Anautocar arrived for them twenty minutes before seven, finding them already waiting in the lobby of The Dorchester. It was an enormous old black steam-powered Rentley-Joyce flying the Royal colours, which they were very happy to see made the doorman, who had turned his nose up at them earlier, blanch.

Their uniforms made getting into the car a difficult prospect, not only because the petticoats wanted to catch on everything that they brushed against, but because the corsets in them made it quite hard to bend at the waist. Eventually, though, they settled in with Gwen sitting with her back to the driver and the other two facing the front opposite her.

Gwen placed her hat on the seat next to her, then lifted herself off the seat and tugged at the base of her tunic, trying to pull it back into place; the whalebone inserts had ridden up quite uncomfortably when she had sat down, making the stiffly-starched high collar of the tunic dig in to her chin. It was also pushing certain parts of her beyond the limits to which they were normally accustomed. Once she had her tunic more or less back in place she fiddled with the double line of brass buttons on her front, buffing them with her cuff and trying to get the RAC crests on them to line up, but completely without success; two of them that had obviously been sewn on badly and while one was pointing to eleven o’clock and wasn’t too bad, the other was almost at two o’clock and was very noticeable. She gave up and then turned her attention to her white petticoats, smoothing them down repeatedly to try to get rid of the creases from where they had been folded. They weren’t too bad, though, and thankfully there were only a few of them - Scarlet had almost twice as many, although hers were blue to match the rest of her uniform and not a white that would be unforgiving if she got anywhere near a puddle or spilt something down her...

Some awareness pricked at her and she looked up. Instead of enemy fighters she found two pairs of blue eyes staring at her, one set the colour of the ocean and the other the midday sky.

‘What?’ She frowned at them; they looked absolutely spectacular, while she felt like mutton dressed as lamb, but worse, they seemed to be perfectly relaxed and eminently comfortable.

Scarlet smirked. ‘You look like someone put itching powder in your flightsuit. Stop picking at yourself and have some dignity and discipline!’

Gwen snarled at her. ‘It’s so bloody uncomfortable and then there’s... there’s... these!’ She irritably batted at the petticoats that were fluffed up around her legs like a cumulonimbus despite her efforts to smooth them down. ‘What idiot designed a dress uniform so impractical? If I was called away to fly in the middle of dinner I wouldn’t even be able to get into the cockpit let alone...’

She cut herself off in the middle of her rant when she saw that her two friends were barely containing their laughter. She was tempted to continue; they would probably crack a rib or something if they lost control, which would serve them right, but she didn’t and settled for scowling at them. ‘I can’t help it if I’ve never worn the damn thing before!’

‘Never? But you hide it so well...’ Scarlet sniggered.

Kitty was a tad more sympathetic than the Irishwoman and gave Gwen a curious look. ‘You’ve never worn it? How come?’

Gwen shrugged as much as she could. ‘I didn’t have a graduation ceremony from flight school because I was deployed too quickly and my wings were taken away before I could be invited to dine with anyone important enough to warrant full dress.’

‘Really? Well, we had to wear this stuff almost every day in France; we were billeted in a chateau, flying off the lawn, and the Count liked to have guests for dinner and a ball every evening. There were always generals and air marshals and minor royalty wandering around, it got to the point where we were barely ever wearing our day uniforms.’

There was no time for Kitty to elaborate on the delights that they had experienced in France, though, because it was a very short drive to the palace and the car had already arrived. They went through the main gates at the end of The Mall, past a pair of Royal Guards, who presented arms as they went by, then under the archway in the east facade and into the courtyard beyond, where the autocar stopped.

The East Wing with its public façade had been built at the same time as the West Tower, but the two extensions to the original Palace had been separate projects and their architectural styles couldn’t have been more different. Most of the official events and entertaining took place in the classically-styled East Wing because of its traditional style and lush interior, befitting the trappings of Royalty, whereas the modern glass and iron West Tower represented the Royal Family’s investment in the future of the realm and was reserved largely for the Royal Laboratories.

