“I have advised the kitchen to have plenty of hot water ready, your grace, nevertheless,” said Willikins, helping Vimes on with the gilty breastplate.

“Yes. Why do they need all that water, do you think?”

“I couldn't say, your grace,” said Willikins. “Probably best not to enquire.”

Vimes nodded. Sybil had already made it quite clear, with gentle tact, that he was not required on this particular case. It had been, he had to admit, a bit of a relief.

He handed Willikins the sprig of lilac. The butler took it without comment, inserted it into a little silver tube of water that would keep it fresh for hours, and fixed it on to one of the breastplate straps.

“Time moves on, doesn't it, your grace,” he said, dusting him down with a small brush.

Vimes took out his watch. “It certainly does. Look, I'll drop in at the Yard on my way to the palace, sign what needs signing, and I'll be back as soon as possible, all right?”

Willikins gave him a look of almost unbutlery concern. “I'm sure her ladyship will be fine, your grace,” he said. “Of course she is not, not—”

“—young,” said Vimes.

“I would say she is richer in years than many other primi-gravidae,” said Willikins smoothly. “But she is a well-built lady, if you don't mind me saying so, and her family have traditionally had very little trouble in the childbirth department—”

“Primi what?”

“New mothers, your grace. I'm sure her ladyship would much rather know that you were running after miscreants than wearing a hole in the library carpet.”

“I expect you're right, Willikins. Er…oh, yes, there's a young lady dog-paddling in the old cesspit, Willikins.”

“Very good, your grace. I shall send the kitchen boy down there with a ladder directly. And a message to the Assassins' Guild?”

“Good idea. She'll need clean clothes and a bath.”

“I think, perhaps, the hose in the old scullery might be more appropriate, your grace? To start with, at least?”