“Perhaps he was as tired of war as we were,” another sister opined.
“Weapons of dark magic were supposed to have been destroyed after the Treaty of Orleans,” Sister White grumbled.
“So it was smart of the Prussians to use one, then, as it gave them the advantage,” Aelwyn said.
“Advantage? Cheating is more like it!” Sister White argued.
“Sometimes the only way to win is to cheat,” Aelwyn said stubbornly.
The sisters turned to see what the Sister Superior would do, but Sister Mallory only sighed. “You are young still, Sister Myrddyn, but one day you will learn that a false victory is a hollow one.”
Aelwyn nodded, thankful that her own loose tongue had not gotten her in trouble. The sisters disappeared down the hallway, and she dawdled behind, uneager to return to the charter house so soon. After her years in Avalon, life as a member of the invisible orders was boring. The sisters lived in a small convent in a remote wing of the palace, next to the home of the brotherhood. Every morning began the same way, with a quiet knock on the door at the first light of dawn. Bonded sister and acolyte alike rose to perform the daily tasks. They were not allowed to waste their magic to sweep the corridors, dust the stairs, or make the preparations for breakfast. Magic was a special gift; it had to be rationed for only the most important tasks, like warfare and security. Aelwyn’s morning chore was to wipe down the windows with a rag. Once the glass was sparkling, she was allowed to return to her drab little cell to change into her blue tunic and wash her face in the tiny washbasin.
At breakfast, the sisters would gather at long wooden tables, eating porridge and talking in low voices. She usually joined a group of new acolytes at a table near the window. They knew she was the Merlin’s daughter and were kind to her, but they avoided asking her about Avalon, or her time with Viviane. Aelwyn understood what her father had warned her about from the beginning: the sisterhood did not trust her. She would have to prove herself to them to gain acceptance into the Order. After the meal, the group convened to the chapel for silent spell-casting. While the Merlin’s men spent their time on strategizing military campaigns and border expansion, the sisterhood was responsible for the health and safety of the empire. The wasting plague was one of their more bitter failures, as none of their healers could concoct a real cure. Shields, wards, and anti-destruction spells were strengthened, renewed, and refurbished on a rotating basis, especially after the failed insurrection only a few months ago that had threatened the queen and her daughter.
Sitting quietly, surrounded by dutiful mages who had given themselves over to magic and servitude, Aelwyn’s thoughts flitted back to Avalon. She could chant the shield spell in her sleep. She was so incredibly disinterested in the humdrum nature of the Order’s magic. It was strictly by the book, whereas in Avalon magic was wild and mercurial, but extremely powerful. Well—there was no use thinking of Avalon now, was there?
Perhaps Viviane was right.
Perhaps she had made a mistake in choosing to join the invisible orders.
But if she did not take her vows and exchange her blue robes for the white habits, she would be a rogue enchantress, a woman without protection, practically a harlot, and even magic could not protect her from the people’s wrath if something went wrong. There were hedge witches and random warlocks in every town and village, scrounging a living from the edges, their magic separated from the true source of power, weak and ineffective.
Viviane had made it clear when Aelwyn left that Avalon would always be open to her—but if she returned, she would have to stay for good this time. Why had she chosen London over the island? Because when she was younger, she had worshipped the white-clad sisters, so beautiful and mysterious? Aelwyn had looked forward to the day she would “don the white and serve the light.” Magic was a gift, a calling, a home; especially since her father had asked her to return to the palace in the letter he had sent on the eve of her sixteenth birthday. That letter had sent her running back to the city. She had hidden the letter from her aunt, as Viviane would not have understood. She’d only have accused her of sentiment.
Aelwyn was so deep in her own thoughts that she did not notice the prince in the shadows of the corridor speaking to one of the younger, prettier ladies of the court. The girl was practically throwing herself at him, fluttering her lashes and shoving her cleavage in his face. He seemed to be reeling her in, little by little. She tipped forward, as if to receive a kiss, but he merely brushed her off with a lazy smile.
