Leo was supposed to meet her in the bower by the courtyard. Marie had sent a note saying she was too ill for dinner, but she would meet him there. Aelwyn found the bower of trees near the courtyard. There was no Leopold. She must be early; it was not midnight yet.
No sounds of merry-making, no party…and when she looked at the courtyard again, she saw why.
Silhouetted against the moonlight were four figures. Two of them stepped forward and shook hands, and the other two stepped to the side. Then the first two began to walk ten paces away from each other.
Aelwyn caught her breath. When the moon came out of the clouds, she saw their faces clearly. One was Leopold. The other was a young Frenchman—Louis-Philippe Beziers, she thought his name was. He came with the Valois contingent.
What was happening? What was this?
She stepped back into the shadows, hoping that no one had seen her face. Where was Marie? Had she escaped? Was it safe to come out? Aelwyn thought it was better if no one saw her just yet.
The boys stopped walking, their backs still turned to each other.
“Ready?” Louis-Philippe called.
“When you are,” Leo drawled.
He was so confident, so sure he would win, and the other boy was so very young and determined. Aelwyn’s hand went to the other stone she wore upon her neck. The black one.
It happened in a split second. Before Leopold could draw his weapon, Louis-Philippe had already fired his pistol, shooting the prince right in the chest.
Leo fell, tumbling backward—caught unawares—a stunned expression on his handsome face.
Wolf screamed and ran to his brother. “LEO! LEO! SOMEONE GET ME A HEALER! LEO!”
The other boy stood motionless, his pistol still smoking, as Hugh corralled him and led him away. They brushed past Aelwyn, who stood stunned. But she was jarred to action by the look on Isabelle’s face, locking eyes with her as she passed. She broke the illusion and fled back to the charter house.
That night the palace was silent, but for the sound of Wolf yelling and crying for his brother.
On the gray cobblestones, Leo had bled a river of blood through his white shirt, and he lay still and unmoving.
Let me be your ruler,
You can call me Queen Bee.
—LORDE,
“ROYALS”
“What was that?” Marie said, hearing the sound of gunshots from the courtyard. She turned, looking back at the palace walls. It had taken a while to make her way through the tunnels to the gates, and she was nervous that someone would find them, that she would be caught before they could escape.
“Nothing that concerns us,” said Gill, taking her bag and putting it in the carriage. “Come, Marie—please.”
She nodded, still shaking, shivering. She was so frightened. She was leaving the only life she’d ever known. Leaving not just St. James Palace, but England, the empire, the Continent. New York was only the first stop; it was Gill’s plan to make their way south: first to Mexico, then as far south as they could go. They could not stay anywhere within the empire’s reach; they would have to find a small independent country where they could hide and create new lives.
Gill looked tense. His eyes were bloodshot, worried.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I didn’t think you would meet me.”
“I am here,” she said.
He folded her into his arms and kissed her hair. “This is a dream.”
“My dream,” she said, putting her arms around him and kissing him on the lips tenderly. “Let us go and make it a reality.”
“Here,” he said, putting a cloak around her shoulders and helping her into the warm carriage.
“How did you know the wards would be down? And where did you get the money?” Marie asked, when they were safely on their way. “Who helped us?”
“A friend,” Gill said. “My captain handed me an envelope, said it came from someone very important. Inside were two thousand emperos, and a note that said the wards would be down at midnight. It said for me to do my best by you. That’s all I know, as it was unsigned. I didn’t ask any questions, and the captain had no answers. But a friend helped us tonight, Marie—a real friend.”
A real friend…Marie thought. As the carriage rolled away from the palace, Marie thought she would feel complete, happy; but she was nervous, agitated. Those gunshots in the courtyard—and that strange smell in the basements.…She tried to shake them from her mind, tried to focus on the warm body next to her. The reassuring solidity of Gill Cameron. But something in her mind nagged at her.…
“We have to go!” Isabelle said, crazed, as their hansom took them away from St. James. Louis-Philippe was sitting between her and Hugh, his hair wild, his cheeks red, breathing heavily. “We have to leave as soon as possible! Good God, Louis, you shot the prince! You killed him!”
“Isabelle! Calm down,” Hugh ordered, his normally placid voice agitated. “We have to think this through. Louis-Philippe shot the prince in a duel. Duels are protected by law. He is not a criminal.”
“What about the queen? What about the Merlin? The princess—? When they find out what he has done—they will take away everything they have allowed us to keep,” she said bleakly. “They will send us away, even from our homes, and burn Orleans down.”
“We have nothing to fear from House Aquitaine; they are our friends,” Hugh said with a smug smile. “I have taken care of the princess.”
Louis-Philippe was dazed, his eyes blank, but at Hugh’s voice he came to life. “I did it for you,” he whispered, looking deep into her eyes. “I did it for you. I won…and I saved your honor.”
Isabelle was shocked. In the middle of her panic, she had forgotten this part—this essential reason for his valiant action. She stared at him, and she realized what she’d told him before the duel was still true. She loved him. She loved him, and he had saved her honor. And when she looked into his eyes, she knew he was not thinking of Celestine anymore.