Many of the best British scientists were hard at work on various projects for the betterment of the realm on the twelve floors of the tower and among the many innovations to come out of it were the gas-powered steam engine, which had changed the face of transport and made Britain once more a world-leader and an electrical generator based on American technology, several of which had been constructed around the country and now supplied free heat and light to the entire Kingdom (a smaller version of which supplied electricity to Badger Base). The Royal Family also worked on personal projects in private laboratories, making their own contribution to the development of the nation and indeed the young Princess Elizabeth, the King’s eldest daughter, was a talented engineer in her own right and, despite only being fourteen, had flown an innovative aircraft from the Palace gardens the year before, although her interests weren’t as focussed on flight as Gwen’s were, but rather on physics as applied to mechanics and motion in general.

The three pilots were handed out of the car by three young Royal Guard officers, resplendent in bright red ceremonial uniforms, and they took a few seconds to settle their hats on their heads for the short walk across the courtyard to the door. Gwen looked at Scarlet’s tall hat with its gold-trimmed rim and purple silk band with envy and for the first time ever found herself wishing she were a commissioned officer; the shorter hats that she and Kitty were wearing were not nearly as elegant and the light blue cotton band on them just looked cheap in comparison. Neither did it help Gwen’s self-esteem that both Scarlet and Kitty looked absolutely magnificent in their uniforms and that both had several medals pinned to their chests, while her own was conspicuously bare.

The young officers didn’t seem to care what rank the pilots held or how often they’d been decorated, or at least they hid their feelings well and when the women were ready they offered carefully rehearsed smiles along with hooked arms to their partners and together the six trouped into the Palace. Gwen was somewhat consoled when they went inside and the Misfits removed their hats, tucking them under their left arms; without the added height, Scarlet once again became shorter than her.

The block heels of their shiny black calf-high boots clicked on the marble floors as they went through large rooms hung with paintings and tapestries, then up a huge staircase with a glass dome overhead through which they could see sky that was almost the colour of their uniforms. This early in summer it was still daylight outside and would be for hours, but the lights were already on in the hallways and staircases, powered by a dozen wind turbines incorporated into Brunel’s brilliantly designed tower, which provided electricity to the whole building with enough spare for the mechanisms of the new additions bristling from its highest parts.

Eventually, they came to a pair of huge doors, behind which was the throne room where they would be presented to the King. There they stopped and their escorts gave them a small bow before disappearing, leaving them in the hands of a Herald wearing a uniform which was undoubtedly supposed to be imposing and dignified, but which Gwen thought made him look more like a cinema usher than anything else.

‘You are the Misfits, I presume.’ The man managed to sneer their squadron name even while keeping a completely impassive face, something that was probably part of his training as an aristocrat.

‘You presume correctly, Matey!’ Scarlet put her free hand on her hip and peered up at the tall thin man, giving him a wide grin.

Gwen had to hide her laugh with a cough and the back of her hand. Scarlet had expressed her opinion of certain aspects of military discipline and hereditary nobility on many occasions, especially while drunk, and Gwen realised with a start that it would probably be best to keep the Irishwoman as sober as possible that evening.

The man’s expression didn’t change and he showed impressive control of himself as he looked from Scarlet to Kitty, then to Gwen, before going back to Scarlet, taking in their uniforms and their appearance, obviously working out who each of them were.

