Cor­de­lia's palms dam­pe­ned.

  "Be qu­ick abo­ut it," he in­s­t­ruc­ted, then tur­ned on his he­els and stal­ked from the ro­om.

  "I'm not pre­pa­red to­night, Mat­hil­de." Cor­de­lia pa­ced the ro­om with agi­ta­ted step. "I don't think I co­uld be­ar him to to­uch me to­night."

  "You'll be­ar what co­mes yo­ur way, li­ke wo­men be­fo­re you and tho­se that'll co­me af­ter," Mat­hil­de sta­ted calmly. "But I don't be­li­eve the prin­ce will ta­ke you to­night. He's a man who go­es by the bo­ok." She be­gan to un­ho­ok Cor­de­lia's gown.

  "How do you know that?" Cor­de­lia step­ped out of her pet­ti­co­at.

  Mat­hil­de shrug­ged, her fin­gers busy with Cor­de­lia's la­ces. "The­re's much I know, de­arie, that do­esn't ne­ed the tel­ling. But I'll say this. I don't ca­re for that man. The­re's so­met­hing un­der­ne­ath that we'd best watch out for."

  "Li­ke what?" Cor­de­lia re­ac­hed up to un­pin her ha­ir. Mat­hil­de was adept at sen­sing what pe­op­le tri­ed to con­ce­al abo­ut them­sel­ves, and her in­tu­iti­ve in­sight was al­ways en­lig­h­te­ning.

  "I'm not su­re as yet." Mat­hil­de to­ok the gown to the ar­mo­ire. "I can fe­el a dar­k­ness… so­me sec­ret he's hol­ding. Ti­me will tell."

  Not too en­lig­h­te­ning or at all re­as­su­ring, but Cor­de­lia didn't press the is­sue.

  Once Cor­de­lia was in bed, Mat­hil­de plum­ped the pil­low be­hind her he­ad and smo­ot­hed the co­ver­let. "I'll send for yo­ur hus­band, then." She stra­ig­h­te­ned Cor­de­lia's la­ce-ed­ged nig­h­t­cap and exa­mi­ned her cri­ti­cal­ly. "Pretty as a pic­tu­re," she sa­id with a sud­den fi­er­ce frown. "And a lamb for the sla­ug­h­ter if that man has his way," she ad­ded sot­to vo­ce as she left the ro­om to fetch the prin­ce. But he wo­uldn't ha­ve his way if Mat­hil­de had an­y­t­hing to do with it.

  Left alo­ne, Cor­de­lia's ap­pre­hen­si­on ro­se anew. She drew a lo­ose rin­g­let in­to her mo­uth, suc­king on the end, won­de­ring whet­her Mat­hil­de re­al­ly knew Prin­ce Mic­ha­el's mind.

  Mic­ha­el ca­me in­to the ro­om, clad in a cham­ber ro­be of brown vel­vet. He had dis­car­ded his wig, and his gray ha­ir was ti­ed at the na­pe of his neck. It was rat­her spar­se on top in con­t­rast to his straggly eyeb­rows. Mat­hil­de ho­ve­red by the do­or.

  The prin­ce ap­pro­ac­hed the bed. He exa­mi­ned his bri­de and then, sur­p­ri­singly, smi­led. Aga­in Cor­de­lia was re­min­ded of a flic­ke­ring asp's ton­gue and was not re­as­su­red by the smi­le. She re­ali­zed she was still suc­king her ha­ir and has­tily pus­hed the sod­den rin­g­let be­hind her ear.

  "A very chil­dish ha­bit," he re­mar­ked, sit­ting on the ed­ge of the bed. "But you are very yo­ung."

  "I will grow up, my lord." Cor­de­lia de­ter­mi­ned that she wo­uldn't let him see how he in­ti­mi­da­ted her. She met his ga­ze.

  Mic­ha­el didn't mo­ve for a mi­nu­te, then or­de­red over his sho­ul­der, "Le­ave us, wo­man."

  The do­or clo­sed softly be­hind Mat­hil­de. Mic­ha­el le­aned over, to­ok Cor­de­lia's chin bet­we­en thumb and fo­re­fin­ger, and bro­ught his mo­uth to hers. Cor­de­lia clo­sed her eyes on a shud­der of re­vul­si­on, then as the pres­su­re of his mo­uth in­c­re­ased and his fin­gers tig­h­te­ned on her chin, she be­gan to fight for bre­ath. Her lips we­re pres­sed aga­inst her te­eth. She co­uld fe­el him trying to pri­se open her lips with his ton­gue and she kept them clo­sed, re­sis­ting with every oun­ce of her will. And fi­nal­ly he drew back, his fin­gers fal­ling from her fa­ce. She ope­ned her eyes and re­ad the na­ked aro­usal in his.

