A Prince Without a Kingdom by Timothee de Fombelle

Author:Timothee de Fombelle [Fombelle, Timothée de]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7636-8083-1
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2011-08-19T16:00:00+00:00

Inverness, Scotland, three weeks later, March 1937

An odd-looking person walked into the shop to shelter from the rain. Andrei recognized him instantly, and proceeded to stare at him.

Boulard was wearing a square-framed pair of glasses with thick lenses that made his eyes look strangely close together. He sported an oilcloth rain hat and a matching custard-colored raincoat. The superintendent had stuffed the bottoms of his trousers, which were too long for him, into a pair of black ankle boots. No doubt about it — he was in disguise. Incognito. And to prove it, he was whistling.

With his hands behind his back, he started looking at the color samples.

Andrei had been working in the shop ever since he’d left Everland. He had stopped here, in the first town he had come to, rather than return to Vlad the Vulture. He had been hired to work as a stockroom-cum-delivery boy for the paint shop opposite the station. His boss was getting a good deal, since he only paid a part-time wage despite Andrei working nonstop and even sleeping at the back of the shop.

The boss appeared from behind the cash register and headed over to Boulard. Andrei stayed at the back.

“Are you looking for something?”

“Yes.”

“Are you French?”

Boulard bristled. How could anyone tell?

“Well . . . Ah, some of my ancestors came from France,” explained the superintendent, trying to speak the Queen’s English as airily as if he were a member of Oxford University’s Bullingdon Club. “You have a sophisticated ear, Mr. . . . Colors.”

He had just spotted the shopkeeper’s name on the notice above the till: GREGOR’S COLORS.

“Mr. Gregor,” said the boss, putting him right. “Francis Gregor. Colors is the name of the shop.”

“Yes, of course. Now, I’m on my way to see a charming young lady friend of mine on the other side of Loch Ness. It’s a surprise visit.”

Boulard tried winking, but his heavy glasses slipped down his nose, and he ended up jabbing his finger in his eye as he tried to push them up again.

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted!” commented Gregor, taking in the superintendent’s old-dog look, his cardboard suitcase disintegrating in his grip, and the excessive amount of trouser fabric spilling over the top of his boots.

“I’ve been waiting for a car since this morning,” said Boulard, “but I’ve rather given up hope.”

“There are no taxis.”

“I was thinking as much. Might you be kind enough to take me a little closer to my destination?”

“There are no taxis,” repeated Mr. Gregor, who owned the only shop outside the station, but who regretted daily that he had opened up a paint shop instead of a bus station.

Boulard turned to glance at the road, where the rain was pelting down.

“I do believe I can see a vehicle with your name on it alongside the curb, Mr. Colors.”

“Mr. Gregor.”

“Gregor, yes.”

“That vehicle is for deliveries only.”

The superintendent nodded.

“Of course. Deliveries. What a pity. Well, it only remains for me to wish you a pleasant afternoon.”

Boulard walked toward the door.

“But I can sell you an umbrella,” Gregor called out brazenly.

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