“I sense a hint of rebellion in the curve of your cheek, my dear; and we must show utmost deference to the Crown. Again.”
Ronan nodded and curtsied again, deeper this time—so low that she felt the backs of her thighs burn with the effort.
When her mother was satisfied with her performance, she crossed the room to stand next to her daughter. She turned Ronan’s face toward the Venetian gold gilt mirror, one of the last antiques left. Bits’s hands were as delicate as a child’s, but her grip on Ronan’s chin was like steel. She turned it to the right, then the left, examining her daughter’s profile, and finally brought it straight back to face the mirror.
“My lovely girl.” Bits smiled.
Ronan looked at what her mother saw. Her otherworldly, celebrated beauty: the porcelain skin, luminescent and pearly; the high sweep of her forehead; a thin, sculpted nose; sharp cheekbones; her pink pout, a proper rosebud, ripe for the plucking. Her long golden tresses, finer than silk, fell on her shoulders loose and wanton; she had been impatient with her governess that morning, and had pulled away when Vera had tried to braid her hair and put it up properly.
“You look exactly like me at your age; thank goodness for that. A consummate New York blonde, as they like to say,” her mother said with satisfaction. “This is your fate. These are your riches. This face will win you a prince; take my word for it. You are an Astor of New York. You should do no worse, as you have much more than I started with.”
Ronan flushed. She looked at her face and her mother’s closely in the mirror. They were like twin images, except for the very faint lines around her mother’s eyes, the faded color in her thinner cheeks.
She knew all of this already, of course. She would choose one of those awful boys from the photographs and make him fall in love with her. And then she would find a way to make this estate matter again. The port town was booming, and New York City was being compared to the great capitals. If the Astors managed to get some enchanters at their service, they might be able to shape their fortunes and their future.
Her mother’s face, and her father’s name—her parents thought that was all there was to her, and maybe they were right. She would be married at the end of the London Season—and she determined right then and there that she would make not just a good match, but the best match; perhaps even catch the eye of the Kronprinz of Prussia himself. She had studied his portrait in the book with the greatest care, and had found much to admire in his noble profile. It was said that the Prussians had used a Pandora’s Box during the final battle, which had brought the queen’s army to its knees and ended the war. With a weapon of such magnitude, one could rule the world.
Ronan was nothing if not ambitious.
“WOLF! WOLF! WOLF! WOLF!” The roar of his name made him euphoric as the crowd surged forward, lifting him into the air. He raised a bloody hand to the ceiling. His vision was clouded by sweat and blood, his mouth full of red, his eyes bleeding red, so that everything was red—from the faces of the spectators to the shadows in the dark room. It wasn’t even a room, but a space in the bowels of an empty abandoned building by the harbor, once reserved for the coal stocks that powered the boiler. The ground beneath his feet was made of hard dirt, and soot covered every surface. The room was so dark that the gas lamps made the shadows deeper, the hollows blacker. This is a tomb, Wolf thought, a crypt.
The crowd, made up mostly of day laborers and off-duty soldiers, hard men with stony faces, pressed against him, cheering his name.
Victory. He had bested the fiercest fighter in the city—a soldier in the queen’s army, built like a fortress, who’d crumbled like a burnt and broken tower. “WOLF! WOLF! WOLF! WOLF!” They called him the Beast of Berlin, the Animal of the Black Forest, Lobo Loco in Spain, Le Loup Fou in Montreal; and tonight in New York City, he was the Mad Dog of the East. While he was no hero of Lamac, no soldier, no knight, he was still a winner.
“Wolf!” One cold, disapproving voice stood out in the crowd, cutting through the noise. “WOLFGANG FRIEDRICH JOACHIM VON HOHENZOLLEM!”
“Bollocks,” Wolf cursed. The fun was over. He waded above the crowd, touching feet and palms to hands and shoulders and backs as he rode the tide toward the door, his winnings in his pockets. His breeches were torn at the knees, his shirt shredded. He tumbled to the ground at the feet of his closest friend, his advisor, his minder, his mentor; the one who had taught him how to fight, how to stop a man’s heart with his hands. An old man, who crouched down low and lifted him up by his ear.