‘Yes, anyway, welcome to Buckingham Palace. I am the Marshal of the Court. It is my job to make sure that things go smoothly and that people like you, who haven’t been here before, know what to do, when to do it and how. To that end...’ He cleared his throat and drew himself up slightly, pointedly ignoring Scarlet, who was still staring up at him, as he recited a speech that he had obviously had to give many times before. ‘In a few minutes, at precisely seven o’clock, these doors will open and I will precede you as we enter within. As the guests of honour you are the last to arrive and are the sole persons to be presented today. When I announce each of you to the Royal personage you will make your obeisance in turn. You will not speak unless spoken to and your response should be followed by “Your Majesty” in the first instance and by “sir” from there forth; His Majesty does not insist on rigid protocol and his court is kept in a military manner, which I am sure you will find comforting.’ The man hesitated at that last as he took the three pilots in, noting their relaxed attitudes and the grin that was still on Scarlet’s face; most likely he had never met anybody less military in the military. He struggled on bravely, though. ‘When His Majesty has finished with you I will give you a signal. You will take three steps backwards, make a further obeisance, then turn. That is the finality of your presentation and from then on you will be free to move around the room as you wish. Dinner will be served at eight o’clock and you will be escorted to the ballroom by the three Guards who brought you here. As the most junior officers you have been placed very low at table and I suggest you continue to speak only when spoken to; most of your dining partners will be nobility or at the very least hold high rank or esteem in His Majesty’s eyes and are worthy of your respect.’

He looked from one of the Misfits to the other and seemed to despair. He sighed and deflated slightly, suddenly seeming almost human. ‘Look, Georgie is a forgiving man and has a soft spot for aviators, but not everybody at court appreciates the RAC and the Misfits the way he does. They will use any mistake you make as ammunition against you, so just try not to do anything stupid that will cast a shadow on your squadron or the Aviator Corps, alright? Please?’

Scarlet reached out and patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Matey, we know how to behave ourselves... More or less.’ She turned to wink at Gwen and Kitty. ‘Right, girls?’

The man had by now lost all composure and he groaned, slumping further and putting his hand over his eyes. Unfortunately for him, the doors opened behind him at precisely that moment and he jumped in surprise with a squeak. He hurriedly straightened up and composed himself before turning and leading them forwards.

The throne room was brightly lit and decorated mostly in red and gold, matching the uniforms of the Royal Guards and the Marshal. An enormous, glittering chandelier hung overhead, filled with thousands of brightly burning candles - it seemed that electric bulbs weren’t appropriate for this room, although among the candles could be seen a few unlit bulbs, shaped like the candles that surrounded them, likely there for times that the Royal Family weren’t present, like when the cleaners came in. The room was crowded with men and women in colourful finery, largely civilians, but the military was well-represented as well - there were a few Naval officers in tail coats the dark blue of the water of the North Sea with glittering gold ceremonial spyglasses at their sides, their white breeches and stockings harking back to the Napoleonic Wars, there were also a few Aviator Corps officers, the women wearing uniforms almost identical to Scarlet’s and the men in long jackets over tight riding breeches, but most of the military personnel there were in the Army; with the Kingdom of Britain confined to the British Isles they didn’t have very much else to do. They wore swords at their sides and bright uniforms of every colour of the rainbow, as if trying to flee as far from the drab camouflage that they were forced to wear every other day of their lives.

They had only gone a couple of steps into the room before the man came to a stumbling halt and spun around to hiss at them. ‘Dammit, he’s only bloody gone and changed into uniform again! Hats on!’

He took in their surprised expressions at being told to cover up indoors and sighed, shaking his head. ‘Don’t ask... Anyway, salute when we halt and give a small bow when I call your name. I’ll give the order for when to take your hats off again.’

His face quickly returned to its impassivity, but Gwen thought she noticed a twitch in the corner of his eye. She almost felt sorry for him and wondered how often he’d had troublesome guests to chaperone. He waited impatiently for them to put their hats back on and check each other to make sure that the brim was straight and the precise two fingers above the brow as set down in RAC regulations, then turned away again, leading them on at a pace that was slightly too hurried for dignity.

The guests opened up in front of them, leaving a corridor for them to walk along and giving them a clear view of their destination - a small platform, hung with a small red and gold canopy and holding two golden chairs with red velvet cushions. A woman, Queen Elizabeth, sat delicately in one of the thrones, smiling benignly at them as they approach, but it was the man who was standing at the top of the steps looking down at them that held the gaze of the pilots. This was the King, George VI, who had been Emperor George II until recently; he had renounced his claim on being an Emperor, despite having an empire, and overnight the “British Empire” had become the “Kingdom of Britain”. He had also changed his family name, because it had been seen as being “too Prussian”. He was wearing an RAC uniform, most likely in their honour, but it was so completely covered by sashes, medals and stars as to be almost unrecognisable as such.

