19 December: Olives

Ten facts about Olives for French Revolutionary Calendar's Day of the Olive.

1. The botanical name is Olea europaea, meaning "european olive".
2. Why are some olives green and others Black? It's to do with how ripe they are when they are harvested. The black ones are fully ripe; the green ones are picked before ripening has begun. Green olives are picked from the middle of October to the end of November, and black olives are collected from the middle of November to the end of January or early February.
3. Freshly picked olives are very bitter because they contain oleuropein, a bitter phenolic compound at levels of up to 14%. The curing process takes from a few days, with lye, to a few months with brine or Salt.
4. Olives have been an important crop for millennia. As far back as 3000 BC, olives were grown commercially in Crete; they may have been the source of the wealth of the Minoan civilization. In fact, the English word "oil" derives from the word for olive tree in several ancient languages.
5. Olive oil is widely used today. Spain in the biggest producer (39% of world production in 2013) while Greece is the biggest consumer (over 24 litres per person per year). "Virgin" means that the oil was produced by the use of mechanical means only, with no chemical treatment.
6. In 2011 there were about 9.6 million hectares planted with olive trees throughout the world, making olives one of the most extensively cultivated fruit crops in the world. Only coconut trees and oil palms take up more space.
7. The original Olympic "eternal flame" was fuelled by olive oil. It was used to to anoint kings and athletes in ancient Greece and was burned in temple lamps. In the Jewish religion, olive oil is the only fuel allowed to be used in the seven-branched Menorah in the Mishkan service during the Exodus of the tribes of Israel from Egypt, and later in the permanent Temple in Jerusalem. It was obtained by using only the first drop from a squeezed olive and was consecrated for use only in the Temple by the priests and stored in special containers.
8. Both the Bible and the Quran mention olives as an important and prized fruit. An olive branch, particularly when depicted in a dove's beak, is a symbol of peace. Olive branches appear on the flag and coat of arms of Cyprus, the flag of Eritrea, and the Great Seal of the United States. Crowns of olive leaves were presented to the victors of battles and games in ancient Greece.
9. Olive trees grow in any light soil. They can be prone to diseases in richer soils. They like hot weather and sunny positions. Historically, farmers believed that olive trees would not grow more than 55.6 km or 34.5 miles from the sea.
10. There are olive trees alive today which are over 2,000 years old. While cold weather can seem to kill the trees, the roots often survive and will sprout again in spring. If properly pruned and cared for, ancient trees can still produce fruit.

18 December: Qatar National Day

Today is another national day - that of Qatar.

1. Qatar's National Day is on 18 December, and is in remembrance of Jassim bin Mohammed Al Thani's succession to the throne. He was responsible for the unification of the country's various tribes and is therefore seen as the founder of the nation. They also celebrate Qatar National Sport Day on the second Tuesday of February.
2. Qatar is an absolute monarchy and political parties are outlawed. The Al Thani dynasty has been ruling Qatar since 1825. The current Emir is Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani, whose father Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani abdicated and handed power to him on 25 June 2013. He's not, however, the eldest son. He's the fourth son. One of his older brothers renounced his claim to the throne and the others were passed over. According to The Economist, "One played too much, the other prayed too much."
3. The capital and largest city is Doha, which means 'roundness'.
4. It's probably the richest country in the world, thanks to its oil and gas reserves. It has the highest per capita income in the world, and has the second highest standard of living in the Middle East.
5. Qatar's Flag is the only national flag whose width more than twice its height. It is maroon with a broad white serrated band (nine white points) on the hoist side. The maroon represents the historical importance of purple dye to the nation, and is maroon rather than purple because of the tendency of the purple dye to darken in the sun. The white portion of the flag represents peace from signing anti-piracy treaties with the British; the nine points signify Qatar's inclusion as the 9th member of the 'reconciled Emirates' of the Persian Gulf at the conclusion of the Qatari-British treaty in 1916.
6. Qatar cultivates less than 1% of its land, as most of the country consists of a low, barren plain, covered with sand. It imports 90% of its food, and has only 2 days worth of Water reserves.
7. The highest point in Qatar is Qurayn Abu al Bawl at 103 metres (338 ft).
8. It has the highest proportion of immigrant workers to native nationals in the world. Immigrant workers – mostly from south Asia and the Philippines – outnumber native Qataris by about eight to one - there are only around 300,000 native Qatari citizens in a population of over 2.3 million.
9. In 2022, Qatar is to host the FIFA World Cup - the first Arab country and the smallest country ever to do so.
10. Aware that oil prices could fall and it wouldn't do to be too dependent on oil, Qatar set up the Qatar Investment Authority in 2005 to buy things abroad, including lots of stuff in London. Qatar owns Harrods, The Shard, the Chelsea Barracks site, and the Olympic village site, to name but a few. It is also the largest shareholder in Sainsbury's, with just over a quarter of the business. It also co-owns Miramax Films after buying it from Disney with a group of other investors.

