As the end of his year on earth drew nearer, Longsword grew more and more despondent until Princess Serenity feared for his very life. Yet although he was distracted and moody, in his body he remained healthy and strong. She decided then that the problem must lie with his mind, and to find out the matter, she questioned him closely, both day and night. So vexed was her husband that in the end he could do naught but confess his story. How he had made a very bad bargain with the Goblin King. How he could remain on the earth for only one year unless he could find someone to take his place in the kingdom of the goblins of their own volition.
And how if Longsword failed to find his replacement, he would be damned to labor for the Goblin King for all eternity….
—from Longsword
“Westminster is so very masculine, isn’t it?” Lottie mused as they stopped and glanced about the great hall.
“Masculine?” Beatrice stared at the high vaulted ceiling, nearly black with age. “I don’t know what you mean by masculine, but I do think it could do with a good cleaning.”
“What I mean by masculine,” Lottie said, linking her arm with Beatrice’s, “is stodgy and self-important and much too serious to notice mere womenfolk.”
Beatrice eyed her friend, who was looking elegant as usual in a deep purple and brown striped gown. She’d just taken off her fur hood, but her cheeks were rosy from the cold outside, and her eyes snapped with an aggression that Beatrice wasn’t sure had anything to do with Westminster Palace’s architecture.
“It’s a building, Lottie.”
“Exactly,” Lottie said. “And all buildings—at least the great ones—have a sort of spiritual sense about them. Did I ever tell you about the chill I felt in St. Paul’s last spring? Quite mysterious. It sent a shiver down my spine.”
“Perhaps you were standing in a draft,” Beatrice said practically. They’d reached the end of the hall and had come to a passage. “Which way now?”
“To the right,” Lottie said decisively. “The left leads to the Commons’ Strangers Gallery, so the right must be the way to the gallery for the lords.”
“Hmm.” This seemed rather haphazard, but as Beatrice had never visited parliament before and Lottie had, she followed her.
And as it turned out, whether by luck or accident, Lottie was exactly right. They turned right down a narrow passage that led to a set of double doors. To the side was a staircase that led upward. Once at the top, they each gave the waiting servant two shillings and were admitted to the ladies’ side of the visitor gallery.
Below them was a hall with tiered benches arranged on either side rather like the choir in a cathedral. The benches were covered in red cushions. Between the rows of benches was a long wooden table, and at the end of the hall stood several single chairs. The gallery overhung the hall and ran around three sides.
“I thought they were in session,” Beatrice whispered.
“They are,” Lottie replied.
Beatrice examined the noble members of the House of Lords. “They don’t look like they’re doing very much.”
And they didn’t. Some men wandered the chamber or chatted together in small groups. Others lounged on the cushions, more than one dozing. A gentleman stood at the end and appeared to be talking, but the noise in the hall was so loud that Beatrice couldn’t hear him. Some of the lords appeared to be heckling the poor man.
“The governing process can be obscure to the untrained eye,” Lottie said loftily.
“Why, that’s Lord Phipps,” Beatrice exclaimed in dismay, having finally identified the speaker. “It doesn’t look very good for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”
For Lord Phipps was the champion of the veteran’s bill in the House of Lords. He was a kindly man but was a bit dry and nondescript and, as it was obvious now, not a particularly good speaker.
“No, it doesn’t,” Lottie said, subdued. “He is so sweet when he comes to the meetings. He sat and told me all about his ginger cat once.”
“He got tears in his eyes when he talked about his late wife,” Beatrice said.
“Such a nice man.”
They both watched as a lord in a full-bottomed wig and black and gold robes at the end of the room vainly shouted for order. Someone threw an orange peel.
“Oh, dear,” Lottie sighed.
There was a commotion by the doors, but since the gallery overhung the room, Beatrice couldn’t at first see who had entered below them. Then Reynaud strode into the room, and her heart gave a sort of painful leap. He was so handsome, so commanding, and he seemed farther away from her than ever. Reynaud headed straight to the man in the chair as heads turned to follow his progress.
“What’s he doing?” Lottie asked. “A peer has to have a writ of summons from the king to join parliament.”
“He must’ve won the title back,” Beatrice said softly. She rejoiced for Reynaud, but she worried about Uncle Reggie. He must be crushed. “Perhaps he got a special dispensation?”
“From the king himself,” a male voice said from the aisle separating the ladies’ section from the rest of the gallery.