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“It’s easy enough to sneak out of your own house,” came a boy’s voice bouncing up the hallway. “Now we know where we are, we’ll do what we always do and creep out the back through the cellar pantry.”
The pair of them burst into Victoria’s room. The little Princess screamed. People dashing in uninvited sounded much the same as cannon fire to her ears, and she was equally afraid of both. She hid her head with her arms until Anne pried them open and kissed her cheeks and told her it was decided, they meant to escape, it was all planned. Victoria had no idea what she meant, but in the end, she was glad her friend had come back for her. Other people weren’t so frightening, as long as they were Anne.
Branwell took cover behind the overturned table. It had toppled during a barrage and spilled her dolls out all over the floor. He peeked over the top of it, trying to see down into the battle below. He beckoned to them, and the girls scurried over between musket volleys and flashes of horrid purple-green lightning.
“You really are, you know,” Anne said, once they had the table between them and the worst of it. She squeezed Victoria’s hand.
“Am what? Oh, I am sorry, Anne, I wasn’t listening, what a nasty way to behave toward you, I am just the worst girl, the very worst, the worstest among the worst, I shan’t forgive myself, I shan’t!”
Anne stroked her hair fondly. “I said you’re the Crown Princess. You’re going to be Queen, just like you wanted. Queen of Glass Town. If we survive. If Charlotte and Em pull it off.”
Victoria blushed. “That’s just silly. I’m a scrubby old starling with a head full of dolls.”
Anne shook her head. “I’d bet your father’s out there fighting right now. He’ll come and collect you and you’ll jump into his arms and you’ll always have enough to eat forever after.”
“But I don’t want to be a real Queen,” Victoria insisted. “If anyone’s to be Queen after the battle it ought to be Miss Agnes. She always knows the right sort of a thing for anyone. I only want to be Queen of England.”
“England’s not real,” Bran said distractedly. Anne raised her eyebrow at him. “Well . . . you know what I mean.”
“It’s real to me,” Victoria snapped back. “It’s so awfully real. More real than this place.”
Bran felt sorry for her, suddenly. She was just a scared little girl, after all. He knew all about scared girls. And scared boys, though it was important for a boy not to admit he was scared. But Bran felt sorrier for himself. It didn’t sound like it was going terribly well down there. What if Napoleon didn’t keep his promise? What if a stray cannon or bat-tree got Charlotte in the back and he had to live with that forever and ever? No, he told himself. No, you paid your money and you’ll get your goods. That’s how the world of grown-up men works. And in the world of grown-up men, you were supposed to look after scared girls.
“If you really don’t want to be Queen of Glass Town,” he said quietly, “you could come with us. Home. To Haworth. It’s not like Boney said, really. It’s very steep and nice.”
Anne sighed. “We don’t even know how to get back, Bran. Don’t make promises. We’ve got no lemons and no idea where that door is. Just sit still and wait.”
Some catapult or cannon struck the base of the tower. Dust shook down from the rafters.
“I don’t want to sit still, Anne. I don’t want to wait. I want to be down there; I want to be in the thick of it! This is intolerable! He ought to have made me a soldier. I daresay I earned it.”
Anne gave Branwell a strange look. He looked away quickly. She could never know what he’d done. There could be no consequences if no one ever knew. Unless it all came out splashingly; then he’d tell them himself so they could praise him.
Victoria’s eyes gleamed. She grinned at them. The tiny Queen of Englands real and unreal wiggled out from under the huddle and attacked the nearest mountain of dolls and toys. She threw them savagely aside, over her shoulder, sending them skidding across the floor.
Bran and Anne scrambled to stop her. “What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
“Rather a lot!” Victoria laughed. “You might have noticed!”
She pulled a last lot of dolls away—Albert was among them, staring up at her with adoring blue eyes. The tapestry lay bare. Victoria lifted it
up like a magician lifting the curtain on a trick.
There was a door in the wall. An iron door with a sheet of white silk over it. Just like Bonaparte had said.
A cannonball ripped through the roof of the tower. Sky poured in.
“Come with us!” Anne begged Victoria. “I don’t think you’re scrubby, I think you’re wonderful, just wonderful, and you can always be my friend and we’ll never ever be alone again! You can be my real sister forever, and we’ll play until we’re old and gray.”
Voices echoed on the staircase outside. Voices they didn’t know. Hurry, Charlotte! Anne prayed. Hurry, Em!
“All . . . all right,” Victoria said uncertainly. “Just . . . just let me get my things. I can’t go without Albert. And I must say good-bye to Miss Agnes.”
“There’s no time for that,” shouted Bran. Wind whipped down off the mountains into the shattered tower. His heart was beating so fast and hard! Never mind Charlotte and Emily, they could die, they could really die here. He could die, and the battle wasn’t half done yet. It was too much, suddenly. He didn’t want to be down there in the thick of it at all. He wanted to be home in his own bed with a cup of Tabitha’s beef broth in him and the covers pulled up over his head. “We should go now,” he yelled, panicked. “We’ll come back for Charlotte and Em. Of course we will! Once we know where the door opens, we’ll be able to come back any time we like! But right now we’re about to be blown apart and we haven’t got time for Albert!”
Victoria blinked slowly. “Yes, of course, you see how silly I am, really, I just can’t think with all the noise.” She gathered up the mound of papers from her desk and clutched them to her chest, still reaching for more sheets.
“Leave it!” Bran snapped. A volley of muskets banged through the air outside. One of the bullets lodged in the wall behind them.
