“Most effective,” I murmured.
“Dazzling,” he said, brushing his mouth over my fingers.
“Yes, if you don’t mind, I think we really could get on,” said Maximilian, not troubling to conceal his peevishness. He was wearing a costume nearly identical to Stoker’s, only trimmed with quantities of silver braid. The garments suited him, but when compared to Stoker, he seemed a penciled copy of an oil painting, and I did not begrudge him his sulkiness. He was accustomed to being accounted one of the handsomest men in the Alpenwald, and now he had competition.
I smiled at him as graciously as I could as I took his arm. In strict accordance with protocol, I was accompanied by the duke while the chancellor escorted the baroness. Stoker and J. J.—pressed into service for the evening and now changed into a stark and pristine uniform of white and black—brought up the rear. As we made our way down to the lobby, the chancellor explained the arrangements for the evening.
“We will leave from the back entrance,” he said, directing Maximilian. “It is not precisely a secret where we are bound, but neither is it publicized. Discretion is key,” he stressed. “Our hosts have sent a pair of private carriages and we will travel by these conveyances instead of by train.”
The waiting carriages bore no crest or distinguishing marks, but it was apparent that the owner was a person of immense wealth. Every detail was of the highest quality, from the tufted silk of the squabs to the delicate Tudor rose motif on the glass panes of the lamps. The first was just large enough to admit the four of us—the baroness, chancellor, duke, and I—once my train had been folded carefully around me. The baroness and I traveled facing forward with the duke while the chancellor took the center of the opposite seat. Stoker and J. J. were relegated to the second carriage as befitted their station for the night.
The night was clear and cold and the journey took much longer than expected as we bowled briskly away, through the city and into the dark countryside of Berkshire. My aunts and I had moved oftenduring my childhood, exchanging one country village for another very like it, all in a bid to avoid those who might seek out the Prince of Wales’s semi-legitimate child. I had neither known nor appreciated their reasons for uprooting my tender self at the time. Instead, it had been an endless round of beginnings and partings. Most of the hamlets I had forgot, but one stayed fresh in my memory—a tiny settlement in the shadows of Windsor Castle, just beyond the meadows of Runnymede. I remembered the broad fields, lushly green and dotted with the fleecy clouds of sheep grazing on the spring grass. I had fallen from an apple tree there and broken my arm, I recalled. That was when I had received my first butterfly net as a gift from the aunts for my birthday. Enchanted, I had taken it on a long walk, netting my first specimen in the ring net now long replaced by a professional’s. But I had loved that net, loved the feeling of the wind in my hair and the earth under my feet. It was in those meadows, chasing the lazy flap of a lepidopteron, that I had learnt my trade.
And one afternoon, late in the autumn of my twelfth year, I wandered further than usual in pursuit ofCyaniris semiargus, the Mazarine Blue, a pretty little Palearctic butterfly. I hopped over streams and scrambled over stiles as the afternoon drew to a close. The butterfly—a male with delectably blue coloration—eluded me, lifting itself on gossamer wings to freedom. Dejected, I stood for a long moment, collecting my whereabouts. And there it was: just ahead on the horizon. Windsor Castle. I stared up at the castle, the proud stone enormity of it rising above the landscape like something out of myth. The afternoon light lay softly upon it, gilding the cold grey battlements to a glimmering sheen that would have suited King Arthur himself. It was the most glorious thing I had ever seen, and I stood, rooted to the spot like a meadow flower, wondering about the princes and princesses who sheltered within its walls. I knew our queen was Victoria and that she lived there, wrapped in widow’s weeds. Her children must havebeen largely grown by then, but I imagined them still in the nursery, dressed in sailor suits and lawn dresses, attending their lessons and eating milk and bread from porringers marked with a crown. Oh, how I envied them! Not their royalty, I realized with a pang. I envied them each other. I envied the sense of belonging to a family with more brothers and sisters almost than one could count, of knowing a mother’s touch, of a home that stood, resolute and unchanging in the mellow autumn gold of that afternoon.
Little did I realize that I had almost as good a claim upon the place as those who dwelt within its walls, I thought as the carriages bore us out of London into the west. Such were my thoughts, and I was aware of a rising excitement, not at visiting a castle, but at setting foot in what was my family home. My ancestors had built the place, stone by stone, and had lived there, had died there, loved and hated and borne new generations within its walls. And at last, I would come home.
So lost in my own reflections was I that I did not realize we had reached Windsor until the castle loomed above us in all of its grey majesty and I felt a sudden thrust of longing for Stoker. I had told him once, as we lay curled together in the dark, of my memory of the place, of the wrench I felt that afternoon when I returned home to find the aunts had packed us up and were moving us on once more. I never saw the castle again except in memory, and each time I embellished it more, raising the towers a little higher, the battlements a little wider. I fashioned of it a faery castle, and I had confided in Stoker that the frisson of feeling that day in the water meadow had been unlike anything I had experienced before or since. Long after discovering my father’s identity, I recalled that day, and I marveled at my experience, wondering if somehow the memory of my ancestors, deep in my bones and blood, had stirred at the home they had built. It was the sort of thing one could only speak of in the dark, fast in a lover’s arms, safe inthe shelter of his kindness. He had not ridiculed me. There had not been even a hint of a smile in his voice. Only his broad, capable hands, gently stroking my hair as I talked. He would understand what coming to Windsor meant to me.
