man was impossible to ignore. The People’s Enquirer , The Illustrated News , The Dispatch and The Morning Chronicle disagreed about most things, but on one subject they were united: Quale’s brilliant young Prime Minister was the only thing standing between the country and disaster.
What Charlie had forgotten was that Alistair Windlass had been one of her parents’ closest friends. He had often dined with them privately, and was always to be found at their grand evening parties. On these occasions she had been allowed a brief visit to the minstrels’ gallery above the ballroom.
She would pull herself up onto her toes and peer over the banisters at the gentlemen in their dark suits and the ladies in their silken frocks of butterfly colours. Her father was the best dancer of them all. She watched him, aslender figure in black, his dark red hair burning in the gaslight like the flame on a match, twirling among the pinks and purples, blues and golds, waiting for him to remember to look up at her and wink. She shivered with delight at the vision of her tall, golden-haired mother. ‘The most beautiful lady in all of Quale,’ Nurse said. Nurse delighted in pointing out the grandest of the guests. ‘And that’s the Prime Minister, Mr Alistair Windlass, dancing with your mother. Isn’t he a handsome man? And not yet thirty. Youngest Prime Minister in history!’
How could she have forgotten that he had been such good friends with her parents? He might even know who the mysterious Bettina was. It was her last hope. It was also her great good fortune that a few years ago Alistair Windlass had moved his headquarters from Parliament House into her father’s old office in the ministerial wing.
She tucked the skirts of her dress and her red flannel petticoat into her drawers, opened her bedroom window and clambered out onto the parapet. A north wind sliced through her clothes. The Castle roofs stretched before her: a maze of parapets, lead gutters, slopes and alleys. The wind snarled, snatching at her hair and the dag-ends of her tucked skirts. She hesitated for a moment, then began to climb.
She knew every inch of these roofs: they were her summer playground. But she seldom visited them once the autumn winds grew boisterous. She didn’t like the feelof the wind today, but there was only one place where she need be cautious. Concentrating on where to put her hands and feet made it easier to ignore the cold and, to her relief, by the time she reached the ridge the wind had stopped gusting and blew steadily.
The ridge was a flat strip of lead sitting atop a section of the chapel roof. She would have to walk its length to reach the ministerial wing. It was six inches wide and nearly ten feet long, and the roof it belonged to slid away on either side. There was no parapet to catch a falling body – nothing but the cold flagstones of the inner courtyard forty feet below.
The sky was a cloudless, bitter blue. Beyond the sprawl of tiled roofs, the sullen brown worm of the River Quale twisted towards the docks. Charlie balanced against the push of the wind. Knowing that if she didn’t go now she never would, she stepped onto the ridge. She had crossed it countless times.
She was three feet from the other end when the wind suddenly caught its breath, dying away to nothing. She wobbled and steadied herself. Her heart was pounding. That had been close. The wind roared back, slamming into her. Charlie felt herself falling and launched forward, diving for the opposite roof. She crashed onto elbows and knees, her feet dangling over empty space. She pressed her face and body into the cold lead of the roof as she gasped and shuddered.
Five minutes later, Charlie slid open the attic windowof a small, unused room over the ministerial wing and climbed inside. She was frozen with cold, but it was the shock of having nearly fallen that kept her shivering as she began the last leg of her journey to the Prime Minister. Soon she was shivering
What Charlie had forgotten was that Alistair Windlass had been one of her parents’ closest friends. He had often dined with them privately, and was always to be found at their grand evening parties. On these occasions she had been allowed a brief visit to the minstrels’ gallery above the ballroom.
She would pull herself up onto her toes and peer over the banisters at the gentlemen in their dark suits and the ladies in their silken frocks of butterfly colours. Her father was the best dancer of them all. She watched him, aslender figure in black, his dark red hair burning in the gaslight like the flame on a match, twirling among the pinks and purples, blues and golds, waiting for him to remember to look up at her and wink. She shivered with delight at the vision of her tall, golden-haired mother. ‘The most beautiful lady in all of Quale,’ Nurse said. Nurse delighted in pointing out the grandest of the guests. ‘And that’s the Prime Minister, Mr Alistair Windlass, dancing with your mother. Isn’t he a handsome man? And not yet thirty. Youngest Prime Minister in history!’
How could she have forgotten that he had been such good friends with her parents? He might even know who the mysterious Bettina was. It was her last hope. It was also her great good fortune that a few years ago Alistair Windlass had moved his headquarters from Parliament House into her father’s old office in the ministerial wing.
She tucked the skirts of her dress and her red flannel petticoat into her drawers, opened her bedroom window and clambered out onto the parapet. A north wind sliced through her clothes. The Castle roofs stretched before her: a maze of parapets, lead gutters, slopes and alleys. The wind snarled, snatching at her hair and the dag-ends of her tucked skirts. She hesitated for a moment, then began to climb.
She knew every inch of these roofs: they were her summer playground. But she seldom visited them once the autumn winds grew boisterous. She didn’t like the feelof the wind today, but there was only one place where she need be cautious. Concentrating on where to put her hands and feet made it easier to ignore the cold and, to her relief, by the time she reached the ridge the wind had stopped gusting and blew steadily.
The ridge was a flat strip of lead sitting atop a section of the chapel roof. She would have to walk its length to reach the ministerial wing. It was six inches wide and nearly ten feet long, and the roof it belonged to slid away on either side. There was no parapet to catch a falling body – nothing but the cold flagstones of the inner courtyard forty feet below.
The sky was a cloudless, bitter blue. Beyond the sprawl of tiled roofs, the sullen brown worm of the River Quale twisted towards the docks. Charlie balanced against the push of the wind. Knowing that if she didn’t go now she never would, she stepped onto the ridge. She had crossed it countless times.
She was three feet from the other end when the wind suddenly caught its breath, dying away to nothing. She wobbled and steadied herself. Her heart was pounding. That had been close. The wind roared back, slamming into her. Charlie felt herself falling and launched forward, diving for the opposite roof. She crashed onto elbows and knees, her feet dangling over empty space. She pressed her face and body into the cold lead of the roof as she gasped and shuddered.
Five minutes later, Charlie slid open the attic windowof a small, unused room over the ministerial wing and climbed inside. She was frozen with cold, but it was the shock of having nearly fallen that kept her shivering as she began the last leg of her journey to the Prime Minister. Soon she was shivering
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