  "You are a lit­tle in­no­cent, aren't you?" he sa­id with un­dis­gu­ised sa­tis­fac­ti­on. "You must le­arn to ac­com­mo­da­te a man's ne­eds rat­her mo­re wil­lingly, my de­ar."

  He ro­se from the bed, his erec­ti­on jut­ting aga­inst his ro­be. He sto­od lo­oking down at her, his hands res­ting on his hips, and she co­uld see the swel­ling be­ne­ath his ro­be.

  She re­al­ly was qu­ite ap­pe­aling, Mic­ha­el tho­ught. Ap­pre­hen­si­on and in­no­cen­ce be­ca­me her re­mar­kably well. Her at­trac­ti­on co­uldn't be mo­re dif­fe­rent from El­vi­ra's sop­his­ti­ca­ted al­lu­re. And her yo­ut­h­ful scent, the fres­h­ness of her skin, the blue-black lights in her lu­xu­ri­ant fall of ha­ir we­re a ref­res­hing chan­ge from the oc­ca­si­onal har­lots he'd enj­oyed sin­ce El­vi­ra's de­ath.

  "We will be­gin to­mor­row," he sa­id, swin­ging to the do­or. "I will see you in the mor­ning. We ma­ke an early start for Pa­ris."

  "I un­der­s­to­od that the ro­yal party will be sta­ying he­re for a few days." Cor­de­lia was star­t­led out of her numb shock.

  "But we ha­ve no ne­ed to re­ma­in with them," the prin­ce in­for­med her. "You are not a mem­ber of the da­up­hi­ne's ho­use­hold, my de­ar. You will not be re­qu­ired to at­tend upon her on a da­ily ba­sis, and you ha­ve yo­ur own li­fe to le­ad now." The do­or clic­ked shut be­hind him.

  Cor­de­lia scrub­bed her mo­uth with the back of her hand, des­pe­ra­te to rid her­self of the me­mory of his lips. Ever sin­ce she co­uld re­mem­ber, her li­fe and To­inet­te's had be­en in­ter­t­wi­ned. From ear­li­est chil­d­ho­od they had sha­red the­ir sec­rets, the­ir joys, and the­ir tro­ub­les. On one le­vel they had both known that the ar­c­h­duc­hess's des­tiny wo­uld be of gre­at and pub­lic sig­ni­fi­can­ce, whe­re­as Cor­de­lia wo­uld be per­mit­ted a mo­re pri­va­te fu­tu­re, al­be­it one not of her own cho­osing. And yet, un­til now, Cor­de­lia re­ali­zed that she hadn't fully un­der­s­to­od how se­pa­ra­te her li­fe wo­uld be from To­inet­te's on­ce the­ir jo­ur­ney in­to the fu­tu­re was com­p­le­ted.

  And only now did she fully re­ali­ze how alo­ne she was.

  "Is it to­night that we will see our new mot­her, ma­da­me?" Sylvie put her thum­b­na­il in­to her mo­uth and has­tily spat it out. In her ex­ci­te­ment she'd for­got­ten abo­ut the fo­ul-tas­ting yel­low pas­te.

  "The wed­ding is to be so­lem­ni­zed at six o'clock," Ma­da­me de Nevry sta­ted. "I ha­ve no idea what ti­me yo­ur fat­her and his wi­fe will co­me to the ho­use, but sin­ce I've re­ce­ived no in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons from the prin­ce, I as­su­me it will be af­ter yo­ur bed­ti­me. I da­re­say the prin­cess will send for you in the mor­ning." The go­ver­ness pic­ked up her Bib­le. "Now, fi­nish yo­ur se­am, Sylvie. Ame­lia, that hem is qu­ite cro­oked. Un­pick it and start aga­in." Lo­u­ise re­su­med her re­ading alo­ud of the Bo­ok of Job.

  "I won­der if she'll li­ke us," Ame­lia whis­pe­red to her sis­ter in the un­der­to­ne that no one but them­sel­ves co­uld ever he­ar. It was the ba­rest mo­ve­ment of the­ir lips as the­ir he­ads we­re bent si­de by si­de. She be­gan the pa­in­s­ta­king task of un­pic­king her rag­ged stit­c­hes.

  "Pro­bably she won't," her sis­ter mur­mu­red. "Pro­bably she's li­ke Pa­pa. She'll be busy at co­urt."

  "Did you say so­met­hing, Sylvie?" Ma­da­me lo­oked up sharply over her pin­ce-nez.

