Princess Elizabeth's Spy(23)

But she couldn’t think of that now. She pulled out one of her dresses, dark green wool with a lace collar and silver buttons. It would have to do. She brushed and rerolled her hair, dabbed on some lipstick, and changed clothes. When she opened her door to the corridor, she felt a palpable chill. I’ll just wear my coat, then.

It was only after she descended the tower stairs that she realized she had absolutely no idea where the Octagon Room was.


Maggie walked for what felt like miles through long, dimly lit, icy corridors filled with spidery shadows. Her feet, in her thin-soled pumps, were freezing from the rough, cold stones—all the carpets must have been rolled up and put into storage for safekeeping—and she pulled her coat tighter around her, wishing she had taken her hat and scarf as well.

After twists and turns through the stone passageways, Maggie saw at the end of yet another long, cold hallway what looked to be a spectral figure. It was hard to tell: The few lightbulbs were the wartime-issue ones with low wattage, and all the blackout curtains covered the windows.

She squinted. Surely it was a person. It couldn’t be a ghost—oh no. Highly illogical—as well as quite improbable. Aunt Edith would be appalled at such Gothic flights of fancy. Despite herself, she began a mental inventory of all the people who might possibly be ghosts—Henry VIII, of course. And poor Anne Boleyn. Jane Seymour, too. Queen Elizabeth I. Charles I, maybe? King George III … Oh, stop it, she told herself firmly. This is no way to start your first night.

“Hello?” she called, her voice echoing down the hallway.

The figure turned and stared at Maggie approaching in the dim light, the taps from her leather soles echoing in the frigid air.

It was a man, she realized. Tall, very thin, wearing an RAF-issued shearling jacket. He was standing, hands clasped behind his back, staring at an empty gilt picture frame. Without looking up, he began speaking. “There used to be a Rembrandt here,” he said. “At least, that’s what I remember. Damned war’s changed everything.…”

As Maggie walked closer, he turned. In the dim flickering light, she could see he was young, around her age, with close-cropped golden curls, dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a wool sweater with twisted cables and honeycomb under the shearling jacket. His face appeared handsome. And yet, as Maggie approached and he turned from the shadow of the wall, she could see that one side had been horribly disfigured, transformed by angry red scar tissue and rectangular white skin grafts. His left eyelid had been reconstructed, and some gauze and tape were visible on his neck. As much as she tried not to stare, for a long second she couldn’t help it.

His face broke into a crooked smile. “I don’t bite, although it may look as though I might. Souvenir from Åndalsnes, I’m afraid.”

Maggie nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m a bit lost, actually.…”

“It isn’t hard to lose your way here.”

“I’m Maggie,” she said, holding out her hand. “Maggie Hope. I’m going to be teaching Princess Elizabeth maths. How do you do?”

He enveloped her small hand with his scarred one. “Well, hello, Maggie, Maggie Hope. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re cold,” he observed.

“I didn’t realize it was going to be quite so drafty.”

“Samuel Pepys declared Windsor to be ‘the most romantique castle that is in the world.’ ” He shrugged. “Must have visited in the summer.”

“I’m trying to find the Octagon Room and I’m lost. I’ve just arrived, you see. I really feel as though I should have been issued a map, or a guidebook, at least.”

“Street signs at the juncture of the corridors?”

Maggie smiled. “Exactly.”

“Well, I happen to know the way to said Octagon Room.” He offered her his arm. “May I escort you?”

“I’d be delighted.” Maggie took the proffered arm. “By the way, you never told me your name.”

“Gregory. Gregory Strathcliffe … Le Fantôme,” he added to himself as they walked.

“You’re much, much too substantial to be a phantom,” Maggie said, squeezing his arm. Le Fantôme de l’Opéra was one of her favorite books.

“Then La bête. La belle et la bête.”

“I’m only beastly in the morning,” Maggie quipped.

He raised one eyebrow. “I can see we’re going to get along, Maggie Hope.”


Endless corridors, staircases, and sudden turns later, they were at the double doors to the Octagon Room, in the Brunswick Tower.