What was having a girl for a season, compared to a lifetime of loving her?
“Louis,” she whispered.
It was he who turned to her, who took her in his arms and kissed her like a man; and at last, at long last, Isabelle found what she had been looking for all her life: safety, security, love. At last, all her dreams would come true.
His brother was dead. It was all his fault. He should never have let him duel. But Leopold had been so confident in his success, and Wolf had never been able to stop him from doing anything. Still, when the shot rang out, Wolf was sure it would be the young French boy who fell to the ground, but it was not. It was his brother. Leo. I don’t need magic to win my fights, Wolf thought fiercely. I should have been the one to hold the gun. I could have cut that boy down before he drew a breath. But Leo had insisted, had assured him nothing would happen, that nothing could happen to him.…
And so Wolf had let him, because his older brother was always right, and now Leo was dead. He was kneeling in the bloody courtyard. People were screaming, milling about; the healers had taken Leo’s body into the palace. King Frederick was being roused from his sleep, as was Queen Eleanor. But Wolf was alone. He couldn’t find anyone. He was alone among strangers, alone in the courtyard with blood on his hands, and his brother was dead.
“He’s not dead,” Oswald said, appearing by his side. “Get up, Wolf. Get up.”
Wolf looked up with bleary eyes at his mentor. “Leo’s not dead?”
“He’s still breathing,” Oswald said. “The healers are looking at him now, the Merlin as well. He is unconscious and gravely wounded, but he is still breathing.”
Wolf said a prayer of thanks.
“What now?”
“We will find out tomorrow. He will live through the night, the Merlin assures me. There is a more pressing issue.”
“More pressing than my brother almost dying?”
“The princess. She is missing.”
Wolf looked at Duncan blankly.
“She was not in her room. She told the court she would appear at the garden party at midnight, but she is gone. No one can find her anywhere.”
“She’s gone?”
He walked with Duncan back to his apartments and saw Ronan standing there. It jolted something in him. Marie-Victoria was missing…
Ronan ran to him, a ministering angel, a dove. “Wolf, I’m so sorry! Your brother—oh my God…” she said, holding him in her arms.
“Is still alive,” he said.
“Thank God! But where are you going?” she asked as he pulled away from her, a faraway look in his eyes. “Wolf!”
He faced her, but he was still looking past her. “Ronan, I’m sorry—I can’t stay with you right now. The princess is missing, and I think I know where she is. I will come back to you, I promise. When this is over, I will come back to you.”
Isabelle felt renewed, revitalized. She felt better than she had in days, in weeks, in her whole life. She had a purpose, and something to live for—someone to live for—and he had been there all along. She and Louis-Philippe would leave for Cévennes that day, get the sisterhood’s blessing on their marriage, and be happy. They would be happy forever. It was so close now.
She urged her maid to pack faster. Louis would be coming back soon to pick her up, and she wanted to leave before daybreak. Before Eleanor and the Merlin decided to do something about the Frenchman who had killed the princess’s intended—let alone what kind of revenge the Prussian contingent would plan.
“Where do you think you are going, Isabelle?” Hugh said, entering the room without knocking. “Do you really mean to leave with him? He is nothing but a boy. Cévennes is a small estate—barely worth a mention. Stay with me and you will remain in your ancestral castle, and live as your father would have wanted you to live.”
Isabelle stared at him. “No. We are going. I would have left anyway. I would do anything to get away from you. We won’t have much, but we will have each other. We have always had each other, and now we will always be together.”
He took a step toward her, and she held up her hand. “Stop—right there. Don’t come any closer! Or I will tell him what you did! What you have been doing for years!”
“Do you think Jug Ears frightens me, Isabelle?” Hugh asked, his voice dark and threatening. “Do you really believe I’ll let that little bastard take you away from me?”
He crossed the room, and she shrank from him. He took her in his arms and licked her cheek. “You are mine, Isabelle—you will always be mine—you can never get away from me,” he whispered.
She had been nine years old when her parents, aunt, and uncle had died of the wasting plague. Hugh Borel had been a boy, ten years older than her and from a poorer branch of the family, but with a better claim through the paternal bloodline. He’d come to Burgundy, claiming the title and estate. She was only Isabelle of Orleans, Isabelle of Valois; she held the titles that claimed the French throne, but that was the extent of her inheritance. At first Hugh had been gentle and kind, and she and Louis had considered themselves lucky to have such a fine guardian.
The visits at night began a few years later, when she was a maiden. In the morning Hugh pretended nothing had happened, his face serene and innocent, but he was a monster at night. He claimed her as he claimed the castle, the title, and all the land that would have been hers if she had been her father’s heir. If she had only been born a boy. As she grew older, he stopped pretending and began to leer at her openly, so that others began to notice. Louis must have known what was happening, because that was when he stopped talking. He wanted to protect her so badly when they were younger, and it killed him that he couldn’t. Hugh had almost destroyed both of them.
It was only because her father had arranged her marriage to Leopold before his death that Hugh had allowed the prince into her life. Even though she had never met Leopold before—her father was the one who had traveled to the Prussian kingdom to make the arrangements—she had fallen in love with Leopold because she thought he would save her from Hugh. It was why she had allowed herself to be used, why she had been so accepting of his demands—because she was used to meeting Hugh’s.
