That same morning Tom woke up before it was light. He thought he was back in his family's room on Offal Street.
"Hey, Nancy, wake up!" he called softly to his sister. "I just had a dream that I was king! Can you believe it?"
A shadowy form appeared next to Tom's bed in the palace. "Did you call, Your Majesty?"
"Your Majesty?" Tom groaned. "Oh, then it wasn't a dream after all."
Tom fell back to sleep. Soon he was happily dreaming about a pot of gold coins buried next to a tree. In this dream Tom dug up the coins and hurried home to his mother.
"These are all for you, Mother. You'll never be hungry again!" Tom proudly dropped the coins in her lap. "And I didn't steal or beg for any of them!"
Gathering Tom into her arms, his mother said, "It's late, Your Majesty. Are you ready to get up?"
"Ugh!" Tom cried. That was not the answer he was expecting. He opened his eyes and realized once again that he was still king.
"And I'm still a prisoner in this palace," he thought.
"Time to get dressed, sir," the servant said.
When he sat up, Tom noticed more servants standing around his room. "Why are there so many people here?" he asked the first servant.
"To assist Your Majesty with the morning ritual of dressing."
"I can dress myself!" Tom snapped. He heard a sharp intake of breath from one servant and realized he'd made a mistake. "Or . . . you can all help me."
The servants formed a line. Starting near the door, each garment was passed down the line until it reached Tom.
"This is going to take forever," Tom thought.
And it did.
At last there was only one more garment to go—a silk stocking. Slowly it made its way toward Tom. But when the stocking reached the servant closest to Tom, the man held it up.
"Look at that hole! The king can't wear a less than perfect stocking!"
He handed the stocking to the servant behind him, and it slowly returned to the last servant. After some delay a perfect stocking was found and sent down the line to Tom. He put that on along with his shoe.
"I hope this is the end because I'm hungry." Tom stood up and admired himself in the mirror.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but you can't leave your room until the royal hairdresser has styled your hair."
Tom groaned and sat down again. "Bring on the combs and brushes, and let's get this over with!"
After breakfast Tom met with his royal advisers around a large table. Each of them had something for Tom to approve.
Lord Hertford sat at Tom's side, whispering helpful advice as needed. "Sign and date this document . . . Give your consent for that meeting . . . Refuse to approve that expense . . ."
Tom remembered playing with his friends from Offal Street. "Julian and the others were better royal advisers," he thought. "They were much more fun!"
The royal treasurer read an accounting of the expenses for King Henry's household.
"What?" Tom gasped. "That's a lot of money!"
"Yes, Your Majesty." The treasurer showed Tom the number in her account book. "And most of that money is still owed."
"You mean we haven’t been paying our bills?" Tom was horrified. Many people on Offal Street couldn't pay their bills, but he expected the royal family to do so.
The royal treasurer adjusted her glasses. "That's right, sir. The royal bank accounts are almost empty, and the servants haven't been paid."
"We will have to economize at once!" Tom said. "First of all, we should sell this palace and move somewhere less expensive. I know of a little house by the fish market. Perhaps we could move there."
Tom felt a sharp pressure on his arm and knew it was a signal from Lord Hertford. He stopped talking. He remembered his dream about giving his mother the pot of gold coins. Apparently he couldn't do that even as king.
"Maybe I could make my mother a duchess," he thought as a secretary droned on about the late king's will.
But then he looked around the table. These advisers were the ones who kept the kingdom running. If he suggested making his mother the Duchess of Offal Street, they'd think he was ill. And then they'd do nothing.
The dull work went on until Tom's head began to nod and he fell asleep.
Lord Hertford sighed. "We have to stop now," he whispered to the others. "We can't do anything more without the king's signature."