Cordelia grabbed him and pushed him behind the prickly velvet curtains as a scrum of Makers jostled in the dark. “Goose!” she whispered. “It’s me.”
There was a silence that was pricklier than the curtains.
“Goose?” Cordelia repeated. “It’s me, Cordelia!”
“What do you want?” he said, in a small, surly voice.
Cordelia paused. “Um …”
“I thought you were my friend!”
Cordelia could barely hear Goose over the squabbling of the Makers.
“I am your friend, Goose!” she whispered.
“Then why did you rob us?”
“Rob you? I didn’t—you don’t believe—” Cordelia began, but Goose interrupted.
“You stole our Peace Boots! I know you did!”
“I didn’t steal your Peace Boots, Goose!” Cordelia spluttered. “I would never!”
“You’re lying!” Goose spat. “My mother was right! She’s always said Hatmakers are no good.”
Cordelia shook her head. “Goose, I promise I didn’t—”
“Hah!” Goose snapped. “You can’t lie to me about it. Here—I found this on the floor in my schoolroom this morning. I suppose you want it back.”
He pushed a tiny bundle into Cordelia’s hands, but it was too dark to see.
“What’s this?”
“Evidence,” Goose hissed. “You’re lucky I didn’t give it to the Thieftaker—cos it proves you’re a lying, thieving Hatmaker!”
Cordelia was so stunned by the bitterness in Goose’s voice that she could not answer. She felt her own voice bunching up painfully in her throat.
With a loud creak, the front doors were wrenched open and light spilled into the entrance hall. Cordelia caught a terrible glimpse of Goose’s furious face before he blundered out from behind the curtains, into the crowd of Makers rushing away from the Guildhall.
Cordelia looked at what Goose had thrust into her hand. It was just a scrap of dirty gray cloth. But when she unfolded it, she was so surprised that she almost dropped it.
“My handkerchief!”
Embroidered in the corner were her initials: C.H.
“Cordelia! Cor-delia!”
The alleyway was almost empty by the time Cordelia stumbled out of the Guildhall.
“There you are!” Aunt Ariadne exclaimed. “Come here at once! We’ve got to get straight back to work on the new Peace Hat! Oh, this is a disaster! How shall we ever Make a Peace Hat in this state of mind?”
She towed Cordelia back through the maze of narrow alleys. They caught up with Uncle Tiberius pushing Great-aunt Petronella along Bond Street. Cordelia was grateful to be rushed home at a pace that meant all she could feel was the painful stitch in her side. She had lost her best friend. He believed she was a thief! His eyes had been so full of dislike.
“FRENCH SPIES IN LAAAANDAAAAN!”
Cordelia stopped dead.
On a side street, Sam Lightfinger stood waving a newspaper in each hand. He was right beneath the Watchmakers’ window.
“Pardon me.” Someone elbowed past her.
It was the old Watchmaker himself. He and his two grandchildren tottered past Cordelia toward their front door. The smaller child stared wide-eyed at Cordelia and she smiled back.
“Come along, Grasshopper,” the old man muttered, jerking the boy away.
Cordelia watched from the corner as Sam grinned and flapped a newspaper at the Watchmaker, who unlocked his door and went inside. As Sam’s eyes flicked from the shop door to the window above it, the truth leaped to life like a fire inside Cordelia’s head:
Sam Lightfinger was the thief!
“Cordelia! Come along!” her aunt cried from down the road.
It all made sense. Sam had been beneath every Maker’s window in the past two days: in the street below the Library of Hatmaker House, of course. Then she had seen him outside Cloakmaker Hall that evening, on her way to the theater with Goose. Then yesterday morning—the injustice rankled—he had been outside the Bootmakers. And Cordelia had walked along with him, leaving him loitering near the Glovemakers!
And now here he was at the Watchmakers.
“CorDELIA!” Aunt Ariadne barked again.
“Coming, Aunt!” Cordelia cried, haring along the street. Her legs were a whirl and her mind whirled faster. The handprints on the windowsill must have been black with ink from the newspapers—not soot. And one thing seemed certain: Sam was going to rob the Watchmakers tonight.
