The bed sat in the centre; a painted wooden construction for which the term four-poster was entirely inadequate.  I had seen houses smaller than this.  It took three tall steps just to get level with the base.  From there more steps led up through lush velvet drapes and heavy brocade hangings to the surface of the bed, while from the cantilevered canopy a network of dyed ropes and loops of printed silk hung like a profusion of jungle creepers.  Big bed, big bedspread: a vast embroidered purple cover stretched from each corner and edge of the bed, rising like a perfect Mount Fuji of lilac to its central summit, where the Queen Mother's head — pale and surrounded by ringlets of white hair — stuck out of a hole in the middle like a snowy summit.  From the angle of her head it was hard to tell whether she was lying, sitting or standing.  I imagined it was perfectly possible to do all three in there.

According to Langtuhn the Queen Mother didn't even have to stay inside if she didn't want to, The whole bed was mounted on trolley wheels running on rails leading to the tall, wide set of double doors set in the west-facing wall of windows, beyond which lay the wide balcony with the view over the valley below.  Trundling the whole apparatus out to the sunlight would be a task for Mihu, I imagined.  With the bed out there and the bed's canopy rolled back, the old lady could get a breath of fresh air and take the sun.

There was nowhere to sit, so I stood facing the foot of the bed.

The little snowball head, about a metre higher than me in the centre of the bed, spoke. 'Miss Telman?' Her voice was thin but still strong.  The Queen Mother spoke excellent English, because she was.  She had been the Honourable Lady Audrey Illsey until she'd married the late King in 1949.

'Ms, yes, ma'am.'

'What?'

'I prefer the title Ms rather than Miss, Your Highness.'

'Are you married?'

'No, ma—'

'Then you are a Miss, I think.'

'Well,' I said, wishing now that for once I had shut the hell up about the Ms/Miss thing, 'there's been a change in the way people relate to each other, Your Highness.  In my generation, some of us decided to take the title Ms, as a direct equivalent of Mr, to —'

'I don't need lessons in recent history, young woman!  I'm not stupid, or senile.  I have heard of feminism, you know.'

'Oh.  Have you?  I thought perhaps…'

There was a commotion in one side of the slope of the mauve hillside of bedcover, just down from where the dowager Queen's right shoulder must be, as though a volcanic side-vent was about to erupt.  After some flapping and muttering, a small white hand appeared from an embroidered slit in the cover clutching a rolled-up magazine.  A thin arm clad in lacy white waved hand and magazine. 'I can read, Miss Telman,' she told me. 'The post may take a while but subscriptions do arrive eventually.  I am rarely more than a month behind the times.' Another thin white arm appeared from the bedclothes; she opened the magazine out. 'There you are; last month's Country Life. I don't suppose you take it, do you?  You sound rather American.'

'I have met one or two US citizens who subscribe to the magazine, ma'am, however I am not one of them.'

'So you are American?'

'I'm British — Scottish — by birth.  I have dual British-US nationality.'

'I see.  Well, I don't see, really.  I don't see how one can be of dual nationality, apart from purely legally.' Both arms and the magazine disappeared under the covers again. 'I mean to say, who are you loyal to?'

'Loyal to, Your Highness?'

'Yes.  Are you loyal to the Queen, or to…the American flag?  Or are you one of these absurd Scottish Nationalists?'

'I'm more of an internationalist, ma'am.'

'And what's that supposed to mean?'

'It means my loyalties are contingent, Your Highness.'

'Contingent?' She blinked rapidly, looking confused. 'Upon what?'

'Behaviour, ma'am.  I have always thought that believing in one's country right or wrong was, at best, sadly misguided.'

'Oh, you have, have you?  I must say you are a very opinionated young woman.'

'Thank you, ma'am.'

I watched her eyes narrow.  One arm reappeared with a pair of glasses, through which she surveyed me. 'Come closer,' she said.  Then added, 'If you please.'

I stepped up to the base of the giant bed.  There was a strong smell of incense and mothballs.  The fluttering scraps of gold leaf on the walls set up a distracting shimmer on either side.

The Queen brought out a white handkerchief and polished her glasses with it. 'You have met my son.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'What do you think of him?'

'I think he is a credit to you, Your Highness.  He is charming and…responsible.'

'Responsible?  Ha!  Either you know nothing or you're one of the useless ones.  One of the lying ones.  The ones who say what they think I want to hear.'

'Perhaps you're confusing lying with politeness, ma'am.'

'What?'

'Well, I don't really know your son all that well, Your Highness.  As far as I can tell he seems a gentleman.  Well-bred, polite…Oh, and a very good dancer, great poise and extremely light on his feet.' (The Queen's brows furrowed at this, so I didn't continue with the topic.) 'Ah, he seems sad, sometimes, and he is a little flirtatious, perhaps, but not rudely or aggressively so.' I thought back to what Langtuhn had said in the car.  'He doesn't seem to be too extravagant, which is always a good thing in a prince, I think, especially when they are away from home.  Ah,' I said, struggling to end on a positive note, and failing, 'I suspect the responsibilities of his inheritance lie heavily on him.'

The old Queen shook her head as though to dismiss all this. 'When is he going to get married?  That's what I want to know.'

'I'm afraid I can't help you there, ma'am.'

'Not many can, young lady.  Do you have any idea how few princesses there are in the world these days?  Or even duchesses?  Or ladies?'

'I have no idea, ma'am.'

'Of course you wouldn't.  You're just a commoner.  You are just a commoner, aren't you?'

'I have to confess that any position I've achieved has been attained through merit and hard work, ma'am, so, yes, I'm afraid so.'

'Don't flaunt your inverted snobbery at me, young woman!'

'I'm not usually given to flaunting, ma'am.  Perhaps it's the altitude.'

'And don't be downright cheeky either!'

'I can't imagine what's come over me, ma'am.'

'You are a very disrespectful and impertinent girl.'

'I did not mean to be disrespectful, Your Highness.'

'Is it so terrible for a mother to worry about her son?'

'Not at all, ma'am.'

'It would be terrible not to, I think.'

'It would indeed.'

'Hmm.  Do you think he's marriageable material?'

'Well, of course, Your Highness.  I'm sure he will make some lucky princess, or lady, a wonderful husband.'

'Platitudes, Miss Telman.  That is the sort of thing my courtiers tell me.'

I wondered if Mihu and the two little red-clad ladies counted as her courtiers.  The palace had seemed quite empty apart from them.  I cleared my throat and said, 'He is your son, ma'am.  Even if I thought he'd make an absolutely awful husband I'd be unlikely to say so right out without at least softening the blow a little.'

The Queen Mother sounded exasperated. 'Then just tell me what you feel! ,

'He'll probably be fine, ma'am.  If he marries the right person.  Isn't that all one can say of anybody?'

'He is not just anybody!'

'Any mother would say the same, ma'am.'

'Yes, and it would be sentimentality!  Motherly instinct or whatever you want to call it!  Suvinder is heir to a throne.'

'Your Highness, I'm not sure how much help I can really be to you in this.  I'm not married, I don't expect to marry, and so I don't tend to think in those terms, plus I don't know your son or the international royal-matrimony circuit well enough to comment.'