with him.
Well, yes. He was right.
I put it to you, he only wants you to stay on and do your exams so you won’t make him give you a job at his work. Because he doesn’t want you there.
He said, it wasn’t the sort of thing I’d enjoy doing.
Because he
doesn’t like you
.
No, I can’t accept that. Just look at everything he’s done for me.
Yes, because he promised your mum.
You’re just trying to make trouble. He likes me. I’m his nephew. When he’s gone, all this will be mine. He said so. And I live here. If he couldn’t stand the sight of me—
He’d have packed you off to boarding school when you were twelve. Oh, wait, yes, he did. And then straight to college. You hardly had time to unpack.
I’m here now.
Now
look
. One, none of that is true. Two, it’s beside the point. All I was saying was, he could’ve been really upset and angry, shouting, throwing stuff. And he wasn’t. All right?
Yes, and isn’t that just a teeny bit suspicious?
Oh come
on
. You can’t have it both ways.
No, you come on. You saw how he reacted when you asked him what he actually does for a living.
And he answered the question, didn’t he? Accountancy. Management consulting.
Mphm.
All right, what?
No, it’s fine. You seem perfectly satisfied with that answer. Far be it from me to go stirring up trouble.
Look—
It just occurs to me and my nasty, suspicious mind, if that’s really want he does, why did the question stop him dead in his tracks—
Ah yes. The crass militaristic tank metaphor.
Actually, I thought it was rather good.
You would.
Anyway
. Sorry, where was I? Oh yes. So, two things for you to think about. One. All right, I’ll concede, he’s fond of you, to some extent. But he goes to a lot of trouble and expense to get you out of the house and a long way away. Two. Questions about how he makes his money stop him dead like a bear trap. Now, then. Exercise that fine analytical brain of yours. Don’t you think there may be something just a little bit—?
He’d had enough. Damned if he was going to sit still and listen to himself saying horrid things about Uncle Gordon, when he’d been so nice. He needed to get away, go somewhere he could clear his head; somewhere the insidious little voice couldn’t follow.
The garage. Or, to be precise, somewhere over the garage, way up high, to wish upon a doughnut. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he knew that the voice couldn’t get at him there. Maybe–his memory was oddly unclear on the point–that was why he’d gone there the last time.
Tin box. Doughnut. Here goes nothing—
And into nothing he went; and stepped out into bright sunshine under a clear blue sky. No change there, then. Amazing they ever managed to grow anything in a place with so little rainfall. He reached for a pocket to stow the doughnut in, but the stupid tunic thing he was wearing didn’t have one. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was; inside the palace grounds, but that’s like saying you’re not lost because you know you’re somewhere in Europe. He looked round, but for once the place wasn’t seething with courtiers and guards and gardeners with wheelbarrows. And that was another thing. Where did the money come from to pay all those people? Taxes? Excise duties? A 4 per cent levy on traditional narrative tropes? He made a note to ask the Chancellor, first chance he got—
Something swooped down at him out of the sun. He barely had time to drop into an instinctive terrified cringe when a hawk shot past him, its wingtips brushing his face, snatched the doughnut from his hand, and swung away, two feet or so above the lavender bushes, and vanished from sight.
The small part of him that really was Prince Florizel felt quite smug about that; told you it’d come back when it was hungry, assuming it’s the same hawk, but then, there can’t be an infinite number of goshawks in these parts, assuming it was a goshawk. The rest of him, outnumbering the Florizel bit by
Well, yes. He was right.
I put it to you, he only wants you to stay on and do your exams so you won’t make him give you a job at his work. Because he doesn’t want you there.
He said, it wasn’t the sort of thing I’d enjoy doing.
Because he
doesn’t like you
.
No, I can’t accept that. Just look at everything he’s done for me.
Yes, because he promised your mum.
You’re just trying to make trouble. He likes me. I’m his nephew. When he’s gone, all this will be mine. He said so. And I live here. If he couldn’t stand the sight of me—
He’d have packed you off to boarding school when you were twelve. Oh, wait, yes, he did. And then straight to college. You hardly had time to unpack.
I’m here now.
Now
look
. One, none of that is true. Two, it’s beside the point. All I was saying was, he could’ve been really upset and angry, shouting, throwing stuff. And he wasn’t. All right?
Yes, and isn’t that just a teeny bit suspicious?
Oh come
on
. You can’t have it both ways.
No, you come on. You saw how he reacted when you asked him what he actually does for a living.
And he answered the question, didn’t he? Accountancy. Management consulting.
Mphm.
All right, what?
No, it’s fine. You seem perfectly satisfied with that answer. Far be it from me to go stirring up trouble.
Look—
It just occurs to me and my nasty, suspicious mind, if that’s really want he does, why did the question stop him dead in his tracks—
Ah yes. The crass militaristic tank metaphor.
Actually, I thought it was rather good.
You would.
Anyway
. Sorry, where was I? Oh yes. So, two things for you to think about. One. All right, I’ll concede, he’s fond of you, to some extent. But he goes to a lot of trouble and expense to get you out of the house and a long way away. Two. Questions about how he makes his money stop him dead like a bear trap. Now, then. Exercise that fine analytical brain of yours. Don’t you think there may be something just a little bit—?
He’d had enough. Damned if he was going to sit still and listen to himself saying horrid things about Uncle Gordon, when he’d been so nice. He needed to get away, go somewhere he could clear his head; somewhere the insidious little voice couldn’t follow.
The garage. Or, to be precise, somewhere over the garage, way up high, to wish upon a doughnut. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he knew that the voice couldn’t get at him there. Maybe–his memory was oddly unclear on the point–that was why he’d gone there the last time.
Tin box. Doughnut. Here goes nothing—
And into nothing he went; and stepped out into bright sunshine under a clear blue sky. No change there, then. Amazing they ever managed to grow anything in a place with so little rainfall. He reached for a pocket to stow the doughnut in, but the stupid tunic thing he was wearing didn’t have one. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was; inside the palace grounds, but that’s like saying you’re not lost because you know you’re somewhere in Europe. He looked round, but for once the place wasn’t seething with courtiers and guards and gardeners with wheelbarrows. And that was another thing. Where did the money come from to pay all those people? Taxes? Excise duties? A 4 per cent levy on traditional narrative tropes? He made a note to ask the Chancellor, first chance he got—
Something swooped down at him out of the sun. He barely had time to drop into an instinctive terrified cringe when a hawk shot past him, its wingtips brushing his face, snatched the doughnut from his hand, and swung away, two feet or so above the lavender bushes, and vanished from sight.
The small part of him that really was Prince Florizel felt quite smug about that; told you it’d come back when it was hungry, assuming it’s the same hawk, but then, there can’t be an infinite number of goshawks in these parts, assuming it was a goshawk. The rest of him, outnumbering the Florizel bit by
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