“Well, she is a little…opinionated,” he said.
“Opinionated? You mean she’s a bit dramatic? A loudmouth?” Isabelle laughed. “Sounds like someone I know.”
Louis-Philippe looked at her with such a hopeful expression that she felt a flutter in her heart. He couldn’t possibly? Louis-Philippe? In love with her? Jug Ears, as Hugh always called him? Although his ears were the right size now, and he was not so little anymore—he had grown up so tall—but he was just a boy, really. Even if he believed he was in love with her, it was nothing but boyish infatuation, surely. She shook it from her mind. It was too much, too soon, after Leopold. She could still feel his cold hands groping her. The last thing she wanted to think about right now was anything to do with boys. She wanted to be as far away from them as possible—even from Louis, who really didn’t count as a boy at all.
“Oh, well, forget about her then. Did you see the American girl? The one who is shining like a diamond? They say she is very, very rich. Find her dance card. See if you can win her heart and her money—we need it!” She pushed him away, almost the same way she had pushed Leo earlier.
Isabelle just wanted to sit down. She had had quite enough of boys for the day.
It was time. The princess’s grand entrance. The guests had been presented at court; the party was in full swing. Dinner had been served long ago, and it was time for the ball to officially begin. People needed to dance; they were itching to dance. Gentlemen milled by the sidelines, waiting. Girls new to society couldn’t wait to show off the steps they had practiced. The queen on the podium looked like she wanted to go to bed already, she was yawning so much. But still the ball had not yet opened, as the princess had not yet appeared. A few, however, had caught glimpses of the prince—clasping hands here and bowing to guests there, his fine blond head shining like a beacon in the middle of the dark room.
It happened slowly and all at once. First the lights dimmed, then the orchestra stopped playing. In the middle of the Crystal Palace, a small blue fire began to grow. It started as a tiny spark and grew into a ball of flame, as tall as a hedge, now tall as a tree, beautiful and sharp as a phoenix. It grew until it filled the entire room, this strange and beautiful blue light—grew so large, it dispersed among the crowd, covering each and every guest, from royal to aristocrat to servant alike in its strange blue light. Until all at once, it snapped back to the center, intense and blinding, and burst with a huge thunderclap—the sound of the sky breaking open, of the world splitting apart—and then just as suddenly disappeared, sending the room into total darkness, having swallowed every light in the Crystal Palace. When the lights flickered back on, in the middle of the room stood a girl.…
Her Royal Highness, Princess Marie-Victoria Grace Eleanor Aquitaine, Dauphine of Viennois, Princess of Wales.
Her dress was the same color as the blue fire. It was made of a thousand tiny blue feathers, a wave that moved with a graceful ripple across her bodice and skirt. And then the dress exploded, and a hundred blue birds flapped away from her dress up toward the ceiling, through the hole in the roof to the sky. There she stood, their princess, her bare shoulders creamy against a blue dress made of midnight satin. Her only jewelry was a small circlet of diamonds on the coronet, entwined with stones representing England and France in her hair.
She was absolutely breathtaking. No one had ever seen her look so beautiful; she was so much taller, her hair darker, her eyes brighter—she was made of light and magic. She was the most dazzling creature in the history of the monarchy. Her entrance would be recounted in history books for years to come, marveled over, picked apart, every detail of her dress obsessed over by millions of young girls all over the empire.
The silence was broken by a hoarse cheer from the back of the room, soon taken up by every guest, hooting and hollering and yelling their lungs out: a jaded court brought back to life by the sight of their beautiful, healthy princess. She was no longer an invalid, no longer ailing; she was an evening star sent down from the heavens. Her beauty and magnetic presence eclipsed every girl in the room. No one remembered Isabelle of Burgundy, or remarked upon Ronan Astor of New York; all eyes in the room were on Marie-Victoria of England and France.
The crowd continued to roar—for a moment it appeared they might mob the princess, so great was their intense passion and patriotism—but when the Merlin held his hand up for silence, the crowd instantly quieted. The show was not yet over. It was time for the prince to make his appearance.
Leopold walked out of the shadows. No fancy magic for him: no blue light, no soaring birds. He did not need any. He simply walked in, tall and handsome as ever; he was dressed in his Prussian gray and reds, his smile as bright as his hair. The crowd stirred in breathless anticipation as he bowed to Marie-Victoria. She curtsied to him. He took her hand, and the orchestra played the first strains of the Lovers’ Waltz. There was no announcement from the herald. None was needed to present the future King and Queen of the Holy Franco-British-Prussian Empire.