17th December: Bhutan National Day

Bhutan's National Day is today so here are 10 things you might not know about Bhutan:

1. The Kingdom of Bhutan is a landlocked country in South Asia at the eastern end of the Himalayas. The name in English is thought to come from Sanskrit, meaning "End of Tibet." However, the name Bhutan only appears in English correspondence - it people call it Druk Yul, or “land of the Thunder Dragon” because its proximity to the Himalayas results in frequent storms.
2. Bhutan is home to the world's highest unclimbed mountain, Gangkhar Puensum at 7,570 metres (24,840 ft). It hasn't been climbed for good reason - it is believed to be sacred and so no-one is allowed to climb it by law.
3. It is the only country in the world where "Gross National Happiness" is officially measured. This reflects the country's spiritual heritage of Buddhism, and a rejection of the western idea that Gross National Product is the most important thing. The treasury arrives at a GNH by measuring progress against “four pillars” – sustainable development, environmental protection, cultural preservation and good governance – not just GDP.
4. Care for the environment is also very important. The Constitution demands that 60% of the country remain forested (currently they exceed that at 72% forest). It sells hydro-electrical power, making it the only country whose largest export is renewable energy, and the only country which absorbs more CO2 than it gives out. Plastic bags have been banned in Bhutan since 1999, and killing an endangered animal could result in a life prison sentence. It's also the first country in the world to completely ban smoking.
5. Bhutan has not been, historically, a big tourist destination. It didn’t even appear on European maps until the late 18th century. The first foreign tourists were allowed into Bhutan in 1974. Even today, you can only visit if you arrange your travel through a government authorised agency and stump up $250 per person for each day you are there. However, this sum does include your accommodation, transport, food and a guide.
6. The capital and largest city is Thimphu. There are no Traffic Lights in the city. An attempt was made once to introduce them by installing a test set - but the people soon complained that the lights weren't personal enough, and they much preferred the traditional method of traffic control, which is a man in white gloves directing the traffic.
7. Bhutan is a constitutional monarchy, and the current king is Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck, the fifth Druk Gyalpo or "Dragon King", who became king in 2006 when his father abdicated. He married a commoner, Jetsun Pema, the daughter of a pilot (so Jetsun seems an appropriate name!) in 2011.
8. Bhutan has only had television and The Internet since 1999. The then king decided to allow them as a jubilee gift to the people.
9. The national animal is the highly unusual takin (or cattle chamois or gnu goat) a type of goat-antelope which is the only species in its class, Budorcas taxicolor. This animal, according to legend, was created when Bhutan's most popular saint, known as the divine madman, ate a whole cow and goat for his lunch, and when he'd finished, he took the goat's head and put it on the cow's bones, clicked his fingers and there was the takin, alive and well and grazing on the mountainside.
10. In Bhutan, everyone celebrates their birthday on New Year's Day.

16 December: Bahrain National Day

Today is Bahrain's National Day. Here are 10 things you might not know about Bahrain.

1. Bahrain is an island country, an archipelago of 33 islands (33 natural islands - if you include reclaimed land the number rises to 84), near the western shores of the Persian Gulf. Bahrain Island is the largest at 55 km (34 mi) long by 18 km (11 mi) wide. Other islands include Hawar, Muharraq Island, Umm an Nasan, and Sitrah.
2. As an island nation, it has no land borders with any other country, but it is connected to Saudi Arabia by the King Fahd Causeway, which is 24 km (15 mi) long.
3. The country's name derives from the Arabic for "two seas". Until the middle ages, the name was used to refer to a much larger area of Eastern Arabia which encompassed Southern Iraq, Kuwait, Al-Hasa, Qatif and Bahrain. It is mentioned five times in the Quran, referring to this larger region.
4. According to legend, Bahrain was the site of the Garden of Eden. Whether or not that is the case, it was certainly the ancient land of Dilmun, mentioned in the Epic of Gilgamesh, an epic poem from ancient Mesopotamia which dates from around 2100 BC. The Epic of Gilgamesh is often regarded as the first great work of literature.
5. The capital and largest city is Manama.
6. 92% of the country is desert, so it suffers from time to time from droughts and dust storms. There are fresh water wells, though, and also areas in the sea to the north where fresh water bubbles up through the salt water.
7. The desert is also home to the Tree of Life, a 400 year old tree. It grows despite there being no water nearby and has become a popular tourist attraction.
8. The national Flag has evolved considerably since the 19th century. The first known flag was plain red, but a white stripe was added in 1820 to signify a treaty with the United Kingdom. So that it was more easily distinguished from the flags of neighbouring countries, a 28 point serrated edge to the stripes was added. In 1972 this was reduced to eight points and in 2002, to five, representing the five pillars of Islam. While on the subject of the flag, Bahrain held the Guinness World Record for the largest flag to be hoisted for a while from 2004. The flag in question measured 169.5m (555 feet) long and 97.1m (318 feet) wide. However, Israel has since broken the record.
9. Bahrain World Trade Centre is the first Skyscraper in the world to integrate wind turbines into its design.
10. Bahrain has a Formula One race-track, which has hosted a Grand Prix annually since 2004, except for 2011 when the race was cancelled due to anti-government protests. The violent protests were still going on in 2012, but the race went ahead. The decision to go ahead despite risks to the competitors has been described as "one of the most controversial in the history of the sport".

My Books:

Death and Faxes

Several women have been found murdered - it looks like the work of a ruthless serial killer. Psychic medium Maggie Flynn is one of the resources DI Jamie Swan has come to value in such cases - but Maggie is dead, leaving him with only the telephone number of the woman she saw as her successor, her granddaughter, Tabitha Drake.

Tabitha, grief-stricken by Maggie's death and suffering a crisis of confidence in her ability, wants nothing to do with solving murder cases. She wants to hold on to her job and find Mr Right (not necessarily in that order); so when DI Swan first contacts her, she refuses to get involved.

