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that you know nothing of Henry.”
    â€œHenry who?”
    â€œHenry III, King of England!”
    â€œNo, no, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Henry isn’t king. There’s little prince Harry, but he’s just the spare heir. Elizabeth is queen.”
    â€œElizabeth? Who is Elizabeth?”
    He was starting to sound as exasperated as she felt.
    â€œAll right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s start from the beginning. And can we go sit by the fire? I’m cold.”
    â€œGladly,” Miles said. He shoved his feet into boots, then clomped over to the pile of logs in the middle of the room and built up the fire.
    Abby tiptoed gingerly into the kitchen and put on her Keds. They weren’t as dry as they could have been, but it beat the heck out of wearing more of Miles’s floor on the bottoms of her tights than she was already. She squished her way over to the fire to face her scowling host.
    Miles folded his arms across his chest. “Let us see if we cannot untangle this snarl inside your head.”
    â€œMy head?” she said. “I’m not the one who’s confused.”
    â€œAye, but you are!”
    â€œI am not! France does not have a king, and neither does England. England has a queen and her name is Elizabeth!”
    â€œIt has a king and his name is Henry!”
    Abby smirked. “I’d say let’s turn on the TV and see what the local newscaster says, but I’ll bet you don’t have a TV either, do you?”
    â€œNay, I do not,” he said, stiffly. “Nor would I have one.”
    â€œHa,” she said. “You don’t even know what a TV is.”
    He scowled fiercely. “Aye, I do.”
    â€œDo not.”
    â€œHow would you know what I do and do not know?”
    â€œYou don’t have any electricity, bucko. It’s a dead giveaway.”
    He growled at her. “You are a most infuriating woman.”
    â€œReally?” she said, surprised. She smiled suddenly. “How nice. I’ve always wanted to be infuriating. It looks like the Garrett blood is really coming out. My grandmother would be so proud.”
    â€œI think I’d like to wring it all from you, for ’tis most—ha ... ha ... hachoo! ”
    Abby barely stepped aside in time to avoid the product of his violent sneeze. She grabbed his arm.
    â€œHush,” she whispered, frantically. “Sir Sweetums has to be nearby.”
    Miles panted through his mouth. “Sir Sweetubs? What kind of a nabe is that for a bloody cat?”
    â€œIt’s a term of endearment. Like this: sweetie pie, honey bunch, snookums.” She tickled him under the chin for effect. “See?”
    Miles scowled. “I see noth—ha . . . ha—”
    Abby put her finger under his nose to plug it. “Don’t even think about it, toots. We’ve got a kitty to find. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
    She kept her finger under his nose as they turned slowly in a circle.
    â€œSee anything?” she whispered.
    â€œNay.”
    â€œKeep looking.”
    They turned another circle and Miles froze suddenly. “There,” he said, softly.
    Sir Sweetums was sitting next to the hall door.
    â€œPerhaps he will cobe if you call to hib,” Miles said, breathing through his mouth. He was obviously fighting his sneeze.
    â€œHere, kitty, kitty,” Abby said. She beckoned. “Come here, Sir Sweetums. Miles won’t hurt you. He likes cats.”
    Miles muffled a sneeze in his sleeve.
    â€œAll right, his nose doesn’t, but the rest of him does.”
    Abby took a step forward. Sir Sweetums got to his feet, gave her a meow she couldn’t quite interpret, turned on his heel and, with his tail held high, walked through the door.
    Through the closed door.
    Miles staggered. He threw his arms around her and clutched her.
    â€œMerciful St. Michael,” he breathed. “I did not see what I