  "No, ma­da­me." Sylvie sho­ok her he­ad, ga­zing in­no­cently over the crum­p­led scrap of ma­te­ri­al she was at­tem­p­ting to sew.

  The go­ver­ness lo­oked sus­pi­ci­o­usly bet­we­en the two girls. Two iden­ti­cal fa­ir he­ads bent over the­ir task, two pa­irs of still-dim­p­led hands wres­t­ling with ne­ed­les and thre­ad. "I don't wish to he­ar anot­her so­und un­til the re­ading is fi­nis­hed," she pro­no­un­ced, pic­king up the holy bo­ok aga­in.

  Ame­lia's small fo­ot pres­sed hard on her sis­ter's. "May I ask, ma­da­me, if Mon­si­e­ur Leo will be co­ming af­ter the wed­ding?"

  "I ha­ve no idea."

  Ame­lia sub­si­ded. Mon­si­e­ur Leo was not a po­pu­lar su­bj­ect with the­ir go­ver­ness.

  Lo­u­ise's lips pur­sed. She he­ar­tily di­sap­pro­ved of the vis­co­unt. He ma­de the girls ove­rex­ci­ted and in­dul­ged them shoc­kingly. But when she'd at­tem­p­ted to po­int this out to the prin­ce, she'd re­ce­ived very short shrift. She'd be­en ma­de to un­der­s­tand that it was not her pla­ce to com­p­la­in abo­ut her em­p­lo­yer's brot­her-in-law. Lo­u­ise had in­ter­p­re­ted this to me­an that Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton was to be al­lo­wed to spo­il the chil­d­ren if it ple­ased him. It was to be ho­ped that the new prin­cess wo­uld see the folly of this and exert her own in­f­lu­en­ce.

  Her mo­uth grew mo­re pin­c­hed. Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on, the ma­j­or­do­mo, had not be­en par­ti­cu­larly for­t­h­co­ming with his in­for­ma­ti­on re­gar­ding the­ir new prin­cess. Eit­her he re­al­ly knew very lit­tle abo­ut her, or he was tor­men­ting the go­ver­ness. He had sa­id only that he be­li­eved her to be yo­un­ger than his for­mer mis­t­ress and that she was an Aus­t­ri­an aris­toc­rat.

  The Aus­t­ri­an co­urt was known for its strict ad­he­ren­ce to form and ri­tu­al. The em­p­ress Ma­ria The­re­sa was known thro­ug­ho­ut the ci­vi­li­zed world as a de­eply mo­ral wo­man who ru­led her land by the hig­hest et­hi­cal stan­dards and wo­uld to­le­ra­te no mo­ral la­xity at her co­urt. A yo­ung wo­man re­ared in such an at­mos­p­he­re wo­uld be su­re to up­hold the hig­hest stan­dards in the scho­ol­ro­om. She wo­uld su­rely sup­port Ma­da­me de Nevry's ef­forts to turn her char­ges in­to mo­del yo­ung wo­men who knew the­ir du­ti­es, knew to spe­ak only when spo­ken to, knew to ho­nor and re­ve­re tho­se put in aut­ho­rity over them.

  Lo­u­ise had for­med an ima­ge of her em­p­lo­yer's new wi­fe. She had be­en gi­ven no des­c­rip­ti­on of the lady and had not be­en shown the mi­ni­atu­re, but wis­h­ful thin­king and what she be­li­eved she knew of her em­p­lo­yer's ne­eds and tas­tes in a wi­fe had in­for­med the pic­tu­re of a do­urly res­pec­tab­le yo­ung wo­man of re­li­gi­o­us tem­pe­ra­ment and an ab­so­lu­te sen­se of duty. Her yo­uth sho­uld ma­ke it easy for Lo­u­ise to in­f­lu­en­ce her in scho­ol­ro­om mat­ters. It sho­uldn't be dif­fi­cult to en­su­re she de­fer­red to a go­ver­ness who had known her char­ges sin­ce bab­y­ho­od and co­uld be ex­pec­ted to know what was best for them.

  In was la­te in the af­ter­no­on and Lo­u­ise had enj­oyed a sub­s­tan­ti­al din­ner. Her he­ad drop­ped on­to her chest and her vo­ice stop­ped in mid­sen­ten­ce. Lul­led by the­se com­for­ting ref­lec­ti­ons and slightly muzzy af­ter her usu­al li­be­ral enj­oy­ment of wi­ne at din­ner, she do­zed. A lit­tle sno­re es­ca­ped her, her he­ad jer­ked on her drop­ping bo­som, and she star­ted up­right. She gla­red at her char­ges, who we­re sit­ting bolt up­right op­po­si­te, the­ir eyes shi­ning with la­ug­h­ter.