The ghosts of the victims have other ideas. They are anxious for the killer to be caught and for names to be cleared - and they won't leave Tabitha alone. It isn't long before Tabitha is drawn in so deeply that her own life is on the line.

Paperback - CreateSpace or Amazon 

Or get the E-book: Amazon Kindle (Where you can use the "Look Inside" function and read the first few pages for free!)

Glastonbury Swan

Every few weeks, there is a mysterious death in Glastonbury. They seem completely unrelated - an apparent suicide, a hit and run, a drug overdose, a magic act which goes horribly wrong - but is that what the killer wants people to think?

The police are certainly convinced - but one of the victims is communicating to medium Tabitha Drake that the deaths are linked.

Who is killing all these people and why? 

This is what Tabitha has to figure out - before it is too late to save someone very dear to her.

Paperback CreateSpace or Amazon

E-book Amazon Kindle

Jigsaw

Within these covers you will find murder, mayhem, ghosts, romance, dungeons and dragons and alien vampire bunnies.


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E-book Amazon Kindle

New! From A Jack To A King

A royal palace is burning. The King and Queen are dead. The only hopes for an ancient dynasty flee to England for their lives.

A boy runs from his mother and the people he believes want to mutilate him, and vanishes, seemingly forever.

Gary Winchcombe, the experimental "super-cop" pursues a notorious gang of bank robbers, and starts to discover that his friends and neighbours have secrets he never could have imagined.

Tod Reynard wants to turn his life around. When he meets and falls in love with the beautiful Jade, he knows she might just be the one to help him change his life for the better. He cannot possibly know just how much.

When Jade's twin sister Gloria is kidnapped, old rivalries must be put aside and new associations formed in order to save Gloria's life and restore the rightful order of things.

Available from: Createspace, Amazon, Amazon Kindle

I have plenty more stories to tell, but I don't know yet which will win the race to the end of the pipeline. If you'd like to know:

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15th December: Day of the Cricket

In the French Revolutionary Calendar, today is the day of the Cricket. Here are 10 things you may not know about these insects:

1. There are over 900 species of cricket, belonging to the family Gryllidae.
2. Not all species of cricket chirp. Those that chirp do so by rubbing parts of their wing covers together. It is usually only the males which make a sound.
3. The chirping species also have good hearing. Their eardrums are located on their front legs.
4. Crickets are found all over the world, except at latitudes 55° or higher. They are most common in the tropics. In Malaysia, for example, 88 different species can be heard chirping from near Kuala Lumpur - and it's anyone's guess how many of the mute species were present as well.
5. The higher the temperature the faster a cricket will chirp, and their is even a law describing the relationship between rate of a cricket chirping and the temperature - it's called Dolbear's Law. According to this law, counting the number of chirps produced in 14 seconds by the snowy tree cricket, a species common in the United States, and adding 40 will approximately equal the temperature in degrees Fahrenheit.
6. When baby crickets hatch, they are about the size of a fruit fly. Then they go through ten larval stages before reaching adulthood.
7. The largest members of the family are the bull crickets, Brachytrupes, which are up to 5 cm (2 in) long.
8. There are a number of superstitions related to crickets in various parts of the world. A cricket chirping, especially inside a house, is in various countries seen as a sign of impending rain, a financial windfall, illness or death. In Brazil, a black cricket in a room is said to portend illness; a grey one, money; and a green one, hope. In China, crickets are considered very lucky and are sometimes kept as pets. Cricket fighting is a traditional Chinese pastime that dates back to the Tang dynasty (618–907).
9. In Vietnam, crickets are seen as a tasty snack when they have been soaked, cleaned and deep fried. It's thought that the food efficiency of crickets could be as much as twenty times higher than that of cattle.
10. Crickets are popular characters in fiction. A talking cricket features in Carlo Collodi's book, The Adventures of Pinocchio, and in the film adaptation he gets a name, Jiminy, and becomes Pinocchio's conscience. Charles Dickens's 1845 novella The Cricket on the Hearth is divided into sections called "Chirps", and tells the story of a cricket which chirps on the hearth and acts as a guardian angel to a family. George Selden's 1960 children's book The Cricket in Times Square tells the story of Chester the cricket from Connecticut who is taken, along with the family's other pets, to see Times Square in New York.

From A Jack To A King: Chapter One

Ildas McNair alighted from the plane, wrinkling his nose against the acrid smell of aviation fuel. He'd spent the two-and-a-half-hour flight wondering why Alex had been so desperate to see him after all these years. He was about to find out.

The sky was a deep royal blue; the mountains were black hulks huddled in a line as if watching him. A bitter wind whistled from the mountains across the flat plain of the airfield. It penetrated McNair's thin overcoat and chilled his bones. When he'd boarded the plane, it had been a sunny spring afternoon in England.

McNair spotted his old friend Alexander, standing on the tarmac. The years melted away. McNair remembered the last time he'd visited Galorvia, many years before, during his student days.

Alex had been there to meet him then, too. It had been a balmy summer day, although the highest peaks of the mountains had still retained their snow. They'd waved furiously to each other. McNair recalled how Alex had come running to embrace him in a very European, but most undignified fashion.

