Prisoners in the Palace by Michaela MacColl Page A

yerself.”
    “Excellent. Where is he?”
    “Fleet Street, of course, where all the newspapers are,” he said, matter-of-fact.
    “I’ll have to find a way to leave the Palace. In the meantime, I’ll try to deliver your letter.”
    He pulled out a folded square letter from a deep pocket, the edges smooth from handling. In the dim light, she could make out the letters P V penciled in with a blunt lead point.
    “Annie asked me to get it to the Princess quick, but ‘er ‘ighness is never alone. I’d about given up.”
    “If there’s a reply, how do I find you?”
    He gestured grandly to his wood box. “You can always find me at ‘ome. Now Miss, you should get back to your room. And mind your step around Sir John.”
    She pocketed the letter. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Inside Boy.”
    “Likewise.”
    Liza turned back at the doorway to see the lid closing down over Inside Boy’s impudent head.
    Liza congratulated herself as she stole back through the silent house. In one evening, she had established her own source of information in the Palace, retrieved the broadsheet, and brought back something certain to interest the Princess. Hurrying down the deserted hallway, she slipped through her door. A figure in white was standing in the center of her room. Liza stifled a scream.
    “Liza, for heaven’s sakes, it’s I.” Despite her small stature, the Princess, in a billowing nightdress, seemed to fill the room.
    “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
    “Where have you been, I’ve been waiting,” the Princess complained, a shiver racked her body. “It’s terribly cold in here.”
    Liza glanced around her tiny room: it wasn’t much of a haven, but it was hers.
    “With all due respect, Your Highness, you are early. I didn’t expect you for another hour.” She spoke deliberately like a hostess might, confronted by an inconsiderate guest’s arrival before the appointed time. “How convenient my door was open, so you could let yourself in.”
    It was the Princess’s turn to be surprised and affronted. “Liza, I dare not be found in the hall.”
    “Of course not, Princess,” Liza said graciously.
    The Princess rubbed her arms and shuddered again. “Is the window open?” she asked. “There’s a draught.”
    “No, the pane is broken,” Liza said. The least Liza could do was make her guest comfortable. She pulled her mother’s shawl from the chest and draped it around Victoria’s shoulders.
    The Princess pulled it tightly against her body. “This is beautiful,” she said. “And so warm.”
    “My father brought it from Kashmir, in India; it was a gift for my mother,” Liza answered. Perched on Liza’s chair and burrowing in the colorful shawl, the Princess looked like an inscrutable eastern empress.
    “Now, Liza, you were very mysterious earlier,” the Princess said. “I couldn’t lay still for wondering what all your enigmatic hints meant. Dites-moi!”
    Liza went to the window and plugged the hole in the window with a rag. “I overheard something you should know about,” she said.
    “You were eavesdropping? How unladylike—best not let Lehzen know.”
    Marveling at the naiveté of the Princess, Liza said, “She told me to do it.”
    “Lehzen did?”
    “As you know, I speak German…”
    With a leap of logic proving how false the accusation of feeblemindedness was, the Princess cried, “No wonder Lehzen hired you! She wants you to spy on Mama and Sir John! How diabolical! How delightful!” She smiled broadly.
    “Your mother was upset yesterday because of…this.” With a flourish, Liza pulled the broadsheet out from under her skirt.
    The Princess took the paper closer to the candle and began reading. “I am mentally backward and self-centered.” She snorted with laughter. “Heavens, what a combination! Mama must have been furious!”
    “She was, but Sir John comforted her.”
    “Of course he did, that’s why he is indispensable,” the Princesssaid absently as she scanned