She dressed quickly in a long-sleeved silk blouse in a becoming shade of amethyst—a color she wore often because of her eyes—then neatly tucked it into her slacks and rolled up the sleeves for coolness, since the day promised to be warm. She considered doing something with her long hair, then shrugged and left it unbound but slid a clip into her purse—she could always twist her hair up later if it got too hot. She settled on comfortable walking shoes, then slipped away down the long hallway before most of the palace’s residents were stirring.
Priceless objets d’art were on display everywhere—in glass cases as well as out in the open. And masterpieces by Rembrandt, Titian, Botticelli and a host of other famous painters hung in splendor from the walls she passed—paintings she remembered from the four years she’d been a constant visitor to the palace. She and Mara, Andre’s sister, had been only a year apart in age. They’d attended the same private school and had been best friends for those four years—losing Mara’s friendship had caused Juliana nearly as much heartache as losing Andre.
You didn’t lose Andre, she reminded herself sternly. He was never yours to lose.
The guards were on duty, of course, but their job was to keep people out, not keep them in, so they didn’t say anything to Juliana as she approached, just opened the massive doors for her so she could walk through. Then the guards on the gate did the same thing.
Once outside, Juliana took her time, wending her way through the narrow streets she remembered so well. Little had changed in Drago in eleven years. There was still that sense of walking in a sixteenth-century fairy-tale city, albeit one with strict sanitation rules that a real sixteenth-century city wouldn’t have had. She chuckled to herself. Drago embodied the best of both worlds—she hadn’t forgotten, not really—but she hadn’t let herself remember because memories of Drago were all tied up with memories of Andre.
Juliana stopped for breakfast at a small café not too far from the royal cemetery—her eventual goal—and was glad to find the café she remembered was still there and hadn’t made way for progress. She sat outside at one of the tiny tables and ordered coffee and a croissant. The square slowly came to life around her, and Juliana watched, enjoying the good memories it brought back.
When her breakfast arrived she thanked her smiling waitress in Zakharan and was rewarded with an even bigger smile. She knew the waitress recognized her as Juliana Richardson, but somehow it was different here in Drago, and her few words in the native language—rusty or not—carried more importance than her international fame. It would have been impossible for her to go most places by herself in the United States, but here in Drago she was relatively safe on her own. She’d known that even before she’d started out this morning. There were paparazzi here to be on guard against, just as anywhere in the world, but the average Zakharian citizen would respect her right to privacy.
Juliana continued to watch the activity in the square, remembering when Andre had brought Mara and her here on school holidays. Remembering feeling so honored to be with him. The citizens of Drago had loved their approachable, down-to-earth prince, and Andre had always lived up to their ideals.
He’d treated Juliana with the same gentle kindness he showed his own sister—teasing her gently, listening to her inchoate hopes and dreams, giving her advice on everything from her schoolwork, to horseback riding, to hiking the mountains around Drago, to the Zakharian boys who asked her out, including his own cousin Niko.
Until the summer before she left Zakhar to return to the United States to start college. Until one unforgettable night...
Juliana’s smile faded. That time in her life seemed so far away now, as distant from her as the emotions she refused to let herself feel...except when she was acting. That was different. When she was acting she could let her emotions run the gamut. Maybe that was why the critics loved her performances—all her pent-up emotions were allowed free rein. Joy and sorrow. Passion and pain. And agony. No one, the critics claimed, could portray agony the way Juliana could. Agony was easy. All she had to do was think of Andre.
She drank the last of her coffee and refused a refill, but she wasn’t ready to leave, not quite yet. Tomorrow was the deathbed scene, and though she didn’t really want to, she needed to visit the lovers’ tomb in the royal cemetery. Needed to remember the story as Andre had related it to her when she was a young, impressionable teenager. Needed to remember how she’d understood Eleonora’s actions that long-ago day, when the husband she loved more than life itself lay dying. She just wasn’t quite ready for it, although she didn’t want to acknowledge what that reluctance meant.