Текст книги "The Blood Royal"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

It took all of Joe’s strength to check his urge to rise to his feet and seize the fellow by his collar. It was a cool restraining hand on his gathering right fist and a diverting tinkle of laughter from Lily that saved him from making a disastrous move. Five minutes of persuasive chatter was necessary to bring Tate down to earth but she managed. Clever girl, though – Joe was sure she’d detected and not been taken in by the thread of pleasurable vindication in the newsman’s voice. He’d caught Sandilands in a less than honourable posture and was making the most of it.

Wentworth was playing down the danger and stressing the more frivolous aspects of her role: the checking of the ladies’ powder rooms, the possible need to identify a suspicious bulge under a fold of taffeta – searching females was part of her job, after all. She would keep an ear out for the sound of an Irish accent. And that’s where they needed his skills, she added, drawing the net closer around him. He knew all the runners and riders – an interloper would stand out to his eye as to no one else’s.

It seemed to work. Tate finally mumbled that they could probably count on his cooperation. ‘Tell me more about this comic opera you’ve got planned and what, precisely, you have it in mind for me to do?’

‘You know everyone who’s anyone. Home-bred or foreign.’ Joe took over. ‘The gathering will be very mixed for nationality – most of the European ambassadors will be there in support – but all the guests will have one thing in common: wealth. It’s a fundraising do for impecunious émigré Russians. Though none of them will be on parade tonight.’

‘They’ll all be in the kitchens baking the blinis and boiling up the borscht,’ said Cyril.

‘Kitchens,’ Joe muttered. ‘Nightmare! Full of instruments, sharp and blunt, and poisons of one sort or another. The waiting and catering staff have all been thoroughly checked. Four of my department are at this moment ladling out the caviar and pouring the champagne.’

‘You only have an invitation to attend if you’re rich and influential – or, in your case, Cyril, happen to be a dab hand with a camera. If you catch sight of a stranger or someone who appears to be out of his or her element, someone who doesn’t appear in Debrett or the Almanach de Gotha – we want you to signal it. If you spot someone who may have Irish roots in the middle of the cosmopolitan mêlée, tell us. That’s all. We’d be … I’d be much relieved if you’d agree to do it, Cyril,’ Lily concluded.

He’d be a hard man who could resist the unemphatic plea in her soft voice, the shining trust in the straight gaze, Joe thought. ‘Behave as you usually do,’ he said shortly. ‘Any pictures and copy must be passed before me before printing. Are you on?’

Cyril eyed him, unimpressed by his curtness. ‘You know, Sandilands old son, you could learn a thing or two about seduction from your little cousin.’ He turned to Lily. ‘I’ll do my best, love. And I promise you absolute discretion. Now – what time’s the kick-off and how do we get there?’

Joe had laid on a staff car and chauffeur for the short journey to Park Lane and as they made their way through the West End crowds he unbent sufficiently to repeat his briefing for Tate’s benefit.

‘The prince has been advised to arrive half an hour after we get there, which is to say at eight o’clock sharp. That’ll give us time to get our eye in. He’ll be surrounded by a phalanx of gorgeous young equerries, all falling over themselves to take a bullet, naturally. But they have this disadvantage – they can’t dance with him. And that’s, we believe, where the danger lies. On the dance floor. When he’s greeted the hostess she’ll bring him over to our table and he’ll be introduced to Lily. Their eyes will meet, they’ll take to the floor and they’ll dance till dawn or however long it takes. Her presence alone – that of a presumed new amour – will be sufficient to keep other females at bay. Anyone attempting to muscle in on the royal attention in such circumstances will immediately announce herself as suspect and will be weeded out. The prince is well aware, of course, of what we expect and will play up to it.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’ll do as you tell him,’ commented Tate. ‘He’s got a streak of cussedness about him. Some call it a sense of fun. It drove his security men mad when he was touring India, they say. Always dashing off into the thick of the crowd at a whim in places where every native has a dagger up his jumper. There were death threats coming in every day but you’d never have known it from his behaviour. Always on show – fair hair shining like a beacon, an easy target for anyone with a Lee-Enfield. Anyone could have cracked his skull on the polo field, pushed him off a rampart, seasoned his curry with something special. The only injury he suffered was a sprained right wrist from all the hand-shaking!’

