yourself in. She's expecting you. I'll stay here. She likes to meet new people alone."

Hesitantly, I took the steps down to the basement.

The pool room was large and white and lined with antiseptic-looking tiles. The sun streamed in through skylight windows, and a large swimming pool occupied most of the space.

This was not a pool I wanted to swim in. Giant lily pads covered the surface, bearing globe-shaped white lilies and linked by a maze of trailing vines. The water was brackish green, and within its murk I saw flashes of golden fish, and something larger and darker that moved slowly beneath them.

I didn't see any sign of the lady of the house. I seemed to be all alone.

Just when I thought I had better go back and ask Abigail what to do, bubbles burst on the surface of the pool and a hand broke through the water.

The hand was jewelled with flowers and tangled in green lace that stretched the length of the arm. Small stars winked in the water, soon revealed as sparkling gemstones on a golden tiara, nestled on a head of thick brown hair.

The woman kept her head bowed so that I could not see her face as she emerged. She wore an ice-blue shawl across her shoulders, clasped with a flint arrowhead. Her right hand, held high, trailed ribbons of yellow paper and gripped a glass ball filled with racing clouds. Her dress was feathered fabric in flaming shades of orange and purple, tapering down to a field-green hem. Her boots were black and looked like the scaly skin of an ancient fish.