“A coat of arms,” he replied, lifting his chin towards the top of the door leading into the dining room. “I should have realized sooner.”
The coat-of-arms was painted above the lintel, faded but still clear enough: A rampant lion, a unicorn and a circle of seven roses.
“George, you are definitely a historian,” Meg said. “And completely brilliant.”
They nearly got stuck in the doorway in their haste to stampede inside.
The dining room, predictably, was so much larger than Dougal remembered. The table where they had welcomed the wayward duck seated thirty-six. There was a shipwreck on one wall and no fewer than nine rowboats scattered among pastoral ponds.
And the stars.
“Seven stars for your wrath,” Meg murmured.
The only place with more stars, and more murals, was the ballroom.
Even the floorboards were painted with stars.
Dougal ran a hand through his hair.
“This is going to take a while.”