Gwen self-consciously walked behind the Marshal and could feel her body almost twitching as it tried to salute just about everything, an instinct that was drummed into all military personnel during basic training, and she only just managed to resist the impulse by keeping her eyes firmly on the King and reminding herself that, as the senior officer in the room, it was him that should receive the first salute.

The Marshal stepped to the side and stopped in front of the platform and the three Misfits smartly came to a halt in a line behind him. His relief was almost palpable when the pilots saluted together, passably smartly.

‘Your Majesty, may I present Aviator Lieutenant Flynn.’ Scarlet gave a small bow, not much more than a nod of her head. ‘Aviator Sergeant Wright.’ It was Kitty’s turn to nod. ‘Aviator Sergeant Hawking.’

Gwen almost forgot to bow as she had to fight against a new impulse; the urge to correct the man and tell him to use her married name, but she decided that it wasn’t the time and managed to nod after a barely perceptible hesitation.

‘Hats off.’

The whispered command had them removing their hats and tucking them back under their arms. Gwen found that she was almost relieved - hats were never usually worn indoors and it had felt decidedly strange to have been doing so.

‘Welcome, brave pilots!’ The King descended the three steps from the dais, grinning widely. ‘I apologise for not returning your salute, but as you can see, I am not covered.’ He looked from one of them to the other and they smiled back at him uncertainly, not quite sure if they were supposed to answer. They felt even less comfortable when the King’s friendly grin suddenly became a frown and he turned to address a nearby RAC officer.

‘Sir Douglas, why are these two dressed so poorly?’

There were gasps from a few of the civilians courtiers around the room as the King rather rudely pointed at Gwen and Kitty, however his ire was directed mostly at the RAC officer, who Gwen recognised with a start as Sir Douglas Pewtall, Commander of the Royal Aviator Corps; she had met him a couple of times in Hamleys when she was younger.

‘Poorly, Your Majesty?’

‘Yes! These poor pilots have short hats and brass buttons! Why have they been forced to come before me like this?’

The man blinked, not quite understanding. ‘That is their uniform, sir. They do not hold commissioned rank, therefore they do not merit...’

‘Do not merit? Do not merit?!?’ The King’s voice rose in pitch as he became almost incredulous. ‘These are Misfits! Of course they merit my commission! Don’t you agree?’

‘Of course, Your Majesty, but we have proper ways of...’

‘Pish and tosh! It’s only my name on a bit of paper after all, don’t make me burn the one you have!’ The King’s words were strong, but there was a glint of humour in his eyes and a smile on his face which removed the force from them. He turned to address the room at large. ‘Give these worthy aviators my commission and for pity’s sake find them some decent clothes to wear!’

There was applause and not a bit of laughter at his pronouncement, while Kitty and Gwen glanced at each other in amazement; just like that they had been made officers.

The Marshal waved to a servant who had been lurking nearby and whispered in his ear, then nodded at the King.

‘Good!’ The King turned back to the three pilots and he surveyed them one by one before wandering over to stand before Kitty. ‘Aerial Officer Wright.’ He paused to give the commander a stern look and the man chuckled and waved his hand permissively in response. ‘You pilot Hawk, do you not?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘Twin airscrew, am I correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m told that she is one of the fastest aircraft in the world, yet she fights fiercely as well and together you have defended these shores as if they were your own. You do your nation proud, Aerial Officer, and both I and my Kingdom owe you a debt of gratitude which I fear we will never be able to repay.’

Kitty nodded solemnly in the face of his praise. ‘Thank you, sir, but it is nothing more than my duty; the fight against tyranny is one that concerns all of us.’