McNair gripped the handle of his overnight bag, and descended the steps. This time, their greeting was much more restrained; a formal handshake; for Alex was an important man now - Grand Vizier to King Christopher III of Galorvia - the second-most important person in the country, after the King himself. Two large guards in thick trench coats and fur hats, almost as hulking as the mountains, looked on dispassionately.

At close range, McNair could see how much Alex had aged. His hair was a distinguished salt-and-pepper instead of the intense blue-black it had once been. He wore glasses now. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth. He was slightly stooped; he looked haggard and tired.

The carefree, relaxed time of McNair's last visit seemed worlds away. He'd been there to study the unique and fascinating Galorvian language. Although there'd been a lot of work to do, it had been like an extended holiday. The two young men had cycled, hiked, swum in the vivid blue lakes, even skied a little on the glacier; spending most of their evenings in quaint inns drinking beer and eyeing up the barmaids.

McNair knew Alex would notice differences in his old friend, too. McNair was a university lecturer now, highly respected in his field. The prestigious London University he worked for would offer him a professorship in Eastern European languages within the next few years. His work left him little time for walking, cycling or skiing these days; it showed in the slight paunch he'd developed. His own hair was almost white, even though he wasn't yet fifty - a McNair family trait. Other than that, life had treated McNair much more sympathetically than it seemed to have treated his friend. McNair feared that more than years had taken their toll on Alex.

Although the two men hadn't met in person since their student days, they'd corresponded regularly; both knew the old warmth and affection was still there. It was this long-standing bond that had prompted Alex to send the telegram: 'ILDY I NEED YOUR HELP STOP HAVE ARRANGED TRANSPORT STOP COME QUICKLY ALEX.'

Ildas had been irritated by the delivery boy's knock; at having to disrupt his long-cherished Saturday morning routine: sitting in his study in his dressing gown and slippers, not getting dressed or even speaking to anyone before he'd finished The Times crossword.

Irritation had turned to dread as he'd signed for the telegram. It brought back vivid memories of that fateful day many years earlier when his mother had signed for a telegram telling her that her husband, his father, Captain Augustus McNair, had been killed in action.

Telegrams, Ildas had concluded, were bad things. He'd been sure this one, too, would tell him someone was dead or dying, and that his life was going to be turned upside down again.

Alex's words had given no hint of anyone's impending death. Nor did it seem that, aside from an unexpected trip to Galorvia, there would be any change to McNair's lifestyle. As it would turn out, he couldn't have been more wrong.

McNair had been relieved at first, then puzzled as to why Alex needed him so urgently. What would he be asked to do? When would the transport arrive? What should he take with him? All those questions crossed his mind - but, thanks to their long-standing friendship, the one question that did not spring to his mind, even for a moment, was, should I go? The answer to that was never in doubt.

He'd burst into the kitchen, where Betty Green, his housekeeper, accustomed to a quiet time while her employer did his crossword, had settled into her own Saturday morning routine of reading Woman's Weekly from cover to cover. She'd looked up in surprise as her employer paced up and down, waving the telegram. 'I have to go away for a few days - do I have ironed shirts? Where is my case?'

Betty was efficient and organised; those qualities had secured her the job five years before. She already had shirts ironed for the coming week and knew exactly where to find everything McNair needed for his trip. By the time the car arrived to take him to the airport, his bag was packed and ready to go.

That had been five hours ago.

'It's good to see you, Ildy,' Alex said. 'I trust your journey was pleasant.'

'As journeys go,' McNair replied.

'I'm sure you must be tired. Come.' Alex ushered him through the small, shabby airport building and to the sleek black limousine waiting outside. Alex got into the driving seat, and the car purred through the streets of Dormankc, Galorvia's capital city.

It was still the beautiful city McNair remembered. The Gothic towers of Saint Gloriana's Cathedral still dominated the skyline. The main street had been re-surfaced, but McNair could see the side roads were still narrow and cobbled; laundry hanging from the balconies. The ornate fountain in the main square was still there. Yet the city seemed somehow tired and oppressed.

'Don't you have a chauffeur?' McNair asked.

'Funny you should say that, Ildy. I do; but I relieved him of his duties today. I wanted to talk to you privately. We may not get another chance to be completely alone and unobserved.'

McNair nodded. 'You want to tell me why I'm here,' he said. 'There has to be a reason. You don't send a car to take me to Heathrow just so you can catch up on my news. You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you?'

Alex sighed. McNair noticed a group of men loitering in the square; he felt their eyes boring into him even through the darkened windows of the car. 'The whole country is in some kind of trouble. We really need your help. It's going to be a big ask, I'm afraid, but I can't think of anyone else we can trust with this.'

'So what's going on?'

Alex cleared his throat. 'The King has had some kind of - what is the word – tip-off that a rebellion is going to break. It seems many of the people cannot forgive his father's indulgences, especially since His Majesty has had to enforce some extremely stringent measures to get the economy back on track. Unfortunately, most of the people cannot see beyond their noses. They don't understand that things have to get worse before they can improve.'

'I'm sorry to hear that; but what can I do?'

'It will all be explained when we reach the palace.'

The palace? It wasn't just Alex who needed his help, then. It was a favour for the King himself. McNair fell silent, watching the old, familiar sights flashing by, wondering what an old bookworm like him could possibly do to help a threatened king.

The car drew up in the palace courtyard. It still looked like something out of a fairy-tale: soaring turrets with blue slate tiled roofs and a pale pink façade. McNair followed Alex into the building, where they came face-to-face with the King.