The girl handed him a slip of paper—no doubt with the location of her apartments in the castle—and sashayed away, promising something delicious and naughty with every sway of her step. But when her back was turned, Leo tossed the piece of paper to the ground. When he looked up, his eyes met Aelwyn’s.
She felt a hot spark between them, an electric energy that sent a tingle to the very center of her. He hadn’t much changed from the handsome, confident young boy he used to be, the one she had secretly mooned over in her diary. Even then, he had the ability to make you feel as if you were the only person in the room, the only person who mattered. “She’ll be sorely disappointed you won’t be looking for her tonight,” Aelwyn said, motioning to the torn piece of paper.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said, a small smile dawning on his face as he appraised her boldly, his stare raking her up and down. She felt as if she were standing naked in his presence.
But Aelwyn returned his stare with one of her own. Her green eyes held his gaze. “You should be more careful. This court is lousy with gossip, if you haven’t noticed.”
“All courts are. That is the nature of court. Let them talk; words are nothing but air,” he said dismissively.
“What are you doing out here, anyway? Are you lost, my lord? The tour of the grounds is that way.”
He smirked, still drinking in every inch of her with his soulful gaze. “‘Lost’ is not quite the word I would choose, my lady.”
“I am no lady,” she said with an arch smile.
“For my sake, I hope not,” he replied. “You look familiar.” He studied her face so intently that she blushed. “We have met before, have we not?”
“I grew up in the castle,” she allowed.
“You were the little girl who used to chase me all over this place,” he said. “As I recall, you caught me quite a few times.”
“Did I now? You must have been a slow runner.”
“Perhaps I wanted to be caught—that was the game, after all, wasn’t it? Catch and kiss?” he said.
“Was it?” she asked coolly.
“Ah, the games children play,” he said, his smile broadening.
“Except we are no longer children, my lord,” she said, shaking her head.
“No,” he agreed. “Indeed, we are not. You are a sorceress now. I remember; you are the Merlin’s daughter. Aelwyn.” Her name on his tongue gave her another secret thrill. He remembered her. Did he remember any more from their past? Catch and kiss. They had chased each other down these same hallways. It all came back to her suddenly. Fourteen-year-old Leopold, young and breathless, with his lips on hers. They had kissed right in this hallway. From the smile on his face, it looked as if he did remember.
“And you are soon to be our king.”
“Not just yet,” he said with a wave of his hand, as if to sweep it away.
“Yes, I suppose you are right. You are not yet crowned, and I am still an acolyte.”
He put a hand on his cheek. “A sorcerer’s apprentice; a wyrd woman,” he teased, as if finding it all so incredibly amusing. “My brother told me there are secret passageways all over St. James, leading from the roof to the dungeons. Funny that I never knew of them during the time I was here, and I have always been curious about the history of this castle. Would you care to discover them with me?”
Would she care to? She could see it now: taking him around, showing him the hidden passageways she knew so well. She and Marie had discovered them as children and
the princess must have shared them with Wolf while Aelwyn was entertaining his older brother. Aelwyn imagined she and Leo reconnecting again, reminiscing about their shared childhood, laughing at his witticisms; perhaps even making plans to meet again; perhaps even renewing that little game they had liked to play, catch and kiss.
Leopold of Prussia. So young and handsome, a boy who had everything and everyone he’d ever wanted delivered to him on a plate. When had he ever waited for anything? Even the empire had succumbed to his charms. The queen did not want to risk losing another battle, was tired of losing soldiers and public support, and so had offered up her daughter as a bride—the richest gift yet.
If she went with him now, Aelwyn knew that before long, she would be just another conquest; another notch on the royal bedpost. One more name written on a scrap of paper, crumpled and discarded. Not to mention, he was supposed to be the intended bridegroom of her best friend—although Marie had made it abundantly clear she had absolutely no interest in marrying him, and possibly even despised him.
“Well?” he asked. “Shall we, then?”
