“Is my sister as stubborn as ever?” Emrys asked in a bemused tone.
Aelwyn smiled. Other than inquiring about Viviane, her father did not mention Aelwyn’s long absence or its cause; he did not ask about her health or her happiness. Then again, Emrys had never been particularly affectionate. Her father was the nearly thousand-year-old wizard who had advised Artucus, the first King of England, and all his heirs—including Henry VI, for whom Emrys had brought the kingdoms of England and France together to create the foundation of the empire.
Emrys settled back into his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk. “I had to convince the Order to take you in; you know they aren’t very fond of Viviane, and were wary of her influence upon you. I had to assure them of your obedience. Do not fail me.”
“My will is to serve,” she said, showing him she had already learned the vows of her future station.
He nodded, pleased. “Run into any trouble on your journey?” he asked, taking a pipe out of his pocket and lighting it.
“No, Father,” she said with a shrug, fiddling with the obsidian stone on her chain. She thought of the little thief, and how she’d held his soul in her hands. “None at all.”
The prettiest room in the castle was built like a jewel box: all pink, white and gold, with gilt molding, pink damask wallpaper, fat cherub murals painted on the ceiling, and a crystal chandelier above the bed. It was a room fit for a sleeping princess. Except the princess, Marie-Victoria, was only pretending to be asleep. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing even as her ladies-in-waiting gathered around the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. Marie wondered how long they had been standing there—since dawn? Or for only a few minutes? She never knew; only that they were always there when she woke up. There was an audience for everything she did, even the most mundane of activities, from rising to dining to strolling in the gardens. The practice had been handed down from the French side of their family, and even though the court was in London they kept to the French ways.
She supposed she should get up soon. She could sense that her ladies were getting impatient; she could hear them coughing and murmuring to each other. But she also knew what was awaiting her that day, and so she wanted to stay in her soft warm bed for as long as possible. One of her ladies—Evangeline, most likely, the highest-ranking one—cleared her throat loudly, and Marie decided it was time to put everyone out of their misery.
“Good morning,” she said, pulling open the bed curtains and yawning.
“Good morning, Princess,” her ladies chorused as they curtsied.
“No breakfast today?” she asked, noticing that no one had set the little table at the edge of the room by the windows.
“No, my lady. You have been asked to join the queen this morning.”
Marie sighed. It meant that the rumors were true, then—her mother had plans for her. The formal request to join her at breakfast in front of the whole court meant that Marie would discover what those plans were, along with everyone else, in public—with no opportunity to talk about it in private beforehand. Which could only mean that her mother did not want to take any chances, and that any objections Marie might have to her designs would not be taken into account. She began to cough violently into her handkerchief, staining the white linen with blood and scaring her ladies.
“I am all right,” Marie said when the coughing subsided, and the ladies helped her dress. Paulette, the Lady of the Robes, decided on the crimson silk.
“Better for your coloring.” She smiled as she helped Marie pull the gown over her head. “There, you see? You carry it well—you can hardly tell you are sick.”
“Paulette! Watch your tongue!” Evangeline reprimanded.
“Oh! Forgive me, Your Highness,” Paulette said fearfully, with a bow.