King Christopher III was a tall, handsome man of about thirty. Beside him, regal and serene, stood his Queen, Helena. McNair knew the King, for he'd spent time in England before succeeding to the throne. Alex had suggested McNair as a tutor and mentor during that time.

McNair was shocked by the change in the young King. He'd aged almost as much as Alex had. Although his hair was still dark, there were worry lines on his face, and McNair noticed that he clenched and unclenched his fists nervously.

The royal household must have problems indeed. No doubt the King could have hidden his anguish from his subjects, but not from McNair, who remembered him as a young man without cares or responsibilities.

McNair had never met Queen Helena before, although he'd heard a great deal about the Austrian Princess from the young Prince, and later in Alex's letters. She was everything McNair had imagined her to be. She was nearly as tall as her husband, beautiful and elegant; hair like fine gold flowing about her shoulders. They made a striking couple. She exuded an air of quiet confidence until one looked at her closely - only then did the pain show clearly in her eyes, the tension in her movements. Her hands trembled. She was still very young, too young to have to cope with burdens like this. Whatever this was.

McNair had long been a student of Galorvian custom, and he bowed to the King with the customary flourish, addressing him in the traditional way. 'Your Glorious Majesty, it is a great honour to be here in your presence.'

'Oh, please,' the King replied, in English. 'Leave out the Glorious Majesty stuff. We're old friends. You honour me, by being here and accepting the burden I fear I must place on you.'

'I cannot see what I could possibly do to help,' McNair went on, 'but it would be my pleasure to do anything within my power.'

'No doubt Alexander has told you something of the trouble we face. I have heard there is a rebel plot to slaughter myself and my family, tonight, at the annual ball to celebrate my birthday. I trust my informant's sources implicitly, so I know beyond doubt this is going to take place. I cannot do anything to prevent it, nor can I make it known that I am expecting it - for then the rebels will simply make new plans which I will be powerless to foresee. As it is, I can at least ensure that the things most precious to me are safe.'

McNair blanched. He'd anticipated that the King was facing financial ruin, perhaps riots in the streets, general unrest and a serious dip in his popularity. He was in fact facing almost certain death, yet he and Helena remained remarkably calm and composed.

'There is nothing at all you can do to stop this?' McNair gasped.

The King shook his head. Queen Helena's poise slipped slightly as she gripped her husband's arm. A tear trickled down her cheek.

'What is it you want me to do?' McNair asked. He had no idea what they wanted from him. They weren't asking for help in overthrowing the rebellion; they seemed resigned to their fate.

'I want you to take care of my children,' The King said.

McNair remembered from Alex's letters that there had been children. Two girls, fair and beautiful, like their mother. The birth of an heir had been great cause for celebration. 'Take care of your children?' McNair paled. 'Why me? You know I've never married, I don't know the first thing about... Is there no-one here who can take care of them?'

'The rebels who plan to kill me are ruthless,' the King said. 'They won't hesitate to kill the girls as well. If either one of them survives, you see, the monarchy continues. My precious little jewels will be hunted down and killed if they stay in Galorvia.

'I want you to take them to England, out of danger. We chose you because you are one of the few people there who can speak and understand our language, who would be able to teach our children not only how to live as citizens of Britain, but also about their heritage here.

'Do not fear. I have provided for their every need - I have spent the last few days disposing of my fortune so none of it falls into the hands of the rebels. Most of it is placed in trust for the princesses. I've set up an account to take care of their everyday needs and school fees, until they come of age and can inherit all that is theirs, including, I would hope, their country.'

McNair understood why he'd been chosen. There was no question that he was the only person qualified for the task. All the same, he was a bachelor in his forties - what could he know about rearing two small children? He could certainly make sure they had the best possible education - but what did one do with children when they were out of school? Entertaining and amusing them, understanding their problems, fears and desires, were all completely alien concepts to him. Especially since they were girls. He would have been slightly more comfortable at the prospect of raising boys. At least he had been a boy, once.

'It is vital,' the King went on, 'that their true identity is not revealed. They are to live as British children, with yourself as their guardian. I pray now you know what I ask of you, you'll still be prepared to help.'

'Of course I am,' McNair replied, hoping his apprehension at the thought of acquiring two little children didn't show.

**

The orchestra struck up a familiar waltz. The ballroom, viewed from above, became a kaleidoscope of whirling colours. Two little girls, unaware their lives were about to change for ever, gazed down upon it, wide-eyed with excitement. To them, it was all part of an elaborate dressing up game. They'd never been allowed to stay up and watch this glittering spectacle before.

'Come along, hurry, it is time to leave.' Margeurita's voice conveyed an urgency they didn't understand. Their nurse was usually so kind and gentle. This evening, she'd seemed uncharacteristically grumpy as she'd bundled them into coats and hats. That in itself had been strange, for the girls would have expected to be helped into their nightdresses at this time of day. Not only that, the clothes they'd been dressed in were not theirs. They were old, worn, and smelled nasty. Nor were they in the rich colours the girls usually wore, but dull browns and greys. 

They'd protested at first. 'It's a game,' Margeurita had snapped. 'A game of pretend. You are pretending that you are ordinary children tonight, like the ones you wave to from the balcony. Now, come away from the stairs. Part of the game is that none of the guests must recognise you.'

'But it's so pretty. Can't we watch just a little more?'

