The Children of the King Read Online Free PDF

her father, left behind in the city. She pined for him already, and grew a little fishy-eyed. The sound of footsteps saved her from further subsidence — she leapt up and darted into the passage, accosting her brother at the top of the stairs. “Are you going down to see Uncle? You’re not presentable! Mama said we had to bathe first!”
    “Mother’s not in charge of the world,” Jeremy replied, in the tone of one who’s just realised it. He stepped past his sister, who watched as he descended the staircase in strides. Mother would be cross yet Jeremy wasn’t bothered: Cecily was impressed. Her brother had gone a bit odd today, and she liked this new version of him. Brimming once more with the joy of existence, she caught May by the wrist and dragged the evacuee down the stairs before the child had a chance to further spread her gloom.
    The main rooms of Heron Hall opened off the entrance hall and then, in a maze of doors and passages, off one another. Cecily hurried her charge through them, not pausing to explain. As they neared a particular door, however, she tweaked the child to a halt. “Now don’t be afraid,” she warned portentously. “Uncle Peregrine won’t hurt you. Just answer what he asks and don’t say anything else, all right? Don’t talk about being rich or — or — about
anything,
all right?”
    “All right,” said May.
    “Don’t ask where his wife is. He had one, but she died. She died, and their baby died, and now he’s all alone. So don’t ask about his wife and baby, all right?”
    “All right,” repeated May.
    “And don’t say anything —
impolite
. You know what impoliteness is, don’t you?”
    “I do.”
    “Good,” said Cecily. “I want to be proud of you.”
    Byron met them at the door. His huge head, black as coal, was as silkily soft as a duckling. May’s hand disappeared in the depths of his coat. “Hello dog,” she murmured.
    It was a snug room they entered, one of the smallest and most homely of the rooms in Heron Hall. Its sky-grey walls were covered with paintings, and books and papers were scattered about, as were small puzzles and interesting objects, carved curios, carriage clocks, a typewriter, a gramophone. Underfoot were flattened rugs, and a fire karate-chopped at the throat of the chimney. There was a good smell of cigarette smoke mixed with toast and dog; this room was a den, the lair of Heron Hall’s owner. Here, rather than in any of the grander rooms, was where the house’s living was done.
    “Uncle Peregrine!” Cecily bounded forward to bob and hop before a man who stood by the mantelpiece. She would have pounced on him, but that was not allowed: this was a gentleman who preferred not to be rough-housed. So Cecily confined her greeting to this little loving dance, and her uncle smiled in a bemused way and said, “Good evening, Cecily.”
    Jeremy was settling in an armchair, and Heloise Lockwood was seated, less relaxedly, on a striped sofa which sprouted dog hair. Neither of them looked thrilled to have the girls in the room. Cecily turned adoring eyes to her uncle. “Are you pleased to see me?”
    “Slightly,” he said. Cecily grinned; another day she might have bombarded him with chatter about blackouts and air raids, about leaving Father and the journey on the train and the crocodile line of children, but to set an example for the evacuee she chose to behave less like a hurricane and more like a young lady. “Look what we’ve brought with us,” she said, wagging a hand to beckon the newcomer. “This is May Bright. She’s been evacuated from London. I chose her at the town hall — just like picking a kitten from a basket!”
    May Bright released her grip on Byron’s coat and stepped nearer to Mr Lockwood. Her host at Heron Hall was, in appearance, like a wily criminal from an adventure tale. He was tall and lean, and his face was shadowy, and he wore his dark hair long, like a mane, which May had never seen a real-life man do. His