Cyril muttered that it was all very well, and so it was. For when he had told the tale of the Phœnix and the Carpet to the Ranee, it had been only the truth—and all the truth that he had to tell. But now it was not easy to tell a convincing story without mentioning the Amulet—which, of course, it wouldn’t have done to mention—and without owning that they were really living in London, about 2,500 years later than the time they were talking in.
Cyril took refuge in the tale of the Psammead and its wonderful power of making wishes come true. The children had never been able to tell anyone before, and Cyril was surprised to find that the spell which kept them silent in London did not work here. “Something to do with our being in the Past, I suppose,” he said to himself.
“This is most interesting,” said the Queen. “We must have this Psammead for the banquet tonight. Its performance will be one of the most popular turns in the whole programme. Where is it?”
Anthea explained that they did not know; also why it was that they did not know.
“Oh, that’s quite simple,” said the Queen, and everyone breathed a deep sigh of relief as she said it. “Ritti-Marduk shall run down to the gates and find out which guard your sister went home with.”
“Might he”—Anthea’s voice was tremulous—“might he—would it interfere with his meal-times, or anything like that, if he went now?”
“Of course he shall go now. He may think himself lucky if he gets his meals at any time,” said the Queen heartily, and clapped her hands.
“May I send a letter?” asked Cyril, pulling out a red-backed penny account-book, and feeling in his pockets for a stump of pencil that he knew was in one of them.
“By all means. I’ll call my scribe.”
“Oh, I can scribe right enough, thanks,” said Cyril, finding the pencil and licking its point. He even had to bite the wood a little, for it was very blunt.