She gazed up at the shelves, at the hundreds of hats in every color and style.
“How about this nice Aplomb Beret?” she suggested. “In a very impressive shade of purple?”
But the actor waved his hands impatiently. “No, no, no! I must have a hat as unique as I am! It must be made for my head, and my head alone!”
Cordelia paused. She must have had a thousand Hatmaking lessons, but, of course, she was strictly forbidden to Make a hat by herself.
She chewed her lip. The actor looked at her expectantly.
“Listen,” she said. “If I Make you a hat from scratch, I’ll have to block it and sew it together, and it wouldn’t be ready for two days at least.”
“But I must have it right away!” The actor turned pale. “The play is tonight!”
“So let me choose one of these hats for you, sir. I’m sure I can find you a marvelous one, just right for chasing away stage fright.”
She waved her arm around the shop, at the hundreds of beautiful hats waiting for the right person.
“All right,” he agreed meekly. “But … maybe we could add an extra feather to it or something? If it doesn’t have enough decoration.”
Cordelia nodded. “Very well! That’s what we’ll do!”
She climbed the ladder and started taking hats down from the shelves. She handed the actor tricorns and bicorns, felt stovepipes and straw cloches, armfuls of bonnets, velvet turbans and linen nightcaps and even a gleaming helmet. After trying on and discarding about fifty hats, he eventually chose a tricorn in a thrilling shade of turquoise.
“Excellent decision, sir,” Cordelia congratulated him, climbing down the ladder. Uncle Tiberius always said it was best to tell the customer that they were making wise and insightful choices.
She read the paper label pinned to the inside of the hat.
“This hat is trimmed with Warble Ribbon and decorated with a Singing Sapphire,” she told the actor. “And it has these—” She pointed at the three fat brassy buttons on each point of the three-cornered hat.
“Yes!” the actor enthused. “Buttons of gold.”
Cordelia did not tell him they were called Braggart Buttons.
She thought the hat was very generously decorated already, but he clapped his hands and cried, “A feather, O Seraph! I must have a feather!”
Aunt Ariadne’s face swam before Cordelia’s eyes. You are not allowed to Hat-make, Cordelia. End of story.
But there was something much more important at stake than breaking Aunt Ariadne’s rules.
And she’ll be so happy when I bring Father home, Cordelia thought.
She dashed upstairs and fetched down a bouquet of exotic feathers from the Hatmaking Workshop. She fanned them out for the actor and he promptly chose the glossiest one in the bunch.
“The tail feather of an Upstart Crow,” she informed him. Then she thought for a moment. “You know what would go beautifully with it …”
“More feathers?” the actor suggested.
“No …”
She darted up the spiral stairs, all the way to the greenhouse. It was lush with the green tendrils of vines and the warm, damp air was perfumed. A new Loquacious Lily had opened, dropping fragrant pollen from its golden stamens. Carefully, Cordelia picked the lily and carried it out as gently as if she was carrying a live butterfly.
On her way back down the spiral staircase, the glint of instruments in the Alchemy Parlor made her pause. She should really be weighing and measuring, checking star charts and calculating … How would this lily behave side by side with the Singing Sapphire? Would Braggart Buttons and the tail feather of an Upstart Crow be too much for one hat?
Then something infinitely more interesting than Hatmaking equations caught her eye. Lying on the alchemy workbench were a dozen little star-shaped sequins, cut from thin gold. Their points, snip-sharp and sparkling, were pure glory. They would look magnificent on the actor’s hat.
She won’t miss three of them, Cordelia told herself, peering into the dark parlor to check that her great-aunt was sleeping.
Softly, she slid three sequins into her pocket, sneaked from the room and sped downstairs to the shop.
“Ah!” the actor exclaimed when he saw the beautiful lily. “Plucked from the lofty heights of heaven itself!”
Cordelia beamed and put her hand in her pocket. The actor’s eyes lit up when he saw the golden stars.
It was excellent fun adding things to hats.
