The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [92]
"The last what?" Orphan said.
TWENTY-NINE
Mary
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockleshells
And pretty maids all in a row.
– Traditional nursery rhyme
They were sitting in one of the huts. It was disturbingly organic-looking, as if grown rather than built. A small fire burned in the centre, the smoke rising through a central chimney. A large iron pot rested over the coals.
The old woman was sitting opposite Orphan. Her name, he had learned, was Catherine. He was still trying to digest the other bit of information: namely, that she claimed to be his grandmother.
"So he's not really a pirate?" Elizabeth said, disappointed. She stood by the door and looked restless.
"So you really are a princess?" Orphan said, the words catching in his throat. He looked at the half-wild girl, tan-skinned, dirty matted hair.
Elizabeth snorted in reply.
"Oh, but they were cruel!" Catherine said. She looked at him and her eyes reflected fire. "When that cursed Vespucci woke them from their sleep, how quickly they plotted against us! When first they came to us we welcomed them, the court made burnished and bright and gay. But they came like thieves, like robbers, and in the night they fell on their prey, and captured us all, and shipped us out before first light."
She paused and stared into the embers, and some of the fire seemed to seep out of her. "So I was told," she said, her voice softer. "By my father, who had heard it from his, who had heard it from his, all the way back." She gestured around at the hut. "This is the only palace I have ever known."
"And you say you are–" Orphan began, but couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
Catherine smiled. "Yes," she said. "I am the daughter of the rightful King and Queen of England, by direct descent. Which makes you, William, the King-inWaiting."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The King-in-Exile," she said, elaborating.
"I beg your pardon?"
Her smile grew softer at his bewilderment. "The man who would be King, William," she said.
"I'm sorry," Orphan said, "but that's ridiculous."
William?
The old woman smiled, and some of her energy seemed to return to her. "Look at yourself," she said. "Can you deny the family resemblance?"
Orphan shook his head. "Superficial," he said.
From her place by the door Elizabeth snorted again. "Blood doesn't lie," Catherine said. "When we were brought here, the island's machines analysed and sampled us, and the Rule was instated: that only those of the blood could live on the island, though they could never leave. Over the years I have seen the remains of the people who once sought this island: their skeletons litter the shore and the jungle."
"What do you mean, the Rule?"
"Families have a – a sort of signature," Catherine said. "A code, the lizards call it. The insects are manufactured, mobile probes for the island's defences. When that insect bit you, it withdrew blood and analysed it. Were you a stranger – were you really no more than what you say you are, an orphan, a pirate, a castaway – you would be dead by now, and your body would have been slowly decomposing in the jungle. That you are still alive, I think, is proof enough of who and what you are."
"Ridiculous," Orphan said again. He didn't want to deal with this.
Catherine laughed. She had a warm, deep laugh, and smoky. "Why don't we eat first?" she said. "I am sure you have hundreds of questions."
Yes, like how do I get out of here? Orphan thought. But, right now, he had to admit, the thought of food dominated.
"Elizabeth, bring plates!" the old woman said. Elizabeth, with a disdainful look at Orphan, disappeared through the door and returned a moment later with three earthenware plates and some crude cutlery. Catherine dipped a ladle into the iron pot and brought it up full of a thick, fragrant broth. She dished it into the plates, and Elizabeth handed the first one to Orphan.
"Have some fungus bread," Catherine said, and from somewhere in