And there it was, just as I had remembered. Only now it stood against the purple velvet of a winter sky, the windows glowing with lamplight. A river mist had risen, curling softly about the foundation stones of the castle, causing it to look as if it were floating on a cloud.No mere mortals dwell here,it seemed to say.This is a place of grandeur, of royalty, of a thousand years of power, and who are you to dare to come inside?
I shivered and the baroness gave me a concerned look. “Are you cold, my dear?”
“I am fine,” I told her in a hollow voice.
I had a moment to collect myself as the carriage passed under the great gate and drew to a halt in the courtyard. The castle’s footmen came forward to help us alight as the driver steadied the horses. The chancellor and Maximilian, nearest the door, made their exit first. The baroness followed, and I was surprised to find that Stoker had already alighted from his carriage and stood ready to hand me from mine. He paused, giving me just a moment to gather my courage.
“It is time,” he said softly. I rested my hand in his, fixing my gaze upon him, my only anchor in an uncertain world at that moment. He squeezed my hand, so tightly I felt the bones ache, and I clasped his hand in return as I descended in lieu of the words I could not say aloud.
Behind me, the baroness and J. J. gathered my train in their arms, holding it aloft until I moved up the broad stone steps, a river of scarlet carpet flowing down the center. The footmen stood at attention, the buttons of their livery sparking in the torchlight. Maximilian stepped forward and I relinquished my hold on Stoker, leaving my hand on his as long as I dared.
“Ready, poppet?” Maximilian asked, baring his teeth in a smile. I put my hand on his arm and felt the baroness and J. J. lower the train, unfurling it behind me. The weight of it dictated that I move slowly, in a stately walk very unlike my usual energetic gait. At the top of the steps, an official of some sort in a dignified uniform waited for us, bowing respectfully.
“Your Serene Highness,” he pronounced. “Welcome to Windsor Castle. This way, if you please.”
I accepted his greeting with a grave inclination of the head, and Maximilian and I followed as he led the way into the castle proper. A housekeeper came forward to collect J. J., and she gave me a little nod as she followed. I had kept my part of the bargain and got her into the castle. What she did with the opportunity was up to her.
I turned my attention to the dignitary who was keeping up a courteous patter as he escorted us. “Each of our foreign guests has been assigned an English host, a way of making the visit a more cordial and personal one,” he explained. “Your host is waiting here. The others have all arrived, so once you have been introduced, we will proceed directly into dinner.”
We approached a door, heavy oak carved thickly with the motif of oak leaves, and the footman standing outside threw it open. The room was smaller than I expected, a sort of anteroom, I supposed, furnished in serviceable but not grand style. Across the room was a bank of windows, the curtains drawn against the chilly night. A fire burned merrily on the hearth, and in front of it, warming himself, stood a distinguished Englishman in formal evening dress. He turned, a smile of welcome on his lips.
The smile faltered only slightly as the official made the introduction. “Your Serene Highness, may I present your escort for the evening, Sir Rupert Templeton-Vane? Sir Rupert, Her Serene Highness, the Hereditary Princess of the Alpenwald.”
If my heart had stilled at the sight of the castle, that was nothing compared to the reaction when I came face-to-face with Stoker’s elder brother. Sir Rupert, the second of the Templeton-Vane brothers, had, upon occasion, come to our aid. He was the most conventional of the siblings, preferring a life of rectitude and regularity to the flamboyant extravagances of the eldest—Tiberius—or the cheerful mischief of the youngest, Merryweather. The fact that he and Stoker seldom saw eye to eye was no great mystery. They were as alike as chalk and cheese, they claimed. And yet. From time to time, I caught a glimpse of the daring and dash that ran like wildfire through the Templeton-Vanes behind the façade of correctness.
From behind me, I heard Stoker’s muffled curse and I went forward, extending my hand to Rupert. “How do you do, Sir Rupert?”
Rupert bowed over my hand, pressing his lips to the gloved fingers. “How doyoudo, Your Serene Highness?”
Without rising, he lifted his dark gaze to mine. I gave an imperceptible shake of the head and he straightened.
“May I present the rest of my entourage?” I said, launching into introductions. Maximilian looked bored whilst the baroness and chancellor were polite.
“How very kind of you to welcome us,” I said, infusing my words with a trace of a German accent.
“Not at all, madame. There are few things in life I enjoy more than a partner at dinner whose conversation is certain to entertain,” he said, his mouth twitching.
The castle usher made a discreet gesture and Rupert extended his arm. “Shall we go in?”
