Rule of The Monarch

Six: The Game Is... Something

7 September

'Did she really have to be so dramatic?' Heather ran a hand over her face, exhaling in frustration. 'Lady Everton only fainted.'

'And which glass is for water?' Mrs. Green, a pleasant lady compared to the women Heather knew. And ignorant enough for her to enjoy the dull lessons preparing her for the throne. 'Salad fork?'

'It's one thing to lie about killing someone, but lying about death? And after Christopher's gone missing,' she scoffed. 'Idiots.'

'Yes dear. What happened with Lady Everton was dreadful,' she patted Heather's head as if she were still a child. 'Come now, It's time for your dress fitting.'

'I never thought someone could turn so pale,' Heather spoke to her reflection as the maids pulled an elaborate gown over her head. 'Mr. Hemingway should be stronger than that.'

'Yes, but Lady Everton is his grandmother. Fear had us all at that moment, didn't it?' Mrs. Green said. 'Now arms up dear.'

'You were friends with Lady Everton, Mrs. Green,' she tilted her head in curiosity. 'What was she like?'

'Oh, Beatrice? She was a darling, but never talked too well. Always scribbling in her little book,' Mrs. Green nodded, fastening pins to Heather's dress. 'Very nice though. She even had the time to make us little notes for our birthdays.'

'Notes?'

'Yes. Very pretty ones. I think I still have one if you'd like to see.'

'No— I mean yes,' Heather huffed again. 'Nevermind Mrs. Green. It's nothing.'

'There's hardly ever nothing dear. If you think something's there, follow it. No one else is going to.'

'Well then, will you help me out of this ridiculous dress?'

•••

'What are we looking for again?' Astor asked as he sifted through three different stacks of books.

'A dr— a note.'

'A note?' He stopped and faced her. 'You think our criminal would leave a note for us to find?' He scoffed. 'And I thought you were smart.'

'And I thought you couldn't be anymore dimwitted,' she rolled her eyes. 'Not the criminal, although if he did, he'd be worse than you. No, I'm talking about Christopher,' she rummaged through her cousin's bedside table. 'He always has a small green notebook he carries around. He likes to draw when he's bored.'

'What does he draw?' Astor resumed his search.

'Trees, interesting people—'

'Animal carcass?' He quirked a brow, holding up the aforementioned book.

'Among other things,' she shrugged. 'Ah,' she said, fishing out a bright red pen out of the drawer. 'Bring it here,' she patted the spot beside her.

'What's this for?'

'This,' she took the book from him. 'Proves that Christopher was taken and that he did not run away,' she gestured to the neatly kept room. 'No signs of struggle, no fighting. His room has been asked to remain as it was by the police. We've got a brilliant kidnapper and an even more brilliant hostage.'

'I don't understand.'

'Christopher's left us clues,' she looked at him pointedly.

'So why hasn't anyone started searching for him?'

'The detective has clearly neglected to ask about personal habits, common traits,' she flipped open a page and started writing in her own script. 'Sad really. Knowing our top inspector can be so careless—'

'What are you writing? Shouldn't we leave it or turn it in as evidence?'

'Hah! Evidence,' she laughed a bit. 'You're funny Mr. Hemingway.'

'What's that?' Astor pointed to the top of the pen. What first passed off as an elaborate set of markings now revealed itself as rows of lines and dots in no particular pattern.

'Morse code. Never remembered it.' she started turning it like a dial.

'Who does?'

'My father. Countless inventors. The servants. Nearly everyone in the kingdom,' she kept on scribbling. 'Waste of time really. You don't get a telegram everyday.'

'All right,' Astor's brows knit together. 'What does it have to do with anything?'

'Not anything, everything.'

'Pardon?'

'Pack your bags. We have a case to solve.' And for once, Heather's face lit up with a dangerous glee