Hugh was a coward, and had not stood up to the Prussians. Hugh was particularly frightened of Lord Hartwig, the old minister who insisted on performing a thorough search of their dungeons. He was looking for something he insisted Jeanne of Arkk had left there.
The Pandora’s Box. She knew where it was, and she showed them. Her mother used to call it their last hope, but she never knew what it was. Only when Lord Hartwig described it did she realize what she wore—the stone around her neck—the last inheritance from her long-dead mother. She had given it to Leopold freely, thinking that with it, she had bought her freedom as well.
No matter. She could care less about Leopold. She was going to be with Louis, her love, her wonderful boy.
“We are leaving you,” she said. “You can have Burgundy and all of Orleans. Take all of France, for that matter. Louis and I will have each other, and after today you will never see us again.”
Gill had rented them rooms at an inn near the port. Marie should not have been shocked at the shabbiness of her new accommodations, but she was. It occurred to her that she had never stayed anywhere that was not exquisite and beautiful and perfectly appointed until now. It was just a normal room, and Gill was right next door, but Marie was still shocked. The bed was so plain, the mattress so hard, and the food at the inn—Gill brought her up a plate, lest anyone see her—the food was so cheap. The meat was salty and tough, the bread hard, the cheese moldy.
Do you know what you are giving up for him? Aelwyn had asked her.
She had not known then; she understood now. But it was all right, Gill was worth it. She would do anything for him, would live anywhere. And hadn’t she longed for a cottage, anyway? A simple cottage, not a palace. She was done with castles and palaces; she’d had enough of those to last her a lifetime. She did not need her jewel-box room and her beautiful bed. Really, this clean, small room was all she needed, as long as she had Gill.
Gill knocked on her door. “Hey,” he said. “Is it okay?” He looked at the small, plain room nervously. “Are you comfortable?”
He hovered by the doorway, shy about entering because there was no one to tell him not to, and he wanted to observe the correct protocol. They were not yet married—but tomorrow by early morning, they would be. He would not enter her room until then.
“I know it’s not great,” he said. “But I’m going to work really hard, and one day—one day I will give you riches, more than you desire. I will work so hard for you, Marie.”
She put her hands on each side of his face and kissed his lips. “I don’t want riches, I want you. The food was delicious. We are off to a great adventure, you and I.”
“I cannot wait for tomorrow,” he said.
“Neither can I.”
The next morning, Marie dressed for her wedding and the journey. She was in a gray dress—plain, but one of her favorites. It was made of a good, sturdy cloth, and tailored to be comfortable for a tiring day. She wished she had a flower for her hair, or something prettier; she was a bride this morning, and she wanted to look like one—wanted Gill to see her and smile.
The innkeeper left her a breakfast tray with salt beef, bread, and wine. The wine was sour on her tongue, and Marie had a jolt of recognition. The smell in the dungeon—in the basement—that earthy, vinegary, smoky smell—it smelled like magefire. Like dark magic—
“Gill,” she said, rapping on his door. “Gill!”
He opened his door, looking sleepy but happy. He, too, was dressed in traveling clothes. “Yes, my dear?”
“I need to go back to St. James,” she said urgently. “Now.”
His face crumpled. “You changed your mind.”
“No—it’s not that—I have to warn them!”
“About what?”
“They’re in terrible danger.” She told him about the smell in the basement.
“It smelled just like it did four years ago, before Aelwyn set my room on fire. Like vinegar and acid and sulfur.” Magefire. The barrels of wine from Orleans were full of magefire, she was sure of it. “Someone is planning to burn down the palace, to set off an explosion. I need to hurry—I need to get those wine barrels out of there.”
He grabbed his pistol from the desk and put on his coat. “You are certain?”
“I’m not—” she said, losing the conviction in her voice a little. “I just have a feeling—the smell was so strong—and I will never forget that night—”
Gill hesitated. “If you go back now, the Saturnia will sail without us. Is that what you want? What if we sent a messenger to the palace—a warning—that way we could still get away. Marie, this is our only chance to make a life with each other.”
He was right. They could send a messenger. Of course she could not return to the palace. After all, Aelwyn had cast the illusion spell and was the princess—they would know there was treachery afoot. She had to stay. “Of course—yes—let me write a letter—I will have them give it to Aelwyn.” She left Gill and went back to her room, rummaging through her bag for her pen and stationery.
She began to write a note, and then thought better of it and tore it up. She wrote another one instead.
It was addressed to Gill Cameron.
Please forgive me. –Marie.
Then she left the room and slammed the door. By the time Gill realized she was gone, she was already out the door and in the streets, running back to St. James. It did not matter if there was a princess with her face in the palace, for she was the real dauphine. Somehow, she knew it was up to her to make everything right. This was her responsibility, her duty, her destiny. It wasn’t about personal happiness or even about herself at all. She was right—she was a small girl, with a small life—because her life was irrelevant, her desires immaterial. She only lived so that others might live as well.
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