Her response drew polite applause from the audience and the King smiled and waited for it to subside before holding his hand out to the side. ‘For continuing gallantry and for the many stirring stories I have heard of your bravery in the face of overwhelming odds, I present you with the Distinguished Aviation Cross.’ A servant placed a medal in his hand, an incredibly ornate silver cross on a purple ribbon, and he pinned it to her chest. ‘Congratulations, Aerial Officer Wright.’

The King stuck his hand out and Kitty took it, receiving a very hearty shake. Gwen smiled when she saw that the usually unflappable American was indeed quite flapped and had a red glow to her pale cheeks.

The King stepped to the side and stood in front of Scarlet, who peered up at him as he towered over her by almost a foot.

‘Aviator Lieutenant Flynn, pilot of Hummingbird, source of so much of the vital information that my armies so desperately need and, so I am told, intrepid photographer of canine sustenance.’

Scarlet laughed, delighted that he had heard of her exploits and showing that, unlike her companions, she was completely at ease in such august company. ‘I also do weddings, Your Majesty.’

The King laughed with her, equally delighted with her response. ‘I apologise that I cannot promote you also; I’m afraid I don’t get as much say in the higher ranks as I insist on having with new recipients of my signature.’

‘That’s quite alright, sir, I already get paid too much for the fun I’m having.’

The King scowled at her. ‘Is that so? Well, maybe I should ask my commander about whether I can hand out demotions...’

‘I... uh...’ Scarlet stuttered, for once left at a loss for words, but when the King’s expression returned to his usual wide smile she laughed. ‘That was a good one, sir, to be sure!’

He laughed with her and again held his hand out to the servant hovering nearby. ‘Well, Lieutenant, you already have one of these, so they’re only letting me put a crosspiece on it - for extreme bravery and continuously putting yourself in the way of harm for the sake of others, I award you your second Distinguished Aviation Cross. Congratulations, Aviator Lieutenant Flynn.’

While the audience applauded he pinned a small star to the purple ribbon of the silver cross that Scarlet already had on her chest, then shook her hand just as heartily as he had Kitty’s, almost lifting the smaller woman off the ground with every pump.

He gave her a last smile and a wink that made her laugh before moving to stand in front of Gwen, who felt her cheeks start to burn as all eyes turned to her. ‘Aerial Officer Hawking...’

‘Stone, Your Majesty, it’s Stone.’

The King blinked. ‘You’re not Gwenevere Hawking?’

‘I am, sir, but I’m, I mean I was married.’

The man searched her eyes briefly, then nodded his understanding before continuing in a much quieter voice than he had used with the other Misfits. ‘Aerial Officer Stone. I understand that you, how do they put it in RAC regulations... ah yes, that you are guilty of “interfering” with one of my flying machines, an offence for which you have yet to be sentenced. Is that correct?’

Gwen went an even deeper shade of red, but forced herself to look the King in the eye, determined to receive whatever reprimand was coming with dignity. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Hmmm...’ The King stroked his short beard thoughtfully while he contemplated her, apparently wanting to prolong her suffering. ‘Well... I am of a mind to pardon you... But only on one condition.’

‘Name it, sir, please! Anything!’ Gwen leapt at the chance to clear the shameful stain from her record; in spite of the fact that her disgrace had been either ignored by her fellow Misfits or in many cases waved away as fully justified, the threat of grounding and imprisonment was still hanging over her.

‘That you regale me with the story of how you shot down two Fleas in an aircraft that your parents designed, with your help I might add, but that you still saw fit to improve upon.’

‘With pleasure, sir!’ Gwen almost sagged in relief, catching herself just in time when she remembered that she was supposed to be standing at attention.

‘Excellent! Well, it looks like we’re going to have some decent conversation around the dinner table for once!’ The King clapped and rubbed his hands together in glee before continuing. ‘Now, I understand that despite not having been with the Misfits for very long, you have made a great impact, both on the effectiveness of the Squadron and on enemy numbers. That is a remarkable achievement considering that the Misfits were already being held to an incredibly high standard by their commander. Jolly good show, madam!’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I also read the report of your encounter with Gruber and his Barons. Tell me, what was that like?’