‘We’re not expecting it to be easy,’ said Joe repressively.

‘Still, your assassin – if she exists – ought to stand out a mile. Forgive me for questioning your information, but it sounds a bit barmy to me. I can see your reasoning – Popplewell, Goring, Lansing, Dedham … who’s next, you must have asked? Probably not Churchill – he’s careful and always well armoured against attack.’

Joe acknowledged the accuracy of his calculation with a grin. ‘He’s the one who guards the guards.’

‘Then you had to assume it would be the POW. Our flamboyant, sociable, risk-taking prince. Oh, yes. Prime target. And an easy one. What a coup his death would be! Everybody loves him to bits. It would kick the English right where it hurts. But a woman involved? I’m wondering how reliable your information is …’ He faltered under Joe’s sudden hard stare. ‘Just a passing thought … And Irish, you say? No. Any flame-haired beauty approaching the prince with a gleam in her eye and a Beretta in her pocket will fall under suspicion and the weight of a pack of hearty Branch men before she gets within range of him. And had it occurred to anyone that, though the Irish and the Russians between them occupy a lot of space in London town, it’s not the same space? Class, wealth, culture, political ambitions – they have no meeting point. They don’t know each other. You’re barmy! There’s going to be no Kathleen O’Shea at this party!’

‘Another man with a misconception about the Irish. Who said anything about flame-coloured hair?’ said Sandilands. ‘She’s dark. And she doesn’t have an Irish accent. It’s pure Mayfair.’

In the crossfire of two astonished stares, he smiled sheepishly and added: ‘I’ve seen her eyebrows. And heard her speak.’

He stopped the car short of the hotel and handed Tate a note and signature scrawled on an invitation card. ‘Show this at the door and they’ll let you in. A moment!’ he added, catching Cyril by the shoulder as he prepared to get out. ‘Any last-minute advice for Miss Wentworth? You’ve been trailing our subject for years and must have observed him closely. How should she play her hand? She’ll be with him for the whole evening. It might not be easy for her.’

Cyril cut him short with a freezing glance and turned his gaze to Lily. ‘He’ll be delighted, love. Any man would. Any red– or blue-blooded man, would. I’d say be confident, be direct and keep it light. He’s very informal with women. Likes to chatter and laugh, bursts into song on occasions – he knows all the latest tunes.’ Cyril turned back to Sandilands, struck by a sudden thought. ‘In fact Lily and the prince are two for a pair, you’ll find. I don’t suppose you had any idea when you set this up, Sandilands. He loves a story, whether he’s telling it or listening. He’s a good listener. The time will fly in his company, Lily. Oh – I’ll pass on something I’ve noticed … something that doesn’t seem to have been noted by those of less impure imagination than my own.’

Joe gave a warning gesture but Cyril grinned disarmingly and pressed on. ‘He seems to quite enjoy being bossed about. Now, any bloke trying that on will receive a right royal set-down and a flash of temper – he’s got one! – but he rather plays up to a pretty girl wagging a stern finger at him. Nursemaid with a cockney accent – now that might be the perfect combination to set the royal pulses racing.’

Lily sighed. ‘Another one of those? Thanks, Cyril. It’s not my style, but if all else fails I’m sure I can play Nanny Whacker.’

Joe grunted in disapproval at the lèse majesté he was hearing from this pair and thrust Cyril’s camera bag at him. ‘Watch out for the Georgian gorillas on the door. They’ll probably search you. They’ve got knuckles like billiard balls,’ he added.

Lily waited until the chauffeur had closed the door before she spoke. ‘She’s dark, sir?’

Joe looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought you’d guessed that she pulled the wool over Hopkirk’s eyes. Mine too. She had black eyebrows. The taxi girl.’

‘Harriet Hampshire?’

‘Or not. False name. False address when Hopkirk checked. Embarrassing! She was wearing one of those feathered cloche hats. I didn’t get a look at her hair. Very beautiful. A profile like Cleopatra. I think I’d know her again. And, as I rather pathetically noticed, rather emphatic black eyebrows.’

‘Sir, have you ever come across mascara?’ Lily asked tentatively. ‘And hair dye? I’ve got fair hair and brown eyebrows but leave me for an hour with a bottle of Inecto and I could be a brunette.’

The commander sighed.

