The king looked keenly at Cordelia. “A child’s laughter is the best medicine,” he said, waving the radish leaves. “Excepting, of course, in cases of excessive hiccups. Then one must be sat upon by a springer spaniel until it stops.”
Cordelia nodded politely.
“Clap this madman in irons!” King George bellowed, leaping down from the throne, crunching a silver fobwatch underfoot as he landed. Then he kicked up a great pile of papers and sniggered as they fell around him like autumn leaves.
“Majesty, I beg you, do not kick those papers,” Lord Witloof implored. “They are important documents to ensure we keep peace with France!”
“Shall we try again, my lord?” the princess suggested, shaking the purple cloak.
Lord Witloof nodded.
“I shall ready the documents,” he whispered, shuffling the papers back into order as the king became distracted by his own reflection in a golden plate. Lord Witloof piled the papers onto the desk by the window and dipped a swan’s-feather quill in the inkpot.
“Will you please be bait again?” the princess asked him.
Lord Witloof sighed, before holding the quill up over his head like a cockatoo’s crest.
“Come and get me, Your Majesty,” he cooed.
The king stopped pulling faces into the shiny plate and crept toward the lord like a cat stalking a sparrow. When he paused to pretend to wash his whiskers, the princess threw the cloak over his shoulders.
For a moment King George stood rigid and tall, suddenly regal. The cloak flowed around his shoulders and Lord Witloof swept him toward the desk.
“Sign here, Your Majesty! Just GR, that will do,” Lord Witloof said, in a jovial, encouraging sort of voice.
The king took the quill, gazing down at the papers.
Nobody breathed as he raised it, twirled it once in his hand—and suddenly tickled Lord Witloof’s nose with it.
“Nah–CHOOO!” Lord Witloof sneezed.
Cackling with furious glee, the king swept the entire pile of papers out of the open window and smashed the inkpot for good measure.
The princess sobbed.
“Enough of that guff!” the king cried, jumping up. “Watch my polka!”
His Majesty twirled round and round his disordered room, flinging the purple cloak out behind him like a pair of thistledown wings.
Lord Witloof stared despairingly out of the window at the papers drifting down to the ground.
“It is well past the time those papers were meant to be delivered,” he sighed, fishing in his jacket. He pulled out a glass pocket watch with a blue butterfly on its face and groaned. “Lord above, horribly late! And His Majesty’s behavior is getting worse! He began by just being a little flighty—playing with his food, doing silly voices and such. But it’s so bad now that he can’t concentrate even for a minute! It’s all farting and dancing and refusing to put on his trousers!”
Cordelia could see how difficult it must be to have an excessively silly king running amok in the palace, though she did think he danced an excellent polka. The king tried to whirl his daughter into the dance, but she pulled her hands away.
Her father is lost too, in a different way from mine, Cordelia thought.
“Everything he’s tried only works for a moment or two!” the princess burst out. “The Watchmakers’ Logic Watch only worked for two seconds, and now it’s smashed to bits; the Bootmakers’ Pondersome Boots didn’t even reach his feet; the Heavy-handed Gloves from the Glovemakers wouldn’t stop him fidgeting even for a minute. And the Cl—Oh, no!”
The king had thrown the cloak off the state balcony and was gazing in wonder as it swam down through the air like a strange purple jellyfish.
“You are our last chance, Hatmakers! If this hat does not cure my father of his baffling behavior, I don’t know what else is to be done!”
“We have actually called for the king’s doctor,” Lord Witloof told them. “To see if he can shed any light on this—please fetch him, Probert.” He signaled to a footman, who hurried out.
“Dear me,” Uncle Tiberius murmured. “A doctor. How modern.”
Moments later the footman returned, followed by a tall man wearing a serious frown to match his serious mustache.
“Ah, Doctor Leech, do come in,” Lord Witloof said.
“Good morning, Your Highness.” The doctor nodded gravely. “Lord Witloof.”
He raised one eyebrow at the Hatmakers before setting his black bag down on the desk.