BAM! Cordelia collided with her aunt, who was standing stock-still on the pavement. Uncle Tiberius had stopped next to her, with Great-aunt Petronella in her chair.
Cordelia picked herself up, her mind still spinning with shock: Sam was the thief! She was about to turn in the street, and run and confront him right there—
But then she saw what the Hatmakers were all staring at.
Oh, no.
It was Sir Hugo Gushforth, wielding a lute, in the middle of the road. He was still wearing the hat she had added things to without permission …
The plinking of his instrument drifted down the street.
Cordelia looked closer. Sir Hugo was somewhat crumpled. His face was scrubby with stubble, the hat looked a little dented, and the Loquacious Lily had gone brown around the edges. None of this seemed to bother him, though. He roamed around the road, carriages veering past him on both sides.
“Shall I compare thee to a SUMMER’S DAY?” the actor roared at a passing lady, who jumped in alarm and tried to shoo him away. “Thou art more LOVELY! And more TEMPERATE!”
The lady hurried off, so Sir Hugo turned his attention to an advancing cart.
“Rough winds do shake the DARLING BUDS OF MAY!” he bawled at the horse, which spooked and cantered sideways, nearly flattening the actor. The driver swore and yanked the reins. The cart lurched and hundreds of apples tumbled out of it, bouncing over the road.
But Sir Hugo had spotted a group of wimpled nuns, milling on the steps of St. Auspice’s Church. He loped over to them, ignoring the apples rolling around his feet.
“FAIR DAMSELS!” he declared, kneeling in the street and strumming his lute. “Let me serenade you with a SONG OF LONGING.”
The nuns looked around. Some of them blushed. One giggled.
As the Mother Superior descended on Sir Hugo, brandishing a crucifix, Aunt Ariadne turned blazing eyes on Cordelia.
“Cordelia Hatmaker, please explain.”
Cordelia quailed, but thought she ought to attempt an answer. Unfortunately, no words that seemed likely to soothe her aunt came to mind. She was distracted by the vicious swish of rosary beads and the resulting yelps coming from the steps of St. Auspice’s Church.
“Well …” Cordelia began valiantly. “He—he came in wanting a hat, you see—for stage fright …”
“And I see you gave him one. The turquoise tricorn with a Singing Sapphire and brass Braggart Buttons. I Made that hat myself, a month ago.”
“Yes.” Uncle Tiberius nodded, narrowing his eyes. “I distinctly remember weighing it. It contained exactly three mettles of Confidence and half an ounce of Bravado. Just enough for a little boost.”
Cordelia’s aunt and uncle could remember the details of every hat they had ever Made. She was usually very proud of this impressive skill, but at that particular moment it was highly inconvenient.
“Well, I …” Cordelia tried again. “He wanted—it didn’t have a feather on it … And …”
“You thought a feather from an Upstart Crow would be suitable,” Aunt Ariadne growled. “Along with a bloom from the Loquacious Lily and—”
Cordelia gritted her teeth.
“My star sequins!” Great-aunt Petronella crowed.
The Mother Superior was now mercilessly battering Sir Hugo with the Book of Common Prayer. The actor abandoned his instrument and scrambled for cover. Two men carrying a sedan chair kicked him in the shins and the angry cart driver lobbed an apple at his head.
“We have here,” Aunt
Ariadne pronounced dispassionately, “a perfect example of what happens when Hatmaking is attempted by somebody unqualified for the task.”
Cordelia flushed. She felt shame flip and wriggle in her belly like a tadpole.
“I beg you, noble crone, forbear!” Sir Hugo was on his hands and knees, pleading with the Mother Superior, but the prayer book came swinging through the air to hit him again.
“Poor soul,” Uncle Tiberius murmured. “I’ll go and help.”
“And you, Cordelia, will come straight home now.”
Cordelia suspected that she was in quite a lot of trouble.
CHAPTER 22
THE AIR INSIDE THE HATMAKERS’ HALLWAY WAS cool on Cordelia’s burning face as Aunt Ariadne slammed the door behind her.
“I can explain,” Cordelia began.