They watched the wiry figure of Cyril making its way with a swagger towards the grand entrance and Joe shook his head. ‘Are we mad, Wentworth? Entrusting state secrets to the country’s greatest blabbermouth? I may have to arrest us for incompetence. We’d better keep our resignations polished and ready to go, I’m thinking.’

‘He’s clever and wordly. I’ll never fully understand him but I like him. Very much. But best of all, Cyril knows how to be discreet. He’s been practising discretion his whole life. I trust him.’

Joe analysed his stab of sour feeling as jealousy and rebuked himself. The implication behind her words was, of course, that she didn’t trust him. He ought to be pleased with his constable’s good judgement.

On an impulse, he reached into her lap, took hold of her right hand and tweaked the middle finger over the first. ‘Keep ’em crossed, Wentworth! Time to put your gloves on. Here we go!’

A dazzle of light, a surge of excited laughter, a babble of languages, and a rush of exotic perfume greeted them as they hesitated in the doorway, waiting in the queue to meet their hostess. The Princess Ratziatinsky, a small but impressive figure, was striking in a draped gown of black charmeuse silk with a tall aigrette fixed in place by a headband of gold tissue. She was receiving, a Russian prince at either shoulder.

They listened as she switched from the French she’d been using for the Ambassador and the Comtesse de Saint-Aubain to German for one of the Kaiser’s cousins. Catching sight of them, the grande dame deftly ushered the couples who preceded them straight through into the ballroom. She greeted Joe with a kiss on each cheek and a murmured message in English: ‘He’s here. Early’ into the right ear and ‘Half an hour ago’ into the left.

Alarming news, but Sandilands recovered to say swiftly: ‘Then we’ll go straight in. Your Highness, may I present Miss Lily Wentworth … the Honourable Lily Wentworth, a cousin from Scotland who’s visiting the capital.’

‘Your Highness. So good of you to ask me, ma’am,’ Lily said, dropping a curtsy.

Oh, Lord! He’d forgotten to mention the curtsy. She must have been observing the ladies ahead of her in the queue, he guessed, since the movement was entirely gracious and correct.

‘I hear you’re an expert dancer, Miss Wentworth. Come. I’ll present you to a worthy partner.’

She sailed away before them, headdress bobbing to left and right as she led the way between the dozens of small tables fringing the dance floor. Several couples were already moving enthusiastically in time to a foxtrot. The band was installed at the far end of the room. Rank on rank of green and gold jacketed musicians rose up on an ascending flight of wide stages. And in front of this smart company stood Cecil Cardew, undulating gently. He was famous for the smoothness and quality of his musicians and the strictness of his rhythm. Nothing but the best on offer this evening.

They were accosted just short of the dance floor by a handsome but unsmiling young man who seized Lily’s hand and kissed it lingeringly. The ominous words he was murmuring were aimed not at her but sideways at Sandilands.

‘There’s a problem, sir. It’s HRH. He’s disappeared. Ten minutes ago. Here one minute, gone the next. Cloakrooms and kitchens negative and secure. Doors and exteriors ditto. Kidnapped? Got bored and buggered off? It’s been known. Dunno. I think he’s still here somewhere.’

Sandilands’ flash of alarm was swiftly controlled. ‘Entertain Miss Wentworth, will you, Ruptert?’

He strode off, spoke briefly to the princess and then began to quarter the room.

Chapter Nineteen

‘Rupert Fanshawe. Would you like to dance, Miss … er …?’ the officer asked, eyes everywhere but on Lily.

Special Branch, Lily guessed. Bodyguarding royal personages was, after all, their forte. And, as far as anyone knew, their record was one hundred per cent success. They’d escorted British kings and queens throughout Europe and back again in total safety at a time when other monarchs had been falling like ninepins to bomb and bullet. They’d even saved the lives of foreign royalty venturing on to British soil, if the rumours were correct. They’d guarded the Romanov family on their state visit to Britain and all had returned to St Petersburg unscathed. Branch officers had Lily’s respect. ‘Not sure I’d enjoy it very much, Rupert … Cecil seems to have lost the beat, don’t you think?’