'You cannot. Your Mama and Papa wish to see you.' She took a small gloved hand in each of her own, and, fighting back her tears, led the two girls down the servants' stairs.

The children were excited at being allowed to use the back stairs. To them, this was as exciting as dressing for the ball had been for their aunts and uncles.

Their mother waited near the main door.

Several of the diamond-bedecked women, arriving for the ball, looked at the girls with distaste as they passed, wondering how these peasant children had found their way into the palace, and why the Queen wasn't asking the guards to throw them out. Not one of them saw beyond the frayed hemlines of their coats and the grubby faces to recognise the children of their King.

The Queen ushered the nurse and children into a private room, where Alex and McNair waited with the King. The Princesses knew Alex well, but they shrank a little from the white-haired stranger.

The King looked resplendent in his dress uniform; the Queen was a shining, beautiful jewel in her silk gown. Her wedding dress, McNair had noticed, remembering the wedding pictures Alex had sent. She bent to embrace her children, biting her lip as she adjusted their clothing in a customary maternal fashion. The King lifted them effortlessly, one in each arm. He addressed them gravely.

'Listen very carefully, both of you,' he said. The Queen, beside him, seemed stiff and awkward, but McNair knew she would have broken down if she'd relaxed, even a little. 'This man here is your Uncle Ildas. He is a good, kind man, and he is going to take you on a special journey. It is most important that you are very good for Uncle Ildas, that you behave yourselves, do not stray from his side, and most of all, do not speak to anyone else unless he gives you permission. Do you promise?'

'We promise,' they said. McNair smiled. He hoped that at eye level, and with his kindest smile, he would look less frightening to them.

'Good.' The King put the children down. Trustingly, they took McNair's hands. McNair's eyes watered; these two little innocents couldn't possibly know this wasn't just a jaunt through the streets in disguise, pretending to be commoners. They didn't know they were leaving the only home they'd ever known for good, and they'd never see their mother or father again.

McNair followed Marguerita through the palace grounds and out through a back gate. A nightingale's song filled the air. McNair's overnight bag bulged with the addition of a change of clothes for the girls and a couple of their favourite toys. Alex had obtained British passports for them, so they would appear to be a family ending their holiday early because violence had broken out.

'Good luck, Mr. McNair,' Margeurita said. Her voice shook - she wasn't as expert at hiding her feelings as Queen Helena was.

'You, too,' McNair said.

'Goodbye, girls.' She hunkered down in front of them and adjusted their clothing as their mother had done. 'Remember what your father said. Be good, don't speak to anyone.'

'Aren't you coming with us?' one of the girls wailed.

'Not tonight, my darlings.' She turned away quickly and disappeared into the night. Her hand found her own bundle of papers tucked into her cloak. Tickets home, and references to help her find another post. She'd been discharged. The King no longer needed her, because for some reason, he was sending the girls away with the Englishman. She didn't know why this decision had been made, but it wasn't in her job description to question it. She set off for the railway station, as the King had told her to do.

The train was waiting, steam hissing from the engine. There were few other passengers; mostly elderly people who'd come up to the capital to watch the King's Birthday Parade. Marguerita followed them along the platform, her eyes misty with tears. She was grateful nobody looked at her. She was careful to find a seat well away from any other travellers. All it would take would be a well-meaning, motherly old lady to ask her kindly what was wrong, and she wouldn't be able to stop the tears from flowing. She just wanted to be left alone.

Huddled in a corner seat, she found the food parcel the Queen had given her - sandwiches, an apple, and chocolate. She ate despondently. It would be a long time before she tasted chocolate again.

She heard shouting coming from outside the station. The King's birthday celebrations must be getting out of hand. The shouting got louder as an angry mob ran onto the platform. Margeurita willed the train to move, for the mob frightened her. However, a couple of them managed to board the train, before it pulled slowly away.

Margeurita tried to make herself look small as the men passed through the carriage. They seemed to be looking for someone; they looked under seats, and even disturbed the sleeping grandchild of one couple, a fair-haired little boy, by pulling off his hat. The child screamed; his grandmother shouted angrily after the men, who pushed their way into the next carriage without an apology.

Marguerita stared out of the window, knowing that soon, she'd get a final glimpse of the palace, floodlit and in all its glory for this special night. She didn't want to miss it. She wanted to store that final view in her memory forever; but as the train turned the corner and the palace came into view, Margeurita could only gaze at it in horror. Instead of the fairy lights she'd expected, the building was lit from inside by an eerie, flickering red glow. She could see flames and smoke pouring from the window of the ballroom, and, even more chillingly, from the little window upstairs - the Princesses' bedroom. Now she understood why they'd been sent away.

Gasps of horror came from further down the carriage. 'The palace - it's burning!'

'Where is the King? He's not in there, is he?'

The train pulled in to the next station, where more horrified people, who'd been watching the spectacle from the platform, boarded the train. The rowdy men got off, swaggering and swearing.

Margeurita huddled into her cloak and closed her eyes. She'd wanted a last memory of the palace, but she hadn't wanted it to be like this.

**

Ildas McNair made his way through the dark, threatening streets as fast as the little legs of his small charges would allow. For now, he had to look like a simple peasant who'd brought his children to watch the nobility arriving at the ball. As such, they'd linger, stop at a stall and buy a snack to share, but McNair was anxious to put as much distance between himself and the palace as quickly as possible. His mouth felt dry as he watched the furtive figures moving ominously and inexorably towards the palace.