“For shame!” Aunt Ariadne gasped. “Cordelia, I am deeply disappointed in you.”
Cordelia shook her head. “No!” she protested. “I was only trying to—”
“There are principles of Hatmaking that you have no idea about. Principles of balance, of equanimity. Do you understand them? No!” Aunt Ariadne snapped.
“I wanted to help! I wanted to do something!” The tadpole of shame in Cordelia’s belly squirmed and she felt sick. “It was the only way I could think of to get to the princess—I had to do it—”
“You heard Lord Witloof,” her aunt went on. “These are treacherous times. The Makers’ fates hang in the balance. We cannot afford to have the Hatmaker name smeared by scandal! How many hats did you add things to that afternoon?”
“Only that one, I promise!”
“Cordelia, this is very serious.”
“YES!” Cordelia found herself shouting. “It is serious! My father’s life is at stake! And nobody cares! Nobody except me has done ANYTHING to try to find him!”
A terrible silence filled the hall. It ate up all the air. The kitchen door opened a crack and Cook peeped through. Miss Starebottom craned over the bannister upstairs.
Cordelia felt the squirm of shame again. It bloated into a gloating toad, crouching heavy in her belly.
“I’m the one who tried to get a boat from the princess!” she cried. “I’m the one who went to find Jack! I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO’S TRYING TO GET MY FATHER BACK!”
Aunt Ariadne’s lips flattened into a line as straight as a cane.
“Jones told us last night that he woke up the old seadog in the sickbay,” she snapped. “He said there had never been a cabin boy there at all.”
“What?”
“You wasted our time with a made-up story, Cordelia, and you made us hope for a moment—”
“But it’s true!” Cordelia wailed. “He gave me my father’s tel—”
“ENOUGH!” Aunt Ariadne shouted.
More silence followed, frayed by Cordelia’s ragged breathing.
“I care very much about your father, Cordelia,” her aunt finally managed to say, though it seemed to take a great effort. “And it may be some time before you accept that he is—”
“He isn’t dead!” Cordelia howled. “He isn’t!”
Hot tears welled up in her eyes. She pushed them angrily off her cheeks. She wanted her aunt to shout back at her, but she just stood there, so still and so gray-faced that she seemed to be made of stone.
It was a long time before Aunt Ariadne spoke. When she did, it was in a whisper so thin and sharp that it cut the air like a blade. “The Peace Hat demands complete calm and utter tranquillity until it is done. You are creating discord and atmospheric strife in this house, so you will go to your room. You will stay there quietly until noon tomorrow, when we have finished our work and delivered the Peace Hat.”
“No! I don’t—”
The front door swung open. Uncle Tiberius pushed a dozing Great-aunt Petronella into the hallway. He paused when he saw Cordelia, her cheeks wet and fists balled, facing the implacable statue of Aunt Ariadne.
“Ah,” Uncle Tiberius whispered. “Everything all right?”
He sidled past them and laid a sad handful of things on the hall table: the tattered remains of the Loquacious Lily, the bent feather from the Upstart Crow and the three star sequins.
“All cleared up!” he announced. “I managed to convince Sir Hugo to let me look at his hat. As soon as he took it off, he fell asleep on the steps of the church. The nuns are looking after him now. Mother Superior has been persuaded to take pity on the poor fool, though she did try to lock him in the confession box.”
Ariadne and Cordelia ignored him, still glaring at each other with identical expressions of fierce stubbornness on their faces.
Uncle Tiberius milled around the hallway, attempting to dispel the tension.
“You know, I Made a hat without permission when I was eight,” he said conversationally. “I gave it to a stable boy. He started clucking like a chicken, ran around backward reciting rude poems, and then tried to pick a fight with a donkey. I got into such trouble.”
Nobody said a word. Great-aunt Petronella snored gently in her chair.
“So!” Uncle Tiberius cried, overly jovial. “Naughty Cordelia! But no harm done! Tell you what, let’s see if Cook has made some tea—”
“Upstairs, Cordelia. Now,” Aunt Ariadne ordered. “And when you come down tomorrow, I will expect a very sincere and well-thought-out apology.”