She glanced in puzzlement at the conductor. Slim and elegant in his evening dress, pink scalp shining through the slicked-back hair, he stood, maintaining his customary half-turn to the dance floor. But his well-known smile was frozen on his face, his eyes fixed uneasily on the middle distance. He waggled his baton with less than his usual enthusiasm. ‘Nervous? Look – he can hardly keep the beat going. He seems to have sensed something’s wrong. Perhaps he saw something untoward. Up there on the stand, he’s more likely than most to have spotted trouble. Have you spoken to him?’

Rupert shook his head angrily, his anxiety increasing.

‘Then I think you should try … No, hang on …’ Lily winced and looked again at the band. She frowned and stared. She grabbed the Branch man’s arm and held him back. ‘Rupert – all’s well. You can stand down. It’s the head to the left … it’s a dead give-away. Will you excuse me for a moment?’

She set off for the bandstand.

‘Gotcher!’ Lily spoke in a parody of a police voice straight into the ear of the Prince of Wales. ‘Caught red handed. Clear case of impersonation. Are you going to come quietly?’

He stopped his drumming abruptly, wrong footing several couples on the dance floor. They trailed to a puzzled halt and turned to stare at Cecil, wondering whether the dance was over.

‘Oh, I say – it’s a fair cop! A moment, please. I’ll surrender when I’ve done the flourish.’ He caught the panicking eye of the band leader, nodded and went into a swirling flurry of beats that announced that the dance was indeed over. Moving back into the sides, he peeled off the band uniform coat he was wearing and exchanged it for his evening tails, taking them from the wide-eyed and embarrassed drummer who’d been put to wait in the wings. ‘Thank you so much, Tommy,’ said the prince. ‘I really enjoyed that. Quite got the evening going!’

Edward, pink faced with exertion, turned to Lily and held out a hand. ‘I say – you must be my dancing policeman.’ He peered closely at her. ‘Can I possibly have that right?’

Lily shook his hand, unable to think of any other response. ‘Lily Wentworth, sir.’

‘You may call me sir if you prefer, Lily, but my close friends call me by my last name which is David,’ he said lightly. ‘And I think, for this evening, you’re meant to be a friend and staying close. How did you spot me?’ He laughed. ‘I’ve been watching the heavy brigade tooling about the room searching for me. They never once looked up at the bandstand! And then Sandilands came in and started charging about the place like a bull let loose in Harrods. No attention from him either. You saw me straight away. How come?’

‘I have an ear for rhythm – you were half a beat out. And you were the only one of a well-drilled line-up that had his head permanently set like this – to the left. I’ve noticed it in photographs.’ Lily demonstrated, putting her head on one side and staring soulfully into the middle distance. ‘When you know what to look for in a group photograph it stands out a mile.’

The prince was entertained by her impersonation. ‘I see it! Me and Alexander the Great!’ he chortled. ‘I always knew we must have something in common. Now that Cecil’s recovered his beat … what’s that he’s giving us now? Ah – a slow waltz to allow his heart rate a chance to recover … shall we take the floor?’

The moment they swirled off into the waltz, the whole room seemed to exhale a breath of relief and the floor was invaded by every couple in the room intent on being seen dancing in the company of the heir to the throne. After a few moments, he confided: ‘So glad they’ve sent me a policeman who can really dance – I feared the worst. I’ve seen your mob on parade. Better equipped for tossing the caber than tripping the light fantastic!’

‘Some of us can do both, sir.’ Lily smiled and leaned into a reverse turn, relishing Sandilands’ astonished face as they swooped by. A discreet and distant flash told her that Cyril was recording the moment.

HRH, as Sandilands called him, had the reputation of being a charming man. Lily had always thought that if she ever met a so-called charming man she’d be sick on his dancing shoes. But after two or three circuits of the floor, she reluctantly had to admit that she was charmed, if by that she meant amused, intrigued and flattered. He had much to say and spoke with feeling and humour. And there was some other quality – a deprecating self-awareness that drew one in. He seemed to have an unending stream of stories, some told against himself, that kept Lily laughing. His relaxed view of events, however, began to alarm her. So unflurried was her partner, he surely could not have been made fully aware of the seriousness of the threat against him.

She raised the matter as tactfully as she could, to be answered by a cheerful: ‘Oh, yes. Know what you mean. En garde again. What a bore! I wonder what the going rate for me is in England? In India – did you know I’d just got back from India? – it was a thousand pounds a pop. Some over-rich politico – whom I may not name – was brazenly offering a thousand-pound reward to anyone who would lob a bomb at me. Everyone knew who he was. And I had to sit opposite the fiend at a couple of dinner parties. Can you imagine?’

