Read Online Amelia Dee and the Peacock Lamp by Odo Hirsch - Free Book Online

her fur coat. She was staring at the sheet-covered window, and made no movement to show that she knew anyone was there. Amelia stopped. Whatever she had thought about saying, and doing, went out of her mind.
    ‘Go on, Amelia,’ murmured Mr Vishwanath.
    Amelia went closer. Finally the Princess looked around.
    ‘Hello,’ said Amelia.
    The Princess’s eyes narrowed. Her dark eyebrows contracted slightly. That was all.
    ‘Sit down, Amelia,’ whispered Mr Vishwanath.
    Amelia hesitated for a moment, then sat down at the table opposite the Princess. The Princess continued to watch her with a sharp, hawk-like gaze, as if measuring her, as if Amelia was some kind of species of creature unlike the Princess herself, and liable to act in the most unpredictable fashion.
    ‘You are Amelia,’ said the Princess at last. Her voice was low, and she had an accent that Amelia couldn’t identify. When she said her name, she said ‘Ehmeeelieh’.
    Amelia nodded.
    ‘I am the Princess Parvin Kha-Douri,’ said the Princess. ‘You may not say my name when you speak to me. You must say “Your Serenity”.’
    Not Your Highness . So much for Eugenie and her supposed royal expertise, thought Amelia.
    ‘Only someone of my rank or above may say my name.’
    ‘What does that mean?’ asked Amelia. ‘Someone of your rank or above?’
    ‘Someone who is a princess or more than a princess,’ replied the Princess stiffly.
    Amelia glanced at Mr Vishwanath.
    ‘The maestro may say my name,’ said the Princess. ‘He is my teacher. That is a kind of rank. An honorary rank. You are not my teacher, I think!’
    Amelia shook her head.
    ‘No,’ said the Princess coldly. ‘I do not think so.’
    Amelia glanced at Mr Vishwanath again. He nodded reassuringly. Then he sat on the floor and adopted one of his yoga poses, legs crossed, arms outstretched, wrists turned upwards, as if the conversation between Amelia and the Princess was a matter for them alone, and none of his business. He closed his eyes. Already, Amelia could see, his mind was far away from what was happening in this room.
    ‘I do not normally meet children,’ said the Princess.
    Amelia looked back at her.
    ‘It was only because the maestro requested it. Normally I would not meet such a child as you.’
    Amelia glanced at Mr Vishwanath. There was nothing on his face – not a flicker, not a glance – to show that he had heard.
    ‘Do you know why?’ said the Princess.
    Amelia silently shook her head.
    ‘Because children behave disgracefully. Last time, you behaved disgracefully. I suppose now you wish to apologise to me for this.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Amelia. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘What I did.’
    ‘Is that an apology?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then say sorry,’ said the Princess. ‘In an apology, in your language, one must say sorry, I think. Otherwise it is not a proper apology.’
    ‘Sorry,’ said Amelia.
    The Princess continued to stare at her, one black eyebrow raised expectantly.
    ‘Your Serenity,’ mumbled Amelia.
    ‘Good,’ said the Princess. But there was no warmth or pleasure or satisfaction in the way she had said it. Her gaze was as stern as before.
    There was silence.
    Amelia had the feeling the Princess didn’t care about her at all, didn’t want to know anything about her, had absolutely no interest in her. All she cared about was receiving an apology, a ‘proper’ apology, and that wasn’t because she cared about Amelia, but because she cared about herself. About her rank. About how important she was.
    ‘What is that you are holding?’ asked the Princess.
    Amelia glanced at the pages in her hand. They were getting crumpled, she was gripping them so tight.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘It’s just . . . It doesn’t matter,’ muttered Amelia.
    ‘What? What is it?’
    Amelia frowned. ‘It’s a story.’
    ‘Did you write it?’ said the Princess. ‘For me?’
    Amelia wished she had never brought the pages with her. She wished she had