Before she could answer, there was the sound of another girl calling his name. “Leo, darling?” There was a distinct French lilt to the voice, and Aelwyn remembered that the French girl, the faux-phine, the would-be princess, was supposed to arrive today. Leo’s engagement to Marie-Victoria could not be announced until his former alliance was dissolved.
“Someone’s calling you,” Aelwyn murmured. “The south wing is that way, my lord, and the hidden passageways are easy to access. Perhaps Princess Marie can show you sometime. She knows them as well as I.”
“Ah.” Leo nodded. The electric charge between them faded.
“Good-bye, my lord. I’m sorry I cannot help you.” The rules of the land said the mages were to remain invisible; that their power was reflected through their sovereign’s rule.
The bonded sisters served in silence.
But at that moment, as Leo walked away from her, Aelwyn wanted nothing more than to live out loud.
“Leo! I was calling for you—I was waiting for you in the east parlor. They said you were to meet me there.” Isabelle pouted. She knew she looked pretty when she pouted, and so she pouted often. That he had ignored her call was just the latest annoyance in a long string of annoyances that afternoon. It had taken longer than she had anticipated to travel to London; it was a journey hampered by broken carriage wheels, dubious fare and boarding at a slew of roadside inns, and the knowledge that once she arrived at her destination she would have to relinquish her dreams of love and hope.
She was settled for the season in an apartment at a grand house in Mayfair, and while it was one of the most fashionable addresses, she had found the staff wanting. Isabelle had spent the morning haranguing her maid about her hair—she was certain the girl was conspiring against her by turning her fringe into a row of stiff ringlets more appropriate for a poodle. Isabelle had yanked the curling iron from the hapless servant’s hand and taken care of it herself, cursing her family’s lack of beauty mages. She wanted to look as dazzling as possible for their meeting.
But Leo seemed distracted when she saw him. He didn’t seem to notice her Cupid’s bow of a mouth, painted exquisitely so that it was as red as a ripe berry, or the beauty mark she had filled in on her left cheek. Her hair was an architectural creation, a riot of soft dark curls, and her maid had been useful at last—cinching her corset as tightly as possible, giving her that elusive fifteen-inch waist. She couldn’t breathe and was terribly uncomfortable, but no matter. She had chosen to wear her dress in the French style, with the exaggerated low neckline and powdered bosom thought too daring for the British sensibilities. Isabelle was set on looking as exotic, foreign, and French as she could—to remind these peasants and usurpers that she was the rightful Queen of France. The Lily Throne belonged to her, Isabelle of Valois, Isabelle of Orleans—she still carried the titles bestowed on the French royal family—the French heir to the throne, not this ugly, ancient crone or her horse-faced daughter.
She cleared her throat, and Leo turned to her as if noticing her for the first time. “Ah! Lady Orleans,” he said. “How are you?” His tone was vague, though, and he looked as if his mind were still stationed elsewhere.
“Terrible,” she said with a dramatic whisper. “But you should know that!” With his usual awful timing, her cousin rounded the corner. Hugh looked irritated, and she knew he was impatient to get on with the program. Isabelle had purposefully wandered away from him when they had arrived at the palace earlier, so that she could meet Leo and convince him no empire was worth the loss of her love forever. After he failed to show up, she had decided to look for him.
“My lord.” Hugh nodded his greeting to Leo.
“Burgundy.” Leo nodded as they shook hands vigorously.
“I will give Isabelle her moment, as you cannot fail to observe she has dressed for it,” he said, with his usual leer. “Isabelle, they are waiting for us in the second drawing room. I think you know the way.”
They were silent after Hugh left. Isabelle reached out with her hand and touched his cheek where the wound was still healing. “Does it hurt?” she asked sorrowfully.
He shook his head no.
“I wish you were hurt. If you had not won the battle, then we would not be here today,” she whispered.
Her words shook him out of his daze and his eyes focused on her, as if seeing her for the first time. “Today? What is today? Oh, that’s right—my dear Isabelle, of course—you are here to sign the papers.”