Gwen winced at the sudden memory and took a deep breath before answering. ‘Terrifying, sir.’

There was some muttering from the audience at that and Gwen cringed; the overwhelming majority of people still had the opinion that war was something “glorious” and at least the civilians had probably been expecting her to express the desire to have another crack at Gruber or something equally bloodthirsty.

Invariably, it was only the people who had never seen war up close that thought that way and thankfully the King wasn’t one of them; he had served in the Great War and seen its misery and horror up close and he gave her a shrewd look before nodding. ‘I think I would have been terrified as well. Hopefully next time you’ll meet him on more of an even playing field and the outcome will be somewhat different.’

Gwen returned his nod. ‘I certainly hope so, sir.’

The King held his hand out to the servant. ‘Aerial Officer Stone, for your devotion to duty and the bravery you have shown in the face of extreme danger I award you with the Distinguished Aviation Medal. Congratulations, Aerial Officer.’

He pinned the medal to her chest, then shook her hand like he had the others, before stepping back and mounting the dais from where he led the applause, smiling at each of the three pilots in turn.

The Marshal came and stood in front of them. He bowed to the King and they copied him, then walked backwards as he had instructed him.

Three steps and the crowd closed around them, hiding the royal couple from view and finally they could relax a little bit as people returned to their conversations.

Gwen lifted the medal on her chest and craned her neck to look down at it. It was different from the one that the King had awarded to Kitty and Scarlet - the ribbon was RAC blue with thin diagonal white stripes and the medal itself was a golden oval with the face of the King on it. In the ranking of medals it was below theirs, but not by much and she was immensely proud to have received it, despite feeling that she hadn’t really earned it.

‘First of many, I hope, Aerial Officer Stone.’

Gwen looked up to see Scarlet watching her. ‘Actually, I’d rather the war ended before I had the chance to win any more of them.’

Scarlet nodded. ‘I know what you mean. But the way I see it is that it’s better for us to do these ridiculously brave things and get medals for them, than somebody else, who’s not as well equipped,’ she grinned, ‘or as insanely talented, try and do them and get medals awarded posthumously.’

Gwen shrugged. ‘I suppose.’ She was going to say more, but stopped when she noticed that Kitty was looking rather unhappy. ‘Kitty? What’s the matter?’

‘We’ve been promoted. We’re officers now.’

Scarlet laughed. ‘That’s usually seen as a good thing!’

The American nodded sadly. ‘I know, but it means that Gwen and I will get separate rooms. I was just getting used to having a roommate.’

Gwen reached out to rub her arm. ‘There’s no reason we can’t keep sharing. I’m fairly sure Abby won’t mind if we ask her.’

‘And I’ve been thinking about asking whether you two minded if someone else moved in with you.’

Neither Gwen nor Kitty needed to think about it and they nodded together, Kitty’s expression immediately brightening. ‘We’d love that!’

‘Great! I’ll move my stuff in when we get back. Of course, as the senior officer in the billet I get choice of which bunk I want and you’ll have to bring me breakfast in bed...’

Kitty rolled her eyes and pulled Gwen around so that their backs were to Scarlet before speaking in a stage whisper. ‘I wonder if the King will demote me if I hit a senior officer with a pillow.’

‘I don’t know. Shall we find out together?’

They turned on Scarlet, glaring at her as fiercely as they could, but Gwen immediately pulled back in shock; her parents were standing right behind the diminutive woman.

They were dressed all in white, like their flightsuits; it had become almost expected of them when they appeared in public. She had to admit they did look quite dashing, though, and it certainly made them stand out in a crowd.

‘Mum! Dad! You’re here? You were watching?’ She frowned as something occurred to her. ‘Did you have something to do with my promotion? I thought it was funny when the Marshal announced me as Hawking...’

Her father held up his hands. ‘Slow down, Gwenevere! I swear we had nothing to do with your promotion or your medal and as for the Marshal’s mistake, it’s only because he’s a friend of ours and knew you were coming. He just assumed that you had reverted to your name after Richard...’ He trailed off sighing.

