“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.