'Can we have an iced bun, uncle Ildy?' one of the girls piped up. McNair glanced around, hoping none of those dark figures had heard. The girl's high-born accent would be sure to give them away.

'Oh, yes, Pleeease!' the other little girl cried. 'An iced bun! I want an iced bun!'

'You can have an iced bun if you promise to be quiet and not to speak until I say you can,' McNair said. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as one of the creeping figures turned and looked at them. Neither of the girls spoke again, and the passer-by, seeing their shabby dress, shrugged. He must have imagined he'd heard upper-class accents coming out of their mouths.

McNair bought two iced buns from a cake stall in front of the palace, and gave the girls one each. He pressed his finger to his lips, signalling that on this occasion, a thank you wasn't required. 'Now, let's see which of you can stay quiet for the longest.' He remembered his own mother saying those words to him and his brother when she'd wanted a bit of peace.

They ate hungrily, tripping along beside him, pressing their own fingers to their lips. McNair breathed more easily as he saw them getting into the spirit of the game. He tried not to think about what was going to happen to the old friends he was leaving behind.

They passed a group of men gathered around a small tank. McNair shuddered when he saw that every one of them carried a gun. His heart lurched as one of the children let go of his hand and ran towards the vehicle. Had she recognised one of the men, perhaps a trusted servant up until now? Would that person recognise her?

She stopped in front of the tank and gazed up at it. One of the soldiers saw her and crouched down beside her. 'I bet you've never seen a car like this, eh, little one?' he said with a smile. It didn't cross his mind that he and his colleagues planned to butcher two little children, just like this one, in their beds. She reminded him of his own little girl, safe at home in their mountain village. His daughter had never even seen a car, let alone a tank.

The child shook her head. The soldier had no idea that this child was used to the sleek limousines the royal family were chauffeured around in. Darkness, and the fact she was muffled in a coat, hat and scarf, prevented him from recognising her as the King's daughter. Had he known her true identity at that moment, he wouldn't have compared her with his own little girl at all. He would have killed her. Instead, he asked, 'Would you like a ride?'

The little princess was sorely tempted to reply, 'Oh, yes, please!' but she knew if she uttered even a single word, her sister would win the quiet game. So she merely nodded.

The soldier lifted the little girl onto the tank. From there, she could see the crowds gathering outside the palace gates. She was too young to realise that the crowd was angry and rebellious. She wanted to tell the nice man with the strange car that she lived in the big house, and all those people had come to visit her mama and papa. Thankfully, staying quiet for longer than her sister was more important to her just then.

'You fool, Anatoly!' another man snapped. 'This is no time to play with little children! Soon we strike! Where did she come from? Where does she live? Send her home before she gets hurt!'

'Yes, Sir!' Anatoly jumped to attention at his commander's words. He turned to the child. 'Where do you live, little one?' She looked at him, unsure of herself. She'd promised not to speak to anyone, but now someone had asked her a question, and her mother had always told her that if someone asks a question, it must be answered. She pointed at the palace. Again, she was spared; McNair was running towards them from the direction in which she pointed. Anatoly assumed the man running towards them, holding another little girl by the hand, must be the child's father, and she was pointing at him. He certainly looked worried enough to be her father.

'Give me my child!' McNair demanded, careful to affect the lowliest of accents.

'If I were you, my man, I'd get these kids away from here at once,' Anatoly said brusquely, handing the princess down to him.

'We came to see the pretty ladies in their lovely dresses coming to the ball,' McNair said.

'They won't be so nice to look at when we've finished with them,' growled the commander. 'Get on your way.'

McNair said a silent prayer of thanks as he hurried away. That had been a little too close. 

The commander watched them board a tram, and wondered what had been so familiar about the child. He had the feeling he'd seen her before, but where? It was going to haunt him for the rest of the night.

At the airport, McNair switched identity to that of an Englishman returning home with his children, clutching the passports Alex had given him. The airport swarmed with soldiers - each passport control official had one standing behind him. McNair's heart sank. He hadn't questioned how genuine the passports were - he didn't like to think about what might happen if they were identified as forgeries. He prayed Alex had found some way of getting genuine passports for the girls.

The girls were tired, confused and grizzling by now, tired of the adventure they'd been sent on, and of the silent game. 'Can we go home now?' one of them had piped up as they walked from the tram stop to the departures building. Thankfully, no-one had been there to hear her.

'You spoke,' the other princess had said triumphantly. 'I win!'

McNair had pressed a finger to his lips. 'Let's play again. Best of three.'

They'd fallen silent again. He hoped wanting to win the game would keep them that way. He had a story ready in case one of them said something in Galorvian while they were going through customs. His papers identified him as a language teacher. His children had inherited his gift for languages, and loved to use the words they learned in the local tongue whenever he took them abroad. Would they believe that? Especially if it became clear that neither child could speak or understand English?

The customs officer couldn't help but notice how fractious the children were. He thought it strange their father wouldn't let them take off their hats and scarves in the heated terminal. Normally, this would have alerted him that something was amiss, and he would have questioned them. However, the soldiers in the terminal tonight intimidated him. They wanted the foreigners gone, and the sooner the Englishman was on a plane out of Galorvia, the better. So, in spite of his better judgement, he let the family straight through. The soldier behind him nodded approval. Without the custom's officer's trained eye, he'd noticed nothing odd about the family.