She stood at the counter and sewed the sequins, feather, and lily onto the turquoise tricorn. As she sewed, the actor entertained her with a zestful series of his favorite speeches. He flung himself to the floor (again) and cried about a girl called Juliet. Then, standing on the chair, in a voice as high as a tight violin string, he whined about a boy named Romeo. He plotted to kill someone by the name of Caesar, sang a song called “Hey Nonny Nonny,” and finally put on an alarming Scottish accent and pretended to see a ghost.
When Cordelia presented him with the finished hat, he swept it onto his head and struck a gallant pose. The Impression Measurer read, Splendid Swaggerer!
“Aah!” he exclaimed. “You have truly made me a hat fit for an emperor, my lady!”
There was a rather long pause as he admired himself in the mirror. Cordelia was reminded of a pigeon cooing at its own reflection in a window. The stars on the hat flashed and winked.
“I, Sir Hugo Gushforth, am ever in your debt, Mistress Hatmaker,” he said, in a voice choked with emotion.
He kissed Cordelia’s hand and the new feather in his hat tickled her nose.
“If you give me a ticket to the play tonight, your debt is repaid,” she said, trying not to sneeze. “And can I also bring my friend Goose?”
“My bountiful lady, any friend of yours shall be treated as a prince among paupers!” he declared. “Give your name at the theater and you shall have the second-best box in the house!”
And, with that, Sir Hugo Gushforth swaggered from the shop. She could hear him bellowing poetry all the way down the street.
Sir Hugo’s verses had not quite faded from the air when Cordelia heard the rumble of the carriage pulling up at the front door of Hatmaker House.
Aunt Ariadne and Uncle Tiberius hurried into the shop.
“What ingredients do we need?” Uncle Tiberius was saying.
“Lullwool felt from the Welsh mountains,” Aunt Ariadne answered.
“Paxpearl Shells, from Ease Bay.” Uncle Tiberius was rolling up his sleeves with purpose.
“Cordial Blossoms,” Aunt Ariadne added. “And a little sifted starlight.”
“What’s happening?” Cordelia asked.
Aunt Ariadne kissed Cordelia on the forehead, while Uncle Tiberius turned a serious face to her. Both seemed so distracted that they did not notice what a state of turmoil the shop was in, with Sir Hugo’s rejected hats scattered everywhere.
“Princess Georgina has called for peace talks,” Aunt Ariadne told Cordelia. “With that wild youth the king of France.”
“He has been sending ruder and ruder letters to her,” Uncle Tiberius growled.
“Sage Ribbons. And Politic Cord too,” interrupted her aunt.
Her uncle nodded. “We shall need them post-haste.”
“We have been ordered by the princess to Make a Peace Hat, Cordelia,” her aunt explained. “It must be ready by noon, three days from now. And the other Makers are to Make Peace Clothes too—”
“Hah! Much good the boots will do!” Uncle Tiberius exploded. “More likely they will cause the princess to ride roughshod over diplomacy—stamp out any chance of peace! The hat’s the important thing! The head is where the thinking is done and the hat is what goes on the head!”
“Now, now, Tiberius, we should lay aside our differences in times like these,” Aunt Ariadne said. “We hope that all the Peace Clothes will have the desired effect, and there will be no war.”
“Where will the peace talks take place?” asked Cordelia.
“On a ship in the English Channel,” Aunt Ariadne told her.
“That’s not what the French call it,” Uncle Tiberius muttered darkly.
Aunt Ariadne fished a silver astronomic watch out of her pocket to consult it.
“When Venus rises this evening, we will begin,” she announced. “And Aquarius is in the ascendant, so that will help Great-aunt Petronella. She must distil some Esprit de corps.”
Uncle Tiberius went thundering up the stairs.
“I shall consult the Orrery!” he called down. “Before beginning the ribbons!”
“We must close the shop for the rest of the day,” Aunt Ariadne told Cordelia, locking the door. “All our efforts must go toward Making the Peace Hat!”
Cordelia felt suddenly uncertain.
“Will there really be a—a war?” she stammered. “I must rescue Father before it starts!”
Aunt Ariadne gazed down at her.
“If we Make the Peace Hat the best we can,” she murmured, “perhaps war can be avoided.”