Lily agreed that conversation must have been a little stilted and dared to ask whether he’d been aware of any attempts actually being mounted.

‘I’ll say! Hard to ignore those quantities of explosive! Not always stable in a hot climate, you know. One or two of the bombers blew themselves up by accident and the security forces raked in the rest. Stout fellows, the Indian police force! Ah! Here comes a quickstep. That’s more like it. I say – may I have the honour?’

They’d warned her that he was indefatigable. Lily was glad of the hours she’d put in pounding the pavements of London – any girl less fit would have crumbled after a few dances with the energetic sprite she was teamed with. She was relieved to sit out the slower dances at a table at the edge of the dance floor, a spot carefully chosen, she guessed, to be in full view of the room. There they were joined by an equally carefully chosen succession of the prince’s old friends and a scattering of quiet-eyed, handsome young men of military cut. Lily heard a few names: Fruity This, Basher That, Pogo Someone Else, and failed to commit them to memory. She even, for the sake of appearances, took to the floor for a veleta with Pogo Someone Else, leaving her charge between two young Branch heavies for the duration.

The women who danced by their table all tried to catch the prince’s eye. Most seemed to be dark though there was a smattering of fair Anglo-Saxon beauties and even one or two redheads. Not one looked remotely threatening. No one tried to get too close to the prince. This was proving to be a wild-goose chase. The ring of security set up around them was surely impenetrable. With pity and a sinking heart Lily wondered whether this was to be the prince’s future: a gold-plated, steel-barred cage.

She looked with dawning admiration at the lively man, determined to enjoy his evening come what may. He was preparing to join in the serious business of the evening. Before they went through to supper, the all-important money had to be raised from the well-heeled gathering. And Edward was fully aware, she was sure, of his role in this. On top of the already expensive ticket price, a series of auctions was to raise yet more cash. Everything from a glorious Fabergé ornament to a piece of bloodstained linen allegedly taken from the corpse of a long-dead Russian saint was on offer to the highest bidder. And what a coup – to be able to brag afterwards that one had just pipped the Prince of Wales to the post, outbidding him at the last moment.

Edward pitched his bids neatly, knowing exactly when to whip up interest and when to graciously withdraw. She noticed that he persisted sufficiently to acquire a jewel-encrusted Easter egg and a jade necklace. ‘For my mama,’ he confided.

The final two items caused a sensation. Neither of the lots had a real monetary value yet they raised approving smiles and nods.

The penultimate offering was – surprisingly – a painting. Two young girls in traditional Russian dress had been delegated to carry it around the tables for closer inspection. They paused for a longer interval by the Prince of Wales and his group and the hostess timed her explanation for this moment.

‘The painter, though of supreme talent, is largely unknown in the west. You may view other examples of his work, smuggled out of the motherland, in the Abercrombie gallery. This one is the most accomplished of the collection and is the only one for private sale. As you know, all photographic equipment has been banned from Russia.’ She paused to acknowledge the chorus of gasps and wails that ran through the audience. ‘The only means of recording the depredation that is occurring in our homeland is the medium of paint. It is at risk of his life that the artist has committed to canvas his view of the dismantling of a once-great land. These works have been brought to us safely here in London by the courage of many. It is impossible to put a price on this piece – the painter is without pedigree but his vision – dark and painful to our eyes – is, I believe, supremely original.’

Rupert, whose half-hourly duty rosta had brought him to Lily’s side, leaned to her and drawled: ‘Lord! You’ll never see that on a chocolate box! Touch of cubism, do I detect? How simply ghastly!’

Lady Katharine Rumbelow, whom he was plying with champagne, overheard, approved and added: ‘I’m bidding a month’s allowance not to have it! What on earth can it be? A gloomy fir forest and a Celtic cross? Is that Russia or Ross-shire? Could be either. Impenetrable forest in the background with – what’s that? – a volcano? And what’s that meant to be in the foreground …? Oh, gracious! I do believe it’s an open grave! And that cross is … can I be mistaken? … it’s made of bones!’ Lady Katharine shuddered delicately and the two Russian girls, still smiling sweetly, sensed the time had come to move on to the next table.