“I was just telling the Hatmakers how it is vitally important that the king ceases this silliness,” Lord Witloof continued soberly. “France is threatening war. And if His Majesty cannot concentrate long enough to sign these papers, the whole kingdom will be in danger. It is a most distressing situation.”
Aunt Ariadne opened the hatbox and lifted out the Concentration Hat. Doctor Leech looked down his nose at it.
“I am sorry to tell Your Highness and Your Excellency,” Aunt Ariadne said, “that this hat is incomplete.”
Princess Georgina looked crestfallen.
“As Lord Witloof may have told you, Your Highness, my brother, Prospero Hatmaker, has been lost at sea along with the family ship,” Uncle Tiberius began. But he stopped suddenly, flourishing his green silk handkerchief in front of his face.
Princess Georgina’s hands flew to her mouth and Lord Witloof looked wretched. The king pranced gaily past them, riding his scepter like a hobby horse.
“He was bringing back a rare feather, from the Athenian Owl, which we are sure would have helped His Majesty …” Aunt Ariadne explained.
The doctor cleared his throat, but Cordelia thought it sounded as though he was smothering a scornful laugh. Aunt Ariadne’s voice tailed off and a sorrowful silence held the room, punctuated by the clip-clopping the king was making for his pretend horse.
“Prospero Hatmaker was a good man,” Lord Witloof declared. “We were at Cambridge together, though he was several years below me, of course, studying Alchemic Theory and Practice. He won the Dee Prize in his first year for decocting Spiritus Sancti, if I recall. England has lost a fine adventurer and an excellent Hatmaker.”
We shall see about that! Cordelia’s thought blazed, fire-bright.
Uncle Tiberius sniffed and said firmly, “We must be-hat the king, and, in the absence of the Athenian Owl feather, trust that we have done enough.”
“Of course,” Aunt Ariadne added delicately, “in the oldest customs of the Makers of the Royal Garb, the clothes are most powerful when all of them are worn together …”
She glanced around at the scattered clothes.
Lord Witloof sighed. “Indeed, but it is difficult enough to persuade him to put on one thing, Madam Hatmaker.”
All heads turned to the king, who had abandoned the scepter and was dangling upside down from a long velvet curtain. It was decidedly difficult (though not unheard of) to put a hat on an upside-down head.
“Your Majesty, please come down from there,” Lord Witloof wheedled. “You are the Commander of the King’s Army and the Grand Admiral of the Royal Navy, but you can sensibly be neither with your feet up over your head.”
“Majesty, here is a very fine hat for you to try,” Aunt Ariadne said in a sing-song voice.
The king looked sideways at the hat. Lord Witloof took a step forward and the king shrieked and tried to scramble up the curtains.
“He’ll fall!” cried the princess.
The king howled, clinging to the brass curtain pole. The princess, Lord Witloof, and the Hatmakers all beseeched His Majesty to come down. The doctor watched with folded arms.
Poor king, Cordelia thought. It must be very difficult to always have to be sensible. It must be awful for people to take you terribly seriously at all times. And it must be so lonely to have nobody to dance with.
So, without really thinking about it, she began to dance.
She held out her skirts and romped in a circle, whistling a shanty her father had taught her. She leaped into
the air and threw her arms above her head and wiggled her fingers.
The king was enthralled. He gazed at the dancing girl, eyes filled with wonder. Slowly, he slid down from the curtains and Aunt Ariadne gently motioned for everybody to step aside.
The king inched toward Cordelia, joining in with her song.
She tapped her toe; he tapped his toe.
She twirled; he twirled.
She stood on her tiptoes and floated her arms out by her sides and so did he, and—
“There!” breathed Aunt Ariadne, placing the hat on the king’s head.
The king changed.
Cordelia was almost nose to nose with him when it happened: the Concentration Hat was working its magic.
CHAPTER 6
THE FRENZIED EXPRESSION MELTED FROM THE king’s face. Cordelia was surprised to see a look of desolate sorrow sweep into his eyes.
“Oh,” she said very quietly.
“Yes,” answered the king. He sighed the sigh of a sensible, sad man.
“Why?” Cordelia whispered.