The Merlin smiled. With that came clapping, cheering, and whistling as the room exploded in joy. They had never seen a couple so enchanting, or so enchanted; their love was pure magic.
Only if one looked very, very closely would one notice the prince had a red mark on his cheek. As if someone had kissed or slapped him just a few moments before, the real Marie-Victoria thought as she watched the performance intently through Aelwyn’s crystal glass.
“Are you sure you don’t wish you were out there with him?” Gill asked, his voice in her ear, his strong arms around her waist.
She shook her head and leaned back, so that her head rested underneath his chin. “No. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
They continued to watch the ball unfold through the magic glass. Viviane’s crystal allowed them to hear and see everything. One by one—courtiers, lords and ladies, the great and the good, the beautiful and the damned—all joined the royal couple on the dance floor. The princess down below was perfectly executing the steps to the Lovers’ Waltz. She was as graceful as a prima b
allerina; she was beauty incarnate. Her prince looked absolutely besotted with her.
“See, she has fooled everyone. We will be safe,” Marie said. “Aelwyn’s magic is formidable. No one will see through the illusion.”
“She wouldn’t have fooled me,” Gill said. “That girl is nothing compared to you.”
She smiled and nuzzled his chin in reply.
“I wish we could go now,” he said. “Tonight. I wish I could take you away from all of this forever.”
“I do too,” she sighed. “If only we could go now.” They had agreed they needed to escape as soon as possible. Gill wanted them to go abroad, to the American provinces. There they could blend in as new immigrants, and make a new life for themselves away from the empire. But passage would be expensive, and Gill’s salary from the Queen’s Guard was but a pittance. He was going to try to borrow money from a friend or two. Marie could not help with this. She might be the princess of the realm, but she had no access to any of their wealth. She never carried coin or gold—never needed it—and she was loath to take the jewels and heirlooms of the house to sell or barter. She was adamant that they remain with House Aquitaine; they were not hers to take. When it came down to it, she owned very little.
Marie tried not to worry about taking such a long journey, with the state of her health being what it was. Besides, she had been feeling better since deciding to leave with Gill. She was worried about Aelwyn, however, who would bear the burden of their deception by remaining.
There was also the problem of getting past the wards on the back gates, which were heavily fortified and spell-cast to keep the royal family safe. They would need a spell-key to unlock it, and the spell-keys were kept by the Merlin’s order.
Tonight was the first test—to see if Aelwyn’s magic could fool a crowd, fool a prince. If she was successful, Aelwyn would tell the sisterhood that she had chosen to return to Avalon. In truth, she would take on Marie-Victoria’s visage for good. Slowly, the spell would merge her own features with Marie’s until, little by little, it would reveal her own. The people would not remember that their princess had once been pale and plain; they would have always known her to be beautiful and vibrant. Aelwyn would marry Leo, taking ring and crown in one fell swoop, and leaving Marie-Victoria with her wished-for cottage by the sea.
There were pitfalls, of course—the eagle-eyed Merlin, for one, and Eleanor for another. If they caught a whiff of the deception—Marie shuddered to think what they’d do to the two girls. It was treason, what they were planning—a betrayal of the highest order—a dark and terrible magic that would corrupt the very foundation of the empire. No matter how light and pure their intentions were, it was a perversion of the natural order of things. It would mean the Aquitaine bloodline would not continue—the victory Henry had won on the bloody fields of Orleans would be for naught. The treaty the Merlin had crafted to ensure no mage would ever rule—a treaty that protected magic and non-magic alike—would be nullified.
Hell, as they say, would break loose.
To give up an empire for personal happiness was madness, but Marie had never wanted to rule—had never wanted to be queen—had never truly believed she would inherit the crown. She had always felt lesser, unworthy, too small and insignificant for so large a role. All she wanted was to be happy. Although, perhaps if she was being completely honest, Marie would admit that she did feel a little twinge of sadness and jealousy when she saw Aelwyn in all her finery down there, reveling in the love and appreciation of her people. Marie herself would not have chosen a blue column of fire to mark her appearance. No, that was pure Aelwyn: drama, magic, the unknowable mystery of Avalon. Marie would have chosen something simpler to announce herself: perhaps a crown of flowers on her head would have been her only jewel for a public appearance.