Cordelia considered putting up a fight. But her aunt glowered so ferociously that she knew she had no choice. She turned and marched straight up the stairs, head held high and fingernails digging into her palms.
Behind her, Uncle Tiberius sighed. She thought she heard Aunt Ariadne let out one small, stifled sob.
In her room, Cordelia pushed away thoughts of remorse for Making the hat without permission. She knew she should not have done it: it was forbidden.
How unfair that the forbidden things were always the most interesting.
“It was the only way I could think of to get to the princess,” she said to herself. “I had to do it.”
She threw herself belly-down on the floor, reached under her bed and pulled out a tattered hatbox. It was the hatbox that had been her cradle when she was born. Her father had saved her from the sea in this hatbox and brought her home to London nestled in it. Its paper was puckered from the salt-water, curling at the edges. She stroked the crinkled lid.
Inside lay all her treasures: her baby blanket made from a piece of sailcloth, a shiny knot of nutmeg her father had brought back from Ceylon, the fragile orb of a Venetian glass song-bottle, a clear quartz crystal that scattered shards of rainbow light across the floor, a bowl made from a polished coconut shell, an ancient book that her father loved to read aloud from called The Mythmaker, an iridescent feather from an Elysian Eagle, and her jar of Sicilian Leaping Beans.
She felt tears sting her eyes and wanted, more than anything, to outrun the wave of misery threatening to engulf her.
“I know you’re alive, Father!” Cordelia burst out. “You’ve got to be!”
A door slammed downstairs.
“And it’s no good being stuck in here!” she groaned. “There’s no time to waste!”
She snatched up the jar of Leaping Beans. They hopped and bounced against the glass and she felt the patter of them in her fingertips …
“I’m finished with waiting for help,” Cordelia announced to the empty room. “I can’t get a boat from the princess, and Jack’s disappeared, so I’ll have to find another way.”
Goose believed she was the thief, her aunt was furious with her, and she had no allies left. So she would have to take matters into her own hands.
“If I get to the coast at Rivermouth, that’s a start,” she said. “There must be one boat there I can use.”
She chewed her lip, thinking.
“I’ll have to wait till nightfall. And before I leave London I will make sure at least Goose knows the truth—that I am not a thief!”
She put the Leaping Beans carefully back into the hatbox with her other precious treasur
es. Then she lay down and tried to sleep. She would need to be wide awake tonight, so sleeping in the daytime seemed sensible.
But she could not stop her mind snicking and circling like a wound-up clock as she went over and over her (rather flimsy) plan.
Eventually, she fell into a doze as the sun was sinking among the chimneys. When she woke again, velvety night had gathered outside.
“Dilly?”
Her uncle was at the trapdoor. Cordelia kept her eyes shut even when he whispered her name again.
“Dilly? Are you asleep?”
She did not answer. The smell of roast chicken wafted through the room and made her mouth water.
“I’ve brought you some dinner,” Uncle Tiberius said gently. “And there’s a chocolate pudding too—your favorite. I asked Cook to make it for you, secretly.”
Sickly shame about Sir Hugo’s hat bubbled in Cordelia’s stomach again and she squeezed herself tighter into a ball to try to smother it.
“It’s probably a good thing you’re up here, little Hatmaker,” he whispered. “Not much fun downstairs. Lots of stress and a fair bit of strain … and Ariadne used a very rude word when the grosgrain wouldn’t lie flat.”
Cordelia kept clenched in a ball.
Her uncle sighed. “For both our sakes, Dilly, please eat the chocolate pudding. Best get rid of the evidence before your aunt finds out about it.”
She heard the trapdoor shut and opened her eyes.
The chocolate pudding was delicious.
And it was the perfect meal to eat before an adventure.
The hat hoist was large for a hat but small for a person.
Cordelia knew her aunt and uncle would be up until dawn, bent over the Peace Hat in the workshop. Her uncle would be stitching ribbons with his delicate silver needle, pins clamped between his lips. Her aunt, gilded with lamplight, was probably coaxing the felt into an elegant shape.
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