“What can I do to help?” Cordelia asked.
Her aunt hesitated, so Cordelia fixed her most determined expression on her face. It was a mixture of very earnest and decidedly stubborn. It seemed to convince her aunt.
“Look in the books and find the runic symbol for peace. Trace it onto paper and your uncle will stitch it inside the brim with silver thread,” her aunt said, and hurried upstairs.
Alone in the shop, Cordelia felt cold and shaky, as though she had just been plunged into the icy sea.
She wondered if the peace talks would stop the princess lending her a boat so she could search for her father.
She shook her head. No. She would set sail on the midnight tide and would probably find him before noon tomorrow.
“I’m coming to find you, Father,” she said.
Then she hurtled upstairs to the Library and began pulling books from the shelves, hunting for the peace rune.
Then she hurtled upstairs to the Library and began pulling books from the shelves, hunting for the peace rune.
CHAPTER 11
SHE FOUND THE RUNE IN THE FOURTH BOOK SHE looked in and traced the spiky diamond shape onto a strip of fragile paper.
“Here, Uncle, I’ve got it!” she shouted, tumbling into the Hatmaking Workshop.
“Shhh!” Aunt Ariadne hushed her.
Uncle Tiberius was bent over a small wooden loom, weaving fine strands of silver into a ribbon. His large hands worked deftly with the delicate threads and his tongue poked out of his mouth in concentration.
“Thing is …” he muttered, as much to himself as anybody else, “it requires tact and politeness to bring these threads together … and silence is vital, Dilly …”
“Sorry,” Cordelia whispered.
“Lay the paper there, Cordelia, thank you.” Aunt Ariadne’s arms had turned pale blue: she was up to her elbows in a vat of dye. Cordelia could smell chamomile and woad steeping in the hot water.
“Can I do anything else?” Cordelia asked, but her aunt shook her head.
“Run along. Go and play. Quietly.”
Cordelia laid the rune on the table and backed reluctantly out of the workshop. She closed the door as softly as she could. There was still an hour to go before it was time to set out for the theater. She felt restless, keen to do something useful to make the time go quicker.
In the Alchemy Parlor, she found Great-aunt Petronella squinting into one of her telescopes while tying a piece of copper wire in complicated knots.
“Great-aunt, can I help you with anything?”
“Για να δώσετε μια ασημένια γλώσσα στην πριγκίπισσα,” Great-aunt Petronella said, screwing her eye into the telescope again and swiveling the dials.
Cordelia sighed. When her great-aunt started speaking Ancient Greek, it was time to leave. She would not get an English word out of her for several hours.
She hurried back to the Library and threw open the window, searching the sky for Agatha. Nothing.
“I wish she would hurry up,” Cordelia said, stroking Margaret’s wing. “It would be useful to have a note from Father before I set off tonight, with his location, so I can find him by the stars.”
Margaret cooed in an understanding sort of way.
Suddenly Cordelia remembered that she hadn’t told Goose about their trip to the theater. She scrawled a message, with instructions to be ready on the corner of his street at seven o’clock.
“You’re looking for a boy,” she whispered to Margaret, rolling the note up. “About this tall, and quite clever, with a slightly strange haircut. He has a timid expression, except when he’s talking about boats. He’s only three streets away, at Bootmaker Mansion, probably in his schoolroom. Make sure his mother doesn’t see you. Tap on his window with your beak.”
She stood watching Margaret flit into the dusk. The sky was growing dark, ocean-deep. She searched the heavens until her eyes watered for a sign of the speckle-winged Agatha flying back to her. How wide was the world? How long would it take the bird to wing her way through the sky to her father?
A little while later, Cordelia softly pushed open the workshop door to discover that her aunt and uncle were still busily occupied. Venus winked outside the window and they were steaming and pinning felt onto the hatblock in the middle of the workbench. For several awed moments, Cordelia watched as the hat began to take shape in front of her eyes. Then she tiptoed away.
In her Alchemy Parlor Great-aunt Petronella was stirring her fire, and in the kitchen Cook was stirring her saucepans.