“Ow, ow, ow!” Wolf said, batting Oswald’s hand away. “Leave me alone, Oz. I’ve taken enough of a beating tonight.” He winced; he had taken a few good hits from the Brooklyn giant. His back and shoulders throbbed, and he couldn’t open his right eye. He would have swooned and fallen, but he had too much pride. Thankfully, Oswald put his arm around him to steady him as they left.
“Your father would have my head if he found out about this, and your brother will be far from pleased,” the old man scolded.
“Hang my brother,” Wolf said, spitting out a tooth. A back one, thank Merlin, he thought, fishing in his mouth with his fingers, grateful that it wasn’t one of the front teeth so it wouldn’t show when he smiled. Messed-up chops didn’t go far with the ladies. He took a long, loud sip from his flask, felt the liquor burn his throat, and smoothed his dark hair away from his head, knowing it looked better that way. “You won’t tell Father; I know you, Oz. You’re all bark and no bite, unlike me,” he said with a golden smile that gave charm a new name.
Oswald didn’t answer as he helped the young prince into his dark jacket. They boarded a waiting carriage that would take them back to their hotel. Once they were in the privacy of the plush, velvet-lined box, he spoke freely. “I suppose not, but the rumors will catch up with him one day. When His Majesty finds out the ‘Beast of Berlin’ is actually his younger son, you’d better hope we’re all very far from the capital.” He grimaced as he handed his ward a clean handkerchief. “You’re bleeding.”
“Just a trickle,” Wolf said, taking it and pressing it against his eye. “Nothing permanent, don’t worry. All damage is temporary.”
“You’re lucky. We have a month to get to London, so your bruises should be healed by then, and your face back to its rightful shape. You’re sure about the eye? We can have Von Strasser look at it tonight.”
Wolf waved the suggestion away. “Let the doctor sleep. It’ll open in the morning. This is nothing compared to what they did to me in Boston. They had a real gladiator there—you should have seen the arms on the man. Tree trunks! No, tree trunks are smaller. So, we’re off to the enemy’s lair, are we?”
“Hardly an enemy, more like your new family,” Oswald sniffed.
“Right. Leo’s to marry the princess now, isn’t he? That was one of the terms of the peace treaty.”
“After all the papers have been arranged, yes.”
“Poor Isabelle. She can’t be happy about it. She’s been looking forward to her wedding since February.”
“Her happiness is irrelevant.”
“Of course. Although Marie can’t be thrilled either. She’s never liked Leo very much,” Wolf said. Smart little Marie, with her wan face and kind smile. He hadn’t seen her in years, since relations between their kingdoms had gone south. He missed her warm and easy friendship. Marie had always been such a sensible girl, the only one apart from him who understood what it meant to be royalty, and the uselessness that came with privilege. The Prussian kingdom was run by its ministers, the empire by the Merlin. Whoever said “uneasy lies the head that wears the crown” knew of what he spoke. It was a pity that her hand and happiness were the price the empire would have to pay for peace with Prussia. She and Leo would be miserable together; a more ill-advised match could not be proposed between two more different people. But it wasn’t as if his father had married their mother for love, either. For that, his lord father had his mistresses. This was how it was for the heirs and heiresses of this world: trapped by their families, by their titles. Duty. Family. Royalty. Side dish.
The King of Prussia had forbidden his younger son to fight in the war, arguing that the country needed him safe in case anything happened to Leo. But Wolf became a fighter anyway. There were underground sparring clubs in every city. The staff usually knew where they were located, fond as they were of wagers. The first time he had done it, he’d been fourteen, and ruthless even then—trained by Duncan Oswald, his father’s master-at-arms. He’d been itching to show off what he’d learned. In the ring there were no rules, no restrictions. During a fight, it didn’t matter if he was a prince or a peasant; he was the same as any other man. In his eighteen years, he had never felt better than when he discovered he could fight, and fight well.
“So, what does that have to do with me? Why do I have to go?” He already knew the answer, but he felt petulant, small, and complaining—the opposite of being a man. But then, what kind of title was “prince” anyway? It was an embarrassing one. It spoke of lace collars and tufted pillows, like the one his sore behind was comfortably seated on now.