“I will tell you,” replied the king, “but first I must take off my shoes!”
He began hopping up and down on one foot, tugging at his tightly buckled shoe.
“Oh dear,” Lord Witloof groaned.
“The hat has failed,” Doctor Leech said, stepping forward.
“No! It’s working!” Cordelia objected.
The doctor ignored her. He took the king’s wrists, but the king resisted, reaching for his shoes.
“Could we at least try to dress him in all the clothes at once?” Aunt Ariadne suggested, picking up a Heavy-handed Glove.
“We should try,” Lord Witloof agreed, as Cordelia retrieved a blue Pondersome Boot. “We must leave no stone unturned.”
There was a scuffle between the doctor and the king, and the beautiful green-and-silver hat fell off the royal head and was trodden upon. The spider silk tangled around the king’s foot and the smell of crushed rosemary wafted through the room.
“No!” Uncle Tiberius wailed.
“We are wasting time with these fripperies!” the doctor snapped, kicking the ruined hat away. “Now is the time for science, not old-fashioned superstitious nonsense.”
“Nonsense!” Uncle Tiberius burst out indignantly, but Aunt Ariadne laid a hand on his arm and he fell silent.
The doctor stuck his finger in the king’s ear and pronounced, “It is as I thought. His brain is too hot. He should be sent on a trip to the seaside. Sea air will blow the excessive heat away.”
Lord Witloof crinkled his forehead. “Is there no immediate cure?” he asked. “I do not think the king should be away from the palace …”
The doctor shook his head firmly. Princess Georgina gave a sob, and the lord placed a comforting hand on her arm, saying, “Let us trust the doctor, Your Highness. A holiday at the seaside will clear his head. He’ll be good as new soon.”
The king was now blowing raspberries at Doctor Leech.
“I shall take His Majesty to his bedchamber,” the doctor announced, “and prepare him to travel tonight.”
The doctor led the king out of the room, enduring the very rude raspberry noises. Princess Georgina forlornly watched him go.
Uncle Tiberius and Aunt Ariadne were silent. But Cordelia could not stop herself.
“He only wanted to take off his shoes!” she cried.
“A king is never seen without his shoes,” Lord Witloof said seriously. “It is considered most undignified.”
He turned with great ceremony to the princess.
“Your Highness, Princess Georgina,” Lord Witloof intoned. “As the king’s only heir, it is your solemn duty to assume the duties of your father, while he is absent.”
The princess stood, bewildered, amid the chaos her father had left.
“Do not fear, Your Highness,” he continued. “As Lord Privy Councilor, I shall be with you every step of the way.”
He bowed low, his nose almost touching his knee. The princess gave him a grateful smile.
Cordelia suddenly had an idea. “Does that mean you’re the Grand Admiral of the Navy now, Your Highness?”
The princess paused, looking uncertainly at Lord Witloof, who nodded.
“Yes,” the princess said. “I suppose I am.”
Cordelia felt a surge of hope break like a wave in her chest.
“Please can you send a ship to look for my father?” she asked. “He’s lost at sea, and he’d be found so much more quickly if the fastest ship in the Navy was sent—”
Before the princess could respond, Lord Witloof shook his head.
“I’m afraid that will be impossible, my dear Miss Hatmaker,” he said gravely. “No ship can be spared while France threatens war. They must all wait in the English Channel in case of an attack.”
“But—” Cordelia started to argue.
Princess Georgina got there first. “Surely one boat—” the princess began, but Lord Witloof cut across her.
“No boats can be spared, I am afraid!” he said fretfully. “Not even the post boat. War could erupt at any moment and every vessel is needed to defend our shores. The king would agree with me, Your Highness, if he was not being so silly.”
The princess blushed. Cordelia swallowed a protest as Lord Witloof smiled down at her in an understanding sort of way.
“Even if your dear father somehow survived the wreck,” he said, “the currents around the Rivermouth rocks are treachery itself.”
When the Hatmakers sat down for supper that night, Prospero’s absence solidified around them, like snow hardening to ice.
