That evening, Prince Philip returned to the sitting room.
He had gone out that afternoon for a walk in the grounds, saying that since the snow had stopped he wanted some fresh air.
When he came in, he found his two grandsons on the carpet with the Escape Colouring Book, Diana smiling beside them as she coached them through the business of chasing the kitten, and Charles on the sofa with a newspaper.
Elizabeth was not there. She had taken Henry to meet the Prime Minister.
"I heard," Philip said, dropping into his armchair and crossing one leg over the other, "that someone fell into a swamp today?"
Charles raised his newspaper about two inches higher.
William and Harry, deep in the kitten chase, noticed nothing.
"Well done," Philip said, with the air of someone making a sincere observation. "I mean, he was really very careless, of course—"
The laughter that followed lasted some time.
Charles held the newspaper higher, but the shaking of the pages was visible. Diana, nominally still helping with the colouring book, was similarly engaged in suppressing something.
Only the two children remained entirely absorbed.
"Father," Charles said, from behind his newspaper.
"Yes?"
"Couldn't you at least—"
"Couldn't I what?" Philip looked perfectly innocent. "I was only saying he was careless. Nothing more than that."
Charles lowered the newspaper and regarded his father.
The look communicated, without ambiguity, that he did not believe this for a single moment.
Philip returned a look that communicated equal indifference to whether he was believed or not, picked up his glass, and took a satisfied sip.
"Speaking of which," he said, apparently remembering something, "what did they say at Downing Street?"
"That tonight's meeting is private," Charles said, folding the paper back. "A routine post-holiday visit. Nothing particularly significant."
On the other side of the Sandringham estate, in the Garden Room, the fire was burning well.
Elizabeth was reviewing a document in her armchair. She looked up at Henry, who sat on the sofa across from her.
He had not had much private time with her since returning, and this meeting with the Prime Minister was a deliberate arrangement, a chance to show him another aspect of the country he would one day help to lead.
A knock at the door. Paul opened it and inclined his head slightly. "Your Majesty, the Prime Minister has arrived."
"Please show them in."
Henry noted the plural.
Three figures entered.
The first was a tall, upright man with a ruddy, open face—the sort of man who gives an immediate impression of approachability.
Behind him came a second man, of medium height, refined and composed, with a slightly receding hairline and the bearing of someone who has spent decades being the most prepared person in any room.
The third, younger than the other two, carried a folder and had positioned himself in the doorway at a distance that was neither too close nor too far, as though he had spent considerable time calculating exactly where to stand.
Jim Hacker, Prime Minister. Sir Humphrey Appleby, Cabinet Secretary. Bernard Woolley, Principal Private Secretary.
"Good evening, Prime Minister," Elizabeth said, setting down the file and inclining her head slightly.
Hacker stepped forward and gave a small bow. "Your Majesty, Merry Christmas! I do hope we haven't intruded on your holiday—I mean, on a day that should be spent entirely with family, it really is rather—"
"Not at all. Please sit down." Elizabeth's smile was slight but warm. "This is Henry, my eldest grandson. Henry, this is Prime Minister Hacker."
Henry rose and gave a brief bow. "Prime Minister."
Hacker extended his hand and shook Henry's with genuine warmth. "Your Highness Henry! An honour to meet you—I see you in the papers rather often." He paused. "Much more impressive in person, of course. The photographs never quite do justice—they never quite manage to—" He glanced back at Humphrey. "Isn't that right, Humphrey?"
Sir Humphrey returned a smile that was polished to the exact degree required.
"This is the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Humphrey Appleby," Elizabeth continued.
Sir Humphrey stepped forward. "Your Majesty. Your Highness." He drew a breath and began: "It is a very great honour indeed to find ourselves in such a warm and festive setting, even as we bear the not inconsiderable weight of the daily administrative affairs of state, which are of course, some might say, entirely minor matters conducted entirely under Your Majesty's wise and guiding leadership, but to be afforded even a brief respite from the rather relentless demands of Whitehall, and to find oneself in the rare tranquillity and elegance of Sandringham House, is, it must be said, an experience of some considerable luxury."
Henry felt thoroughly refreshed. This was exactly what he had hoped for.
"And my Principal Private Secretary, Bernard Woolley," Hacker said, gesturing.
Bernard stepped forward, bowed, opened his mouth, produced a sound that was not quite a word, and returned to his position.
His eyes moved briefly to Henry, found something of interest, and settled on the fireplace, in the manner of a man who has seen a great deal and recorded all of it.
Everyone sat. The staff served tea and refreshments and withdrew.
"Your Majesty," Hacker said, picking up his cup, taking a sip, and setting it down with the manner of someone who has been practicing this transition, "I wouldn't normally intrude at Christmas, but there are one or two matters—"
"I understand," Elizabeth said. "He has resigned, and the situation needs to be discussed."
A visible measure of relief crossed Hacker's face, and he began.
The conversation that followed covered the implications of the Soviet dissolution at some length. Henry listened without speaking unless addressed directly.
When that topic had been settled to everyone's satisfaction, Hacker's attention returned to Henry with undisguised curiosity.
"Are you settling in well at Hogwarts, Your Highness? That is, the magic school."
"Very well, thank you, Prime Minister."
"Glad to hear it, very glad." Hacker nodded, and then his eyes brightened with the particular expression of a man who has remembered something he has been wanting to tell for some time. He turned to Humphrey. "Do you remember my first meeting with the Minister for Magic, Humphrey?"
Sir Humphrey set down his cup. "The fourth of May, 1984. Your first evening as Prime Minister. Then-Minister for Magic, Madam Millicent Bagnold, paid a formal visit via the Floo Network, emerging from the fireplace in the study at Ten Downing Street. A historic occasion, marking—"
"It marked that I very nearly fell off my chair," Hacker said, turning to Henry. "Your Highness, can you imagine? I'd been going since six in the morning, and I'd just sat down with a cup of tea for the first time all day, and suddenly green fire burst out of the fireplace and a woman came through it, wearing a robe and a pointed hat. My immediate thought was that I had somehow done something to deserve this."
Henry kept his expression composed. "I can imagine, Prime Minister."
"Madam Bagnold—" Hacker shook his head with a fond bewilderment. "She told me I was considerably more composed than my predecessor, who had apparently been convinced she was a political trick of some kind and had attempted to have her removed from the building." He leaned forward. "She introduced herself as Minister for Magic and explained that, as was customary, a new Prime Minister needed to be informed of the existence of the wizarding world. And then she snapped her fingers and turned my teacup into a gerbil."
"A Mongolian gerbil, to be precise, Prime Minister," Bernard said quietly from behind. "Meriones unguiculatus. It subsequently ran across several documents on your desk and left certain marks."
"Thank you, Bernard," Hacker said, in the tone of a man who has long since made his peace with this.
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Early chapters: p*treon.com/palevolt100