Cordelia left a note in the front hall:
Gone to the theater! To see a play about a nunnery.
Love, Dilly
Then she slipped out of the door. She was wearing her best cape and a handsome hat, decorated with a plumy Moonwing feather that she had borrowed from the shop window.
She walked quickly to the bottom of Bulstrode Street. Because Hatmakers and Bootmakers were sworn enemies, Cordelia was not welcome at Goose’s house. Not that it looked very welcoming anyway. It was a tall gray building with dark windows and complicated carving on the stonework. She dawdled on the corner at a safe distance.
Nearby St. Auspice’s Church struck seven and a small figure emerged from the front door of the mansion and hared down the street toward her.
“Evening, Cordelia!” Goose panted, out of breath already. “This is exciting!”
Cordelia smiled.
“Hello, Goose! You got away all right then. What excuse did you give your parents?” she asked, glancing back at gloomy Bootmaker Mansion.
Goose waved his hand. “Oh, they’re both really busy working on—um—on some important things,” he replied. “They won’t even notice I’m gone.”
“Here, put this on.”
Cordelia pulled a Camouflage Cap from under her cape. Even though it looked like a normal black top hat, it had a cleverly concealed wire that wrapped around the chin. A bushy beard and impressive mustache (made of crimped sheep’s wool dyed rusty red) was attached to the wire. When Goose put it on, he looked as though he had sprouted a full face of hair. Cordelia snorted with laughter.
“You look very grown-up all of a sudden!”
“This is so clever!” Goose enthused, twirling the tips of his new mustache. “I’ve never worn a Hatmaker hat before!”
They set off for the theater through the streets and squares of London. Halfway along Bond Street, they saw Sam Lightfinger hawking a newspaper called The Evening Sneer.
“GETCHA EVENIN’ SNEER! READ ALL ABOUT THE STINKY FRENCH!”
“Let’s cross over,” Goose urged, pulling Cordelia by the elbow. “That’s Cloakmaker Hall—I don’t want to walk past the front door.”
So Cordelia contented herself with waving to Sam from across the road. Sam waved back.
“Need any NEWS?” he yelled. “It’s extra-bad tonight!”
“No, thanks!” Cordelia called, hurrying after Goose.
Hatma
ker and Bootmaker were just passing through leafy Berkeley Square when a shout rang out.
“Hey, sir! I demand that you face me!”
Cordelia and Goose swung around, surprised.
“Ah! You lily-livered scoundrel!” another voice yelped. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”
It was the young men who had come into the shop earlier, each demanding a hat to win a duel. They were marching toward each other, red in the face. Cordelia was glad to see they were both clutching their hatboxes. One of the boys had a girl following him. She was dressed in a frilly frock and trying to look dramatic.
“Oh, Archibald! Please do not duel on my account!” she cried, waving a lace handkerchief around. “Have mercy!”
“Stay out of this, Janet,” the boy called Archibald snapped.
Janet looked miffed.
“You!” Archibald pointed at the other boy. “Ferdinand Spouter! You have been a thorn in my side for too long!”
“HAH!” bellowed Ferdinand. “You are not sharp enough to be a thorn, Baldie Bluntwort. You are a pebble in my shoe! And a dull, gray one at that!”
“’Tis time for the pistols!” Archibald announced, shaking away Janet. He never took his eyes off Ferdinand.
Cordelia pulled Goose behind a tree in case things went badly wrong.
Janet was wailing, “Ay, me!” in a very shrill voice.
“Oh, do shut up your bleating, Sniffy Goat Gruff,” Ferdinand barked at her, taking a pistol.
“How dare you!” Janet bawled.
“Ten paces!” Archibald yelled.
Cordelia peered out from behind the tree.
The boys, each gripping a pistol, took ten long strides in opposite directions, and turned to face each other. Then they opened their hatboxes and pulled out the hats. Cordelia saw the gleam of the pale cap and the flash of the red beret as they jammed them on their heads.
Janet was watching with an eager, triumphant look on her face. Goose groaned. Cordelia held her breath.
There was a moment when the gunshots should have come.
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