Aunt Ariadne stared silently at the tablecloth while Uncle Tiberius muttered darkly about doctors. Great-aunt Petronella fidgeted. Cordelia kept twisting in her seat to look out of the window. Around the shoulders of neighboring buildings, fog was settling in a thick cloak.
Would Agatha rest overnight, or try to find her way home in the dark with the message from Father?
Though none of the Hatmakers desired even one bite of food, Cook had other plans. Every meal Cook made was a symphony of deliciousness. “Food is a kind of magic, just like Hatmaking,” she had once whispered to Cordelia, sprinkling a pinch of pepper over a dish. “Food can heal all manner of maladies.”
Cook would stir up herby stews to soothe hurt feelings, bake honey cakes to mend broken hearts, make crinkle-crusted pies for courage and melting-cheese pastries to bolster tired souls. Her cucumber soup could cool a hot temper and her bread-and-butter pudding inspired kindness in even the grumpiest person. Her roast potatoes seemed to help with everything.
Tonight she brought a huge plate, laden with roast potatoes, to the table. Their golden hot scent made everyone look up.
“Here we are,” Cook clucked, dishing up a small mound of potatoes on each plate. “Start with these and we’ll see how we go.”
Through a clever combination of temptation and praise, Cook coaxed each Hatmaker to finish their dinner. Then she brought out a caramel custard and a jug of cream. Half an hour later, she ushered the Hatmakers up to bed.
“Sleep well, my love,” Cook said, kissing Cordelia on the head. “Things will feel a little bit better in the morning.”
Cordelia smiled drowsily at Cook, thinking, I won’t sleep! I’ll stay wide awake until Agatha gets back.
But somehow, when she clambered under the blankets, her limbs grew heavier and heavier as sleep called her down into the deep.
When Cordelia woke, the fog had cleared in the morning sun, but there was still no sign of Agatha. In the Library, she filled up the Quest Pigeons’ seed tray, frowning.
The birds cooed, blinking at her. One tendril of doubt clung like a cobweb around Cordelia’s brain, but she shook it—hard—out of her mind.
“Agatha will be back very soon, with Father’s exact location,” she said, as she tickled Margaret’s tawny wing. “He’ll have drawn me a star-map to show where he is. I’ll be head of the rescue expedition.”
“MAAAAAAK-I
NG!”
A sudden, terrible squawking erupted outside. Cordelia fumbled with the latch of the window and stuck her head out into the morning air.
On the street below stood a small figure. It was human but there was a lot of flapping going on, rather as though it was a large brown bird. It wore a ragged assortment of clothes topped with a too-big cloth cap. And it was holding a newspaper in each hand and waving them in the faces of passers-by.
“MAAAAAAK-ING!” the figure shouted, making a passing gentleman in a blue waistcoat jump, but a coachman took a copy and flipped a coin to the flapping figure.
“MAAAAAA—”
“HELLO!” shouted Cordelia.
The figure looked up: she saw a grubby face with big eyes and a bigger smile. It was a boy about Cordelia’s age. He brandished a newspaper at her and shouted, “MAAAAAAK—”
“Why,” interrupted Cordelia, “are you shouting so loudly this early in the morning?”
“Sellin’ papers!” said the boy.
“Could you do it a bit more quietly?” asked Cordelia.
“Don’t sell ’em so easy if I’m quiet,” said the boy. “Gotta yell ’em the news so they buy the paper.”
“Out of interest, what is the news this morning?” Cordelia enquired.
“MAAAAAAK-ING!” the boy shouted at the top of his lungs, frightening a milkman and a pigeon in one go. The Hatmakers’ horses whinnied in their stable and the donkey from across the way brayed.
Cordelia covered her ears.
“What is Maaaaaak-ing, in plain English?” she asked.
He coughed and said, “Mad king.”
“Wait there, please—I’m coming down!” Cordelia said to the boy.
CHAPTER 7
CORDELIA POURED TWO CUPS OF HONEYMILK tea from the copper kettle hanging over the kitchen fire. She carried the steaming cups out onto the street and handed one to the boy.
He took it gratefully and emptied it with a single gulp.
The Hatmakers Page 3