Her mother took over from him as he faltered. ‘The promotion and the medals were all the King’s idea, darling. He likes his military pageantry, which is why you wore your hats and saluted him rather than curtseying like the rest of us have to - he has every young and upcoming military man and woman presented the same way.’

‘So, we’re not the first?’ Scarlet’s face fell, comically. ‘And I thought I was special...’

Gwen gave the Irishwoman a scathing look, receiving a poked-out tongue in reply.

‘Ahem! If you’ve quite finished?’

The pilots turned to find the Marshal standing a couple of paces away, watching them with a thoroughly disapproving expression on his face.

Scarlet was unrepentant, though and frowned at the Hawkings. ‘Did he actually say ahem? I didn’t think people did that, I thought it was just a noise, like clearing your throat.’ She demonstrated, coughing a few times, trying to say “ahem” at the same time. ‘I can’t do it...’ She shook her head in mock disappointment.

The Marshal looked at her for a few seconds in something that approached horror, but quickly recovered. He held out two rolled up pieces of paper, sealed with red wax and imprinted with the royal seal, one to Kitty and one to Gwen.

‘Here are your commissions and if you would follow me, dressmakers are waiting to fit your uniforms.’

Kitty squealed in delight as she took the scroll from him, but Gwen was slightly less enthusiastic. ‘We really are being displayed like prize horses, aren’t we?’

Her mother laughed. ‘Of course, darling, but that’s just part of life at court. You’ll get used to it if you come enough times.’

‘I’m not sure I really want to.’ Gwen turned to Scarlet. ‘Are you going to be alright on your own for a while?’

‘Of course! I’m pretty sure I saw champagne around here somewhere...’

Gwen shared a worried look with Kitty, but before they could comment or warn her parents to keep the Irishwoman away from drink they were ushered away by the impatient Marshal.

Just under an hour later, feeling more self-conscious than ever, Gwen was escorted by the same young Guardsman as before into the dining room where there was another surprise in store for her - the seating arrangements had been changed at the King’s request and the three Misfits had been placed immediately around the Royal Family, along with her parents and Sir Douglas.

A very uncomfortable couple of hours followed, during which she was never quite sure what to say, how to say it or when. On the other hand she marvelled at how well Scarlet handled the situation, often having the King and Queen Elizabeth in stitches and often managing to draw Princess Elizabeth into the conversation to give her expert opinion on aviation matters. Kitty also coped very well, managing to join in the conversation quite naturally, although as an American she probably didn’t feel the same cultural awe that Gwen did towards the Royals.

In spite of the incredible food and the remarkable wines, the night couldn’t end soon enough for Gwen, although it wasn’t so much because she didn’t know how to act around the King and his family, it was the presence of her own family that really spoiled the occasion for her; there was too much unsaid between them that it was just a constant pressure on her and she was reminded of that every time she caught a flash of white out of the corner of her eye. She was relieved, therefore, when the Royal Family retired around midnight and the Marshal appeared to inform them that they could leave whenever they felt inclined and that the car was waiting for them, which was essentially his way of throwing them out politely so that the important people could have their important discussions.

None of them was quite sure what the protocol was or whether they should say goodbye to anyone, like their commanding officer, but now that the King wasn’t there the other guests were much less interested in them and completely ignored them as they stood up from the table, so they settled for just saying goodbye to the Hawkings, then left, escorted once more by the Guardsmen, their time in the Palace over.

Thank you so much for reading. ‘The Battle Over Britain’ is Simon Brading's first novel in his ‘Misfit Squadron’ series. More information on where to obtain the book as well as other information about Simon and the series can be found on his website. Also, Simon would love to hear from you about this, or any of his work — please get in touch on Bluesky. We invite you to read Chapter Thirteen by clicking the right-arrow down there on the right. If you missed out on Chapter Eleven you can go back and read it now by clicking the left-arrow below. Alternatively, you can go back to the beginning, the Prologue, with the beginning-arrow also over on the left.