Both children slept through the flight, and were even more fractious when they were woken after just a couple of hours for the landing. Their ears hurt; they had no idea where they were being taken. The dressing up game wasn't fun anymore. They were beginning to understand they weren't going to see their parents or their nurse again for a very long time, if ever.

At British customs, they cried and protested loudly in Galorvian that they wanted to go home. McNair had no idea what to do, except hold on tightly to their small hands and thank his stars they were in England now, out of danger. He hoped their chattering would pass as one of those secret languages close siblings sometimes made up.

Stepping into the arrivals area, McNair heaved a huge sigh of relief. They were safe. No-one had detained him or accused him of kidnapping the children. All the same, the ordeal for the terrified little princesses wasn't quite over.

News of the rebellion had broken. A number of reporters had dashed to Heathrow to meet what would be the final flight out of Galorvia for quite some time. They wanted sound bites from the people on the plane about what it had been like, fleeing from the rebellion.

They crowded around McNair, thrusting microphones in his face. 'What did you see happening in Dormankc? How close were you to the palace? Is it true the King and Queen are dead?'

McNair was thankful the princesses knew no English. The younger of the two, bewildered and frightened by the flashing cameras, began to cry and pressed her face into his coat-tails.

'I'm terribly sorry,' McNair waved the reporters away, 'but as you can see, my children are terrified and exhausted, and I need to get them home. I have nothing to say to you.'

He pushed past them and out into the night. He bundled the children into a taxi. McNair's house was a good hour's drive from the airport, and it wasn't long before the princesses dozed off on either side of him. He looked down at the two sleeping children. Panic at the realisation that he was responsible for them now hit home with great force. When, and how, did he tell them they were never going home? What did little girls their age eat? What time were they supposed to go to bed? How long would it take them to learn English? His mind raced ahead. One day, he'd have to explain the birds and the bees to them, hold their hands through unrequited crushes and broken romances. At least if he'd been married and his wife had had twins, he would have had nine months to get used to the idea.

McNair felt more afraid now than he'd been when fleeing from the palace; when the soldiers had put the little one on the tank, and when the customs men had peered at their passports.

In McNair's smart town house, Betty Green's routine had returned to normal as soon as her employer had left. She'd deep-cleaned his study; she generally took the opportunity to do so whenever he was out of town; she'd made a beef stew which could easily be heated up on McNair's return, whenever that might be. She'd retired to her little room, put her fluffy slippers on and her feet up, and settled down to watch television.

The news was on, the main story the revolution in Galorvia. Betty's ears pricked up. Wasn't that where Ildas had gone? She'd been relishing a little time to herself while he was away, but now she was worried. That friend of his who'd sent for him - didn't he work for the King of Galorvia? Ildas was probably in the thick of it all.

She heard the taxi pull up outside. She rushed to the window and peered out, relieved to see Ildas get out and pay the driver. He'd be ready for a nightcap, and possibly the beef stew, depending on how well he'd been fed on the plane. Betty hurried downstairs as McNair pushed open the front door. She stared at him. 'What the...?'

Her confirmed bachelor employer stood in the doorway. His right arm was curled around a little blonde girl, who was fast asleep on his shoulder. His left hand held that of another little girl, who stood beside him looking dazed, her thumb in her mouth, blinking in the harsh light of the hallway.

'It's a long story,' McNair said. 'I hope you have the guest room made up. These two need to go straight to bed, I think.'

Betty always stripped the guest room bed and made it up again as soon as any guests departed, so it was always ready. 'Yes,' Betty said. 'I'd say they do.' She smiled at the little girl who was standing. 'What's your name, then, lovey?' The child looked at her blankly.

'They don't speak English, I'm afraid,' McNair said, 'but they're pretty much done in.'

'I'll take care of it,' Betty said.

A few minutes later, she found McNair in his study. He'd poured himself a large brandy and sat in his leather armchair, massaging his temples. 'I don't think we'll hear a peep out of either of them till morning,' Betty said. She perched herself on the leather footstool. 'So, are you going to tell me what the heck is going on?'

'You've heard about the rebellion, I assume?'

'It's been all over the news. I've been worried sick about you.'

'Yes. Well.' McNair, flustered, took a large sip of brandy. 'I'm fine, but I can't say the same for the King and Queen. I've no idea what's happened to Alex. I can only hope that if he survived, he'll write.'

'And those children?'

‘The children of King Christopher and Queen Helena, God rest them. That's why Alex wanted me to go over there so suddenly. To bring them to England, to safety. Otherwise, they would have been slaughtered along with their parents.'

'Dear Lord,' Betty said.

'So, I'm afraid they're here to stay.' McNair took another large mouthful of brandy. Betty saw the fear in his eyes as he said, 'I really don't know how I'm to manage with them.'

'No, I don't suppose you do,' Betty replied, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. Ildas McNair was the last person she could imagine as a father. 'Don't you worry. You know why I took this job? Because my children had all grown up and I had nothing to fill my days. I'm waiting for one of 'em to give me a grandchild - but I think I'm in for a long wait. No sign of any of them settling down. I'd love to mother those two upstairs while I'm waiting.'

McNair smiled, gratefully. 'Thank goodness for that,' he said.

What happens to the Princesses in the end? Do they return and take back their throne?

Buy the book and find out! 

WARNING: This book may contain superheroes!

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