“Oh, Leo,” she cried. “I can’t let you go!”
“My little French nightingale, this is not good-bye. Far from it. You will be with me always,” he said. “After today, we will never be separated from each other again.”
“Truly?” she asked with a rapturous look on her face. It was exactly what she wanted to hear.
“Do you doubt me?” he asked.
“Of course not, my darling. I will not sign the papers this afternoon. I will not release you,” she said, feeling brave and determined.
“No, my dear,” he said, the smile fading from his face. “You must sign them. Sign whatever Eleanor demands. Our future depends on it.”
“Our future?” she asked, her eyes bright.
“Yes, our future,” he said. “You must sign the papers so that the treaty is not called into question.”
“But—!” she tried to protest.
“Meet me tonight,” he whispered, his breath on her skin making her shiver in delight. “I am in the south wing, the third room to the right under the portrait of Henry the Second. Take care that you are not seen; use the stairway from the servants’ quarters. My man will let you in with the usual code.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, it must be tonight. But first, you must sign the papers, so that we will never be separated.”
They were going to elope tonight! That’s what he was telling her. He was asking her to pretend that she was here to make peace, as he was. But in reality, he was planning to take her away—from St. James, from Orleans, from Hugh and his disgusting attentions on her. Leo was her savior, the only boy she could trust; the only one who loved her.
“Never,” she said. “We can never be separated.”
“Ma belle. Ma chérie, you will always be at my side,” he said. It was what he had called her in February, when they had first fallen in love—when they’d first met. He began to kiss her, and wrapped his arms around her body, holding her so tightly that she was pressed against him. The heat of his body on hers was wonderfully familiar.
“My dearest love,” she breathed, and she moaned as he pressed his lips against her cheek, finding her lips, her neck, her collarbone.
Leo’s kisses turned harder, more passionate—he was biting her—and she gasped, for it hurt. She had wanted him to respond, but not like this…in public where anyone could see.…
“Leo! Stop! Not here!” she said, as his hands groped her body in a
fever. “Please!”
He was panting. “Tonight, then. Promise me you will meet me tonight.”
“Tonight,” she whispered. “Yes.”
“For our future,” he said, with one last kiss. Then he released her and disappeared down the hall.
Isabelle clutched a hand to her neck, where he had left a red love mark. She looked frantically for something to hide it with, and decided upon her handkerchief, unfolding it from her pocket. She was terrified and elated. Leo was the same as ever, devoted and passionate. She would sign the annulment. She would do as she was told. For him. For them.
Our future, he’d promised.
They were leaving tonight; they were going to be together forever. He’d promised. She wrapped the hankie around her neck, feeling jaunty, triumphant. She had not lost anything. The princess could think she was marrying the prince, but Isabelle was secure in the knowledge that she had won his heart.
“Hold your head up—yes, that’s good, very nice, Princess—a little higher—one step, two step, and slide to the right with me.”
Marie slid as her dance instructor had taught her, but her foot caught in his shoe and she fumbled. “I’m sorry, I just…I can’t.”
The flamboyantly named Pierre La Fontaine was a man of infinite patience and outrageous wardrobe, but by late that afternoon the brightly colored feathers on his amazing velvet jacket were beginning to droop. “Your Highness, it is simply a matter of finding the rhythm and counting in your head.”
“I’m so tired. Can we try again tomorrow?” she asked. They were standing in the middle of the ballroom, with the full orchestra playing the Lovers’ Waltz, the dance that would open the royal ball. The party would be held at the Crystal Palace, but the main ballroom served as an adequate rehearsal space. Members of the court were standing at a respectful distance, watching the proceedings as they always did, and probably making fun of her graceless dancing under their breath.
Aelwyn walked up to the two of them. She had been borrowed from the sisterhood that day, as she was the sorceress in charge of the princess’s wardrobe and social preparations for the season. Marie shot her a glance, begging her to help. “Can I have a word with the princess?” Aelwyn asked.