“Ah, the magic weapon,” Bartholomew called to the traveling case.
“Youare the magic weapon, Bart,” corrected Killian. “You.Not my suits. It’s a delicate thing—playing valet to a long-lost prince, returned from the dead—but I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t think you could do it. You’ll need to be observant and discreet and prepared for anything. Or nothing. Whatever Gabriel may need. Or doesn’t need. We cannot send Elise, because she’s too overbearing and like a mother hen. I would go myself except,I don’t want to go.”
“You would go yourself,” corrected Elise, “except Gabriel must direct this on his own, as he sees fit. It’s not our place. We’ve done enough—we’ve donetoomuch. Me, overbearing? As if you’ve not manipulated them from the start.” She shook her head at her husband.
“Perhaps I have done.” Killian sighed. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. Which is why Bart is the perfect man to finish the job. He’s never worked as a palace fixer. He’s not too old, not too young; sweet and helpful and quick with chocolate.”
“Sweet?” groused Bartholomew. “I am not sweet.”
“You’re very sweet,” Elise said, sailing past him and plucking Sofie from his leg. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
“I’ve only agreed to this because it’s a chance to see Guernsey.Andit’s so very close to the start of my school term. If I’m detained, I’ll miss the first week of classes.”
“You willnotmiss the start of the school term,” lectured Killian. “You will deliver the maid Agnes, you will support Gabriel as needed, and vanish when you are not needed. We’re sending you to be a nonintrusive, nonthreatening, friendly face—and to deliver a fresh set of clothes and the maid who can make them fit. Follow Marie’s lead, she’ll strike the correct balance.”
“Follow my lead, Bartholomew!” called little Marie, climbing inside his traveling case.
“Not you, darling,” said Elise, pulling her out. “Sister Marie, your namesake. You must stay here with Maman and Papa and your sisters and Nanny.”
“But Nanny is—”
“Wait,” said Killian, “don’t tell me. Let me guess.”
“Suffering from a toothache,” suggested Bartholomew.
“Has a papercut,” said Killian.
“A spider bite,” said Bart.
The girls began to laugh. Elise crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “Stop.”
“Has gotten her bun caught in the headboard,” said Killian.
“Has seen a ghost,” said Bart.
“Is plagued by a nosebleed,” said Killian.
“I mean it,” threatened Elise.
“One more,” hooted Bartholomew. He narrowed his eyes, thinking.“Has discovered she’s really a French princess.”
“Careful,” said Killian, “that one could actually happen.”
“They could all actually happen,” said Bart. “Poor Nanny.”
“Ready?” asked Sister Marie, folding the map.
“If someone will fetch Agnes,” Bart said, buckling his case.
“I’ll get her,” said Elise. “She’s cowering in the servants’ kitchens. She’s confused and frightened, so be gentle with her