Whimbrel, Brambling and Smew, meanwhile, had become involved in a discussion about Smew’s pencil, which he always carried with him. He was well known for preferring pencils to pens, and now he explained the reason why.
‘The mark of a pencil is softer and less intrusive,’ he announced. ‘Moreover, it can be rubbed out. Ink on the other hand cannot be erased, and if you happen to make a splodge you’re in trouble.’
‘Won’t you require a pen for your duties as regent?’ Whimbrel suggested. ‘Surely you’ll need one for signing decrees.’
‘It is not the pen that counts,’ replied Smew. ‘It is he who wields it.’
His words had the effect of silencing any further comment from either Whimbrel or Brambling, and after that the conversation became noticeably one-sided.
Finding myself alone I decided to go for a browse along the bookshelves, taking my glass of wine with me. Occasionally I selected a title, took down the book and read the preface. Then I put it back again and moved on. This proved to be quite a pleasant pastime. The royal collection was rich in variety: tomes on every subject stood side by side in silent ranks, all waiting to be read. After a while I came upon a book I hadn’t seen since I was a child. It was called Tales from Long Ago, and as I lifted it down I felt a curious wave of anticipation pass through me. I remembered this book in particular because it had a colour picture on every other page, so that each story was encapsulated in a few scenes. Sure enough, when I opened it there was a page of text on the left side, and an illustration on the right. To my surprise I recognised the first picture as if I had only seen it the previous day, rather than many years before. It showed three men gazing up at the night sky through a tall, narrow window. I was astounded at the familiarity of the detail; also, the brightness of the colours. The three men wore blue coats, their shoes were buckled and their stockings were white. The words of the story, however, were unfamiliar. Slowly, I turned to the next page. Here was a man in a rowing boat in the middle of a lake; on his head was a yellow crown. I examined the picture and noticed that one of the oarlocks hadn’t been drawn properly. Part of it was missing, which would have made the boat impossible to row. I recalled that this had baffled me throughout my childhood. Again, though, I had no memory of the story itself, and I began to realise that when I was young I couldn’t have read the book properly. I must have spent all my time looking at the pictures. I turned the pages, one by one, and yet more half-forgotten characters were revealed. Invariably they appeared startled, bewildered, surprised or jubilant. Hidden away inside this book, they’d worn the same expressions for years and years and years. At last I arrived at the final page. I paused for a long moment. Then, as I expected, I turned over and saw a man in a broad-brimmed hat. He was peering with astonishment at a silver coin in the palm of his hand.
‘Found something riveting?’ said a voice behind me.
It was Wryneck.
‘Not really,’ I said, quickly returning the book to its place amongst the others.
Wryneck must have somehow detached himself from Sanderling. Now he’d come prowling along the bookshelves from the other direction.
‘I would have thought you’d be in the music section,’ he said, ‘trying to keep a step ahead of your protégé.’
It took a moment to absorb the meaning of his remark.
‘You mean Greylag?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ replied Wryneck. ‘He’s making extraordinary advances in the field of symphonic music. I’ve called in at the cake once or twice recently and the work he’s doing never fails to impress me. You must be very proud of him.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose I am.’
‘His latest project is progressing by leaps and bounds.’
‘I take it you’re referring to Greylag’s tonal experimentations.’
‘Correct.’ Wryneck was brimming with enthusiasm. ‘They should provide valuable groundwork for the next composition.’
It occurred to me that I should be telling Wryneck all this, rather than him telling me; which served as a reminder that once again I’d neglected Greylag and the rest of the orchestra. Plainly, Wryneck had visited the cake more than ‘once or twice’ in recent days, but in any case it was more than I had. Without a doubt he was fully aware that Greylag did all the composing, and not me, yet he was diplomatic enough to skirt around the matter. As usual I was unable to detect the precise drift of Wryneck’s observations. I had no idea whether he was encouraging me to take a deeper interest in Greylag’s work, or advising me not to interfere, or neither.
‘Well, thank you, Wryneck,’ was all I managed to say. ‘Your comments are always welcome.’
Wryneck nodded, and then continued perusing the bookshelves. Meanwhile, I returned to the main party, where I discovered that most of the wine had gone. There were a few glasses remaining, however, so I helped myself. Sanderling appeared to have finished explaining the art of sailing to the others. He was now standing alone with a full glass in his hand, and a very contented look on his face. Smew was still giving Brambling and Whimbrel the benefit of his wisdom; they both seemed as if they were wilting under the strain. Dotterel and Garganey were standing somewhat aloof and talking quietly. They broke off their conversation as I approached.
‘Ho ho,’ I said. ‘Not plotting Smew’s downfall, I hope?’
‘Hardly,’ said Dotterel. ‘A disunited cabinet is the last thing we need at a time like this.’
Something in his tone caused me to lower my voice.
‘How do you mean?’ I enquired.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Garganey.
‘Not to me, no,’ I said.
‘Well,’ said Dotterel, ‘we’re not allowed to discuss it until after the twelve-day feast. You’ll just have to wait until then.’
At that moment Smew clapped his hands together and we all turned to face him. Wryneck reappeared from amongst the bookshelves.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ said Smew. ‘I think you’ll agree the afternoon has been a great success.’
There was a small ripple of applause.
‘I have a parting gift for each of you,’ he continued. ‘If you please, Shrike.’
I’d noticed Shrike hovering in the doorway. Now he came in bearing our gifts on a tray. We were to receive a bottle of wine apiece.
‘This is the fortified variety,’ explained Smew, ‘something to help you through the inclement weather.’
It turned out that nobody, not even Whimbrel, had thought to bring a gift for Smew, but he seemed unconcerned. He just stood there beaming. One by one we took our bottles of wine, thanked him, and made ready to leave. Sanderling was particularly fulsome in his gratitude. His eyes glistened at the thought of the twelve blissful days that lay ahead.
‘We can all visit each other’s departments,’ he suggested, ‘and share one another’s wine.’
Wryneck, however, had different ideas.
‘Strictly speaking, the admiralty should be closed for the duration of the feast,’ he announced, ‘and likewise the post office, the counting house and the ministry of works. The doors will be locked and the lights dimmed: hardly suitable for socialising.’
‘No,’ said Sanderling, ‘I suppose not.’
‘Therefore, I suggest you save your wine for remedial purposes.’
With these bleak words ringing in our ears we were ushered out into the rain, which was now bucketing down. Whimbrel waited until after the door had closed behind us.
‘Don’t worry, Sanderling,’ he said, ‘you can come up to the observatory and have a drink there.’
‘You mean now?’ said Sanderling.
He was clearly eager to take up the invitation.
‘Well, actually I meant another day,’ replied Whimbrel.