The prince turned to Lily. ‘Well, I thought it very striking. What d’you say, Lily?’

‘I’d say you were right, sir. Gloomy indeed but a brilliant vision, executed with skill and passion.’ She heard her father’s voice as she said the words. And she’d recognized the scrawled signature in the corner. She dared to add: ‘The world will hear more of this young man. A product of the St Petersburg school? Whoever acquires it will not regret his investment.’

The prince grinned and opened the bidding. A few others followed, more out of duty than interest perhaps, though the French ambassador, Lily noted, seemed genuinely keen. As the prince doggedly sent the price higher his competitors faded and retired one by one until Lily was hearing: ‘And the lot goes to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. Congratulations, sir!’

Judging the moment, he rose to his feet and nodded affably to left and right.

And the evening moved on towards its climax. The princess herself announced that the last offering before supper would be a song. To the highest bidder was promised the song of his choice to be performed by the finest Russian soprano. Madame Vera Lavrova, who was at present appearing at the Alhambra, Leicester Square, had been released by her producer, Monsieur Diaghilev, for the evening to grace their gathering. Cecil Cardew’s drummer gave a roll on his drums and the singer herself emerged from a clump of potted palms to greet the audience, bow and curtsy and stand by, waiting for the winning song to be announced.

The prince leaned close and whispered to Lily, ‘Poor dear! She’s a baroness, you know, in her real life. Her husband was a cavalry officer in the White Army. Killed in action.’

Small and slender, Madame Lavrova was wearing an outfit that brought a tear to many a sentimental eye in the audience. A slim gown of richly embroidered gold satin reached down to a neat ankle, and a Russian headdress of the same stuff framed a round and girlish face, a face vivid with dark eyes and red lips, open and smiling with anticipation.

The bidding stopped, miraculously, it seemed to Lily, when one of the Russian princes got to his feet and raised it from three hundred pounds to a thousand pounds in one swoop. Beyond that no one would venture. Murmurs of approval ran around the room.

‘Then the song goes to His Royal Highness,’ the hostess announced. ‘And may we all hear your choice of song, Mikhail?’

Lily became conscious that she was witnessing a rehearsed scene and was mortified that she hadn’t realized it earlier. These people were elegant professionals, not ones to be caught out by an odd request unknown to singer or orchestra. And yet all were joining in the spirit of the performance, waiting with bated breath and sighing with satisfaction as the Russian prince announced: ‘There’s a sweet song of these islands where we now shelter. A song of exile. A song sung by men, like us, who wear the white cockade – the Jacobites, in mourning and far from their native land. The sentiment echoes our own: “When shall we see thee again, our homeland?” I wonder if Madame Lavrova has it in her repertoire?’

The exquisite Russian doll inclined her head graciously and confided that yes, indeed, she did know it. It was one of her favourite songs. Cecil Cardew with a twirl of his baton unleashed the string section of his orchestra and they swung into the introduction to a well-rehearsed rendition of the heart-breaking Scottish lament. A delicate compliment to the host country and obviously a favourite with the Russian contingent, who joined in soulfully with the last chorus.

‘Gracious!’ the prince confided, leaning close. ‘The Scots and the Russians caught in mutual lament? Really wrings the withers! Well, I don’t know about our hosts but that dirge has quite given me an appetite. Shall we prepare to lead the throng into the dining room? I think it’s expected. This, I’m told, may well be the tricky bit. Have your wits about you, Lily! It’s to be a sort of indoor picnic, if you can believe! Balancing plates and glasses and chatting to left and right. Always taxing! But it does, they say, enable people to circulate more freely. One is not pinned down with the same neighbours for hours on end. I can see their point. Oh, and someone may be planning, in the help-yourself skirmish they’ve got planned, to bean me with a ladle or fillet me with an oyster-knife.’

He helped her to her feet with a hand that gave the briefest quiver before being brought under control. His shoulders squared, his chin went up and he surveyed the throng with a merry blue eye. Lily remembered that his formative years had been spent in the tough, no-quarter-given-or-expected world of a Navy training ship. Bombs and bullets seemed not to impress him but the thought of an encounter with a knife at close quarters made him grit his teeth.

‘Now, let’s stay alert, Lily!’