„To Igraine…“
"Nimue…"
"Elaine…"
"And Morgana."
"Ugly girls," remarked Princess Caritas. "Not their fault," said Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees generously.
"And will they be away long?" asked David.
"Oh!" said Princess Flammifera.
"Oh!" said Princess Caritas.
"Oh!" said Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees.
"They have been sent away," said Princess Bellona.
"For ever…" said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.
"… and a day," added Princess Flammifera.
"We thought everybody knew that," said Princess Alba Perfecta.
"Grandfather sent them away," said Princess Kiss-upon-a-True-Love's-Grave.
"They offended Grandfather," said Princess Bird-in-the-Hand.
"Grandfather is most displeased with them," said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.
"They have been sent to live in a house," said Princess Caritas.
"Not a nice house," warned Princess Alba Perfecta.
"A nasty house!" said Princess Lachrima, with sparkling eyes. "With nothing but male servants! Nasty, dirty male servants with thick ugly fingers and hair on the knuckles! Male servants who will doubtless shew them no respect!" Lachrima put on a knowing, amused look. "Though perhaps they may shew them something else!" she said.
Caritas laughed. David blushed.
"The house is in a wood," continued Princess Bird-in-the-Hand.
"Not a nice wood," added Princess Bellona.
"A nasty wood!" said Princess Lachrima excitedly. "A thoroughly damp and dark wood, full of spiders and creepy, slimy, foul-smelling…"
"And why did your grandfather send them to this wood?" asked David quickly.
"Oh! Igraine got married," said Princess Caritas.
"Secretly," said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.
"We thought everyone knew that," said Princess Kiss-upon-a-True-Love's-Grave.
"She married a Christian man," explained Princess Caritas.
"Her harpsichord master!" said Princess Bellona, beginning to giggle.
"He played such beautiful concertos," said Princess Alba Perfecta.
"He had such beautiful…" began Princess Lachrima.
"Rima! Will you desist?" said Princess Caritas.
"Cousins," said Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees sweetly, "when you are banished to a dark, damp wood, we will write to you.
"I did wonder, you know," said Princess Kiss-upon-a-True-Love's-Grave, "when she began to take harpsichord lessons every day. For she was never so fond of music till Mr Cartwright came. Then they took to shutting the door – which, I may say, I was very sorry for, the harpsichord being a particular favourite of mine. And so, you know, I used to creep to the door to listen, but a quarter of an hour might go by and I would not hear a single note – except perhaps the odd discordant plink as if one of them had accidentally leant upon the instrument. Once I thought I would go in to see what they were doing, but when I tried the handle of the door I discovered that they had turned the key in the lock…"
"Be quiet, Kiss!" said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.
"She's only called Kiss," explained Princess Lachrima to David helpfully. "She's never actually kissed any one."
"But I do not quite understand," said David. "If Princess Igraine married without her grandfather's permission, then that of course is very bad. Upon important matters children ought always to consult their parents, or those who stand in the place of parents. Likewise parents – or as we have in this case, grandparents – ought to consider not only the financial aspects of a marriage and the rank of the prospective bride or bridegroom, but also the child's character and likely chances of happiness with that person. The inclinations of the child's heart ought to be of paramount importance…"
As David continued meditating out loud upon the various reciprocal duties and responsibilities of parents and children, Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees stared at him with an expression of mingled disbelief and distaste, Princess Caritas yawned loudly and Princess Lachrima mimed someone fainting with boredom.
"… But even if Princess Igraine offended her grandfather in this way," said David, "why were her sisters punished with her?"
"Because they did not stop her of course," said Princess Alba Perfecta.
"Because they did not tell Grandfather what she was about," said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.
"We thought everybody knew that," said Princess Bird-in-the-Hand.
"What happened to the harpsichord master?" asked David.
Princess Lachrima opened her large violet-blue eyes and leant forward with great eagerness, but at that moment a voice was heard in the corridor.
"… but when I had shot the third crow and plucked and skinned it, I discovered that it had a heart of solid diamond – just as the old woman had said – so, as you see, the afternoon was not entirely wasted."
Tom Brightwind had a bad habit of beginning to talk long before he entered a room, so that the people whom he addressed only ever heard the end of what he wished to say to them.
"What?" said David.
"Not entirely wasted," repeated Tom.
Tom was about six feet tall and unusually handsome even for a fairy prince (for it must be said that in fairy society the upper ranks generally make it their business to be better-looking than the commoners). His complexion gleamed with such extraordinary good health that it seemed to possess a faint opalescence, slightly unnerving to behold. He had recently put off his wig and taken to wearing his natural hair which was long and straight and a vivid chestnut-brown colour. His eyes were blue, and he looked (as he had looked for the last three or four thousand years) about thirty years of age. He glanced about him, raised one perfect fairy eye-brow and muttered sourly, "Oak and Ash, but there are a lot of women in this room!"
There was a rustle of nine silk gowns, the slight click of door, a final exhalation of perfume, and suddenly there were no princesses at all.
"So where have you been?" said Tom, throwing himself into a chair and taking up a newspaper. "I expected you yesterday. Did you not get my message?"
"I could not come. I had to attend to my patients. Indeed I cannot stay long this morning. I am on my way to see Mr Monkton."
Mr Monkton was a rich old gentleman who lived in Lincoln. He wrote David letters describing a curious pain in his left side and David wrote back with advice upon medicines and treatments.
"Not that he places any faith in what I tell him," said David cheerfully. "He also corresponds with a physician in Edinburgh and a sort of sorcerer in Dublin. Then there is the apothecary in Lincoln who visits him. We all contradict one another but it does not matter because he trusts none of us. Now he has written to say he is dying and at this crisis we are summoned to attend him in person. The Scottish physician, the Irish wizard, the English apothecary and me! I am quite looking forward to it! Nothing is so pleasant or instructive as the society and conversation of one's peers. Do not you agree?
Tom shrugged. [2] "Is the old man really ill?" he asked.
"I do not know. I never saw him."
Tom glanced at his newspaper again, put it down again in irritation, yawned and said, "I believe I shall come with you." He waited for David to express his rapture at this news.
What in the world, wondered David, did Tom think there would be at Lincoln to amuse him? Long medical conversations in which he could take no part, a querulous sick old gentleman and the putrid airs and hush of a sick-room! David was upon the point of saying something to this effect, when it occurred to him that, actually, it would be no bad thing for Tom to come to Lincoln. David was the son of a famous Venetian rabbi. From his youth he had been accustomed to debate good principles and right conduct with all sorts of grave Jewish persons. These conversations had formed his own character and he naturally supposed that a small measure of the same could not help but improve other people's. In short he had come to believe that if only one talks long enough and expresses oneself properly, it is perfectly possible to argue people into being good and happy. With this aim he generally took it upon himself to quarrel with Tom Brightwind several times a week – all without noticeable effect. But just now he had a great deal to say about the unhappy fate of the harpsichord master's bride and her sisters, and a long ride north was the perfect opportunity to say it.