The attendant, a sober-suited man in his sixties, gave him a searching look. Nick smiled; the man seemed anxious and the last thing Nick wanted to do was make the locals nervous. But Griswold simply bowed briefly and left him alone.

And then they were landing at Newcastle. Griswold appeared again and told him there was no need for him to stir. ‘The Princess Rose-Anitra is in the terminal,’ he told him. ‘It’s raining outside. I’d advise you to stay put.’

The Princess Rose-Anitra. The name took him aback.

The Princess Rose-Anitra, boarding the official plane of the royal family of Alp de Montez. To join her future husband.

The fantasy had begun.

And here came the bride. Right-not. This wasn’t your normal vision of a royal bride. Rose was running across the rain-soaked tarmac. An airport official was holding an umbrella over her head, trying to keep up with her. She was dressed in jeans and an ancient duffel coat. She was carrying a shabby holdall.

She was also carrying a dog. Some sort of terrier.

His feeling of unreality took a step back. Rose grounded this thing in practicality, he thought, and the craziness seemed possible again as he watched her run.

Seemingly ignoring the rain, she smiled at Griswold at the foot of the stairs, and Nick found himself smiling back. This wasn’t fantasy. Rose was a country veterinarian with a scruffy looking dog and clothes past their use-by date.

She just looked like…Rose.

She stepped into the cabin, laughing at something Griswold said behind her, speaking in a language Nick recognised.

She saw him and she stopped short. Her smile faded, and she looked suddenly uncertain. Maybe even a little scared.

‘Um…Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ As a response to the occasion it lacked a certain sophistication, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of a more intelligent response.

‘You don’t mind sharing a cabin with Hoppy?’ she asked.