Chapter Eighty-Nine
Betsy cleared her throat. “All right, everybody. I’ve figured it out.”
Her brothers, accustomed to respecting the air of authority she’d cultivated through being their intellectual superior, downed their playthings and looked up. She paced around the empty cellar they’d found, nodding to herself, putting the final touches to her plan before their eyes.
“You guys were really impressed when I designed the treehouse, right?”
They made affirmative noises.
“I built it,” Danny grumbled.
“Yes, but if Betsy hadn’t designed it, what would you have built?” Doobie pointed out, always ready to defend his sister.
Danny shrugged and looked to the trapezoid of floor between his crossed legs, silently acknowledging the cogency of a point with which he could not argue.
“And you couldn’t sing enough praises about the cave I found by the beach, yes?” Betsy went on (as if the intervening psychological mini-drama just described had never occurred, but was, rather, a figment of the shared author-reader’s imagination).
It was a truth no one could deny.
“Well then. I’ve got an idea that’ll top all those, and then some.”
“What is it, Betsy?” asked Eric, awe-eyed.
“Good question, Eric. I’m glad you asked it.” To all the assembled, she announced: “We’re going to found our own country.”
They looked to one another—after all, to whom else could they look?—their natural scepticism held in check by their sister’s stellar track record.
“Right here, in this hotel, we’ve got everything we need: land—all the cellars and secret passages and lost rooms we’ve already charted; government—I nominate myself queen, and you’re all princes, naturally—”
“Wow!” said Eric. “Me, a prince!”
“Food—we’ve pinched so much, I’ll bet we’ve got more than they’ve got; money—who needs money?; and a flag. Eric can make that.”
“Wow!” said Eric. “Me, a flag-maker!”
“What about an army?” asked Danny.
“You can be general,” she appointed.
“But who’ll be me soldiers?” he inquired, rationally enough.
“All of the princes.”
“Wow!” said Eric. “Me, a soldier!”
“Can I be in charge of demolition?” asked Charlie.
Their queen’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Demolition of what?”
Charlie shrugged. “Whatever needs to be demolished.”
“Is that to help our fledgling nation, or just because you like to smash stuff?”
Charlie grinned with a candour redolent of all the greatest demolition officers. “Bit of both, I guess.”
The queen nodded. “I anoint you Chief Demolisher, with a royal patent, charter and warrant to distinguish you from all the unofficial ones.”
“I thank you, your grace.”
The children got to work organising their new kingdom. Betsy, holding up several tablecloths and drapes to her neck for purposes of gown design, noticed little Bo staring at her from where he sat in the corner.
“What is it, Bo? Don’t you want to help?”
He stared, his soulful eyes suggesting hidden depths of understanding. Though she wasn’t sure of what.
“You can be Chief Horse-Master, if you like.”
He shook his head.
“Chief Horse-Rider?”
He shook his head.
“Chief Horse?”
He shook his head.
“Do you need to make a pee?”
He shook his head.
“Well, suit yourself then.”