  The go­ver­ness co­ug­hed, adj­us­ted her pin­ce-nez, and be­gan her re­ading aga­in. The girls du­ti­ful­ly pli­ed the­ir ne­ed­les, but Lo­u­ise was un­com­for­tably awa­re that they we­re strug­gling to sup­press the­ir gig­gles. Ho­we­ver, she co­uld say not­hing wit­ho­ut fur­t­her loss of dig­nity. Her vo­ice dro­ned on un­til the clock struck six.

  Ame­lia and Sylvie im­me­di­ately lo­oked up and ex­c­han­ged a glan­ce. It was the ho­ur of the wed­ding.

  Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton to­ok his pla­ce in the front pew of the king's pri­va­te cha­pel in the Ho­tel de Vil­le. Or­gan mu­sic swel­led to the raf­ters, sa­ving him from par­ti­ci­pa­ting in the spe­cu­la­ti­ve con­ver­sa­ti­on aro­und him. The talk was all of the prin­ce's bri­de. No­ne of the wed­ding gu­ests had be­en at Com­pi­eg­ne, so no one had yet se­en the yo­ung wo­man. Leo had be­en pes­te­red with qu­es­ti­ons from the mo­ment of his ar­ri­val in the cha­pel. Was she be­a­uti­ful? Had the king ap­pro­ved her? How yo­ung was she? He had an­s­we­red bri­efly, re­fu­sing to be drawn in­to the gos­sip, and with many dis­g­run­t­led lo­oks, his qu­es­ti­oners had gi­ven up.

  He clo­sed his eyes aga­inst the per­sis­tent throb­bing in his tem­p­les. The ro­ugh red wi­ne of the Com­pi­eg­ne ta­vern had do­ne its work only too well, plun­ging him in­to drun­ken ob­li­vi­on be­fo­re dawn. He had wo­ken at no­on with a vi­le he­adac­he, na­use­ated, and in a wor­se than vi­le hu­mor.

  "We­re you in Vi­en­na, Ki­er­s­ton, when the scan­dal bro­ke abo­ut the em­p­ress's mu­si­ci­an?" A ro­tund gen­t­le­man in crim­son and gold vel­vet le­aned over his sho­ul­der from the pew be­hind, fan­ning him­self in­do­lently as the in­cen­se fu­mes swir­led from the cen­ser. "I he­ard tell the pu­pil in the bu­si­ness has co­me to Pa­ris."

  Leo for­ced his dul­led wits to fo­cus. Cor­de­lia had firmly dum­ped the res­pon­si­bi­lity for Chris­ti­an in his lap. "Yes, I'm spon­so­ring him un­til he can find a pat­ron," he sa­id, kno­wing that the Due de Ca­ril­lac con­si­de­red him­self a fo­re­most pat­ron of the arts. "The yo­ung man has a di­vi­ne to­uch," he con­ti­nu­ed. "I'm cer­ta­in that on­ce the king he­ars him, he'll ne­ed no fur­t­her pat­ro­na­ge."

  "Ah." Ca­ril­lac stro­ked his chin, his be­ady lit­tle eyes gle­aming from the­ir folds of flesh. "But at pre­sent he's fo­ot­lo­ose, you say. You are not of­fe­ring him pat­ro­na­ge yo­ur­self?"

  "It's not my style, my lord," Leo sa­id co­ol­ly. A man ne­eded mo­re than his fa­ir sha­re of pri­de, in­f­lu­en­ce, and the po­wer of we­alth to be a suc­ces­sful pat­ron. By the sa­me to­ken, pat­rons com­pe­ted with su­per­fi­ci­al ci­vi­lity for the ar­tists most li­kely to suc­ce­ed. Ca­ril­lac was one of the most cut­thro­at com­pe­ti­tors in the fi­eld, and if his in­te­rest co­uld be ro­used in Chris­ti­an, then the yo­ung mu­si­ci­an wo­uld be well on the way to es­tab­lis­hing him­self.

  "Go­od, go­od," Ca­ril­lac mur­mu­red, nod­ding to him­self. "We'll talk mo­re on this mat­ter."

  The­re was an ex­pec­tant rus­t­le from the body of the cha­pel. Leo tur­ned to lo­ok to­ward the do­or. His ac­hing blo­od­s­hot eyes saw at first only a shim­mer of gold. As it mo­ved to­ward him the shim­mer be­ca­me Cor­de­lia, her black ha­ir drawn up be­ne­ath a cap of gold thre­ad and a di­amond-stud­ded ti­ara, le­aving her fa­ce pa­le and ex­po­sed. As she pas­sed him her eyes met his, and they we­re dar­kest char­co­al with lit­tle flic­ke­ring lights of a smol­de­ring bra­zi­er in the­ir depths. Then she step­ped for­ward on the prin­ce's arm, and the or­gan af­ter a fi­nal chord fell si­lent as they re­ac­hed the al­tar.

  Chris­ti­an slip­ped si­lently thro­ugh the do­or as the ser­vi­ce be­gan and ma­de his way aro­und the si­de of the cha­pel, ke­eping to the sha­dows. He had no in­vi­ta­ti­on, of co­ur­se, but he felt it was im­por­tant for him to be the­re for Cor­de­lia. She had no one el­se from her past as wit­ness to her mar­ri­age. To­inet­te was still at Com­pi­eg­ne, and the vis­co­unt was a new fri­end who didn't know Cor­de­lia as Chris­ti­an did. He didn't sha­re the­ir his­tory.

  Chris­ti­an stop­ped in the sha­dow of a mar­b­le co­lumn from whe­re he co­uld see the co­up­le at the al­tar. The prin­ce was an im­po­sing fi­gu­re in a rich su­it of cre­am da­mask ed­ged in sil­ver la­ce. His sho­ul­ders we­re bro­ad, his belly a dis­tinct pre­sen­ce. He had the ap­pe­aran­ce of a on­ce mus­cu­lar, po­wer­ful at­h­le­te now run­ning slightly to se­ed. But ever­y­t­hing abo­ut his be­aring exu­ded the con­fi­den­ce and aut­ho­rity of a man used to po­wer and exer­ting in­f­lu­en­ce. Cor­de­lia, des­pi­te the we­ight of her cloth-of-gold gown and the glit­ter of di­amonds in her ha­ir, lo­oked fra­gi­le, al­most in­sub­s­tan­ti­al be­si­de her hus­band.

  The prin­ce had ta­ken her hand and was sli­ding one of the pre­vi­o­usly bles­sed rings on­to her fin­ger. As Chris­ti­an wat­c­hed, Cor­de­lia did the sa­me for him. It was do­ne. Chris­ti­an lo­oked ac­ross the ais­le to whe­re Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton sat in the front pew. The vis­co­unt's ex­p­res­si­on was chi­se­led in sto­ne. He held his body ri­gid, his hands clas­ping the ra­il in front of him. Chris­ti­an saw that his knuc­k­les we­re whi­te. This was the man Cor­de­lia pro­fes­sed to lo­ve. A man who, she sa­id, wo­uld not ac­cept that lo­ve be­ca­use he re­fu­sed to ac­k­now­led­ge his own fe­elings. It se­emed to Chris­ti­an at this so­lemn mo­ment in the dimly lit cha­pel he­avy with in­cen­se that Leo Be­a­umont was ac­k­now­led­ging a depth of fe­eling that co­uld only be des­c­ri­bed as an­gu­ish.

  The bri­de and gro­om we­re re­tur­ning down the ais­le. Cor­de­lia's fa­ce was, if pos­sib­le, even pa­ler than be­fo­re. Her glo­ved hand res­ted on her hus­band's da­mask sle­eve. This ti­me she didn't so much as glan­ce to­ward Leo but kept her eyes on the squ­are of light ahe­ad of her. She had tri­ed to clo­se her mind to every as­pect of the ce­re­mony, so si­mi­lar to the one that had ta­ken pla­ce in Vi­en­na but so hor­ren­do­usly dif­fe­rent. Leo's physi­cal pre­sen­ce in the cha­pel was so po­wer­ful she co­uld al­most fe­el him as an aura aro­und her, and she wan­ted to we­ep, to scre­am at the wron­g­ness of it all, to cur­se at the unut­te­rab­le un­fa­ir­ness. But she co­uld do no­ne of the­se things.

  As they emer­ged in­to the co­ur­t­yard from the cha­pel, the fresh eve­ning air cle­ared her he­ad of the fug of in­cen­se and so­lem­nity. Now she felt de­tac­hed from her­self and her sur­ro­un­dings, he­aring the con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­ons from a dis­tan­ce, ba­rely re­gis­te­ring the eagerly cu­ri­o­us eyes, the qu­ick co­vert as­ses­sments of this new ad­di­ti­on to the en­c­lo­sed li­fe of the co­urt of Ver­sa­il­les. She was truly awa­re only of Prin­ce Mic­ha­el. He se­emed a hu­ge de­fi­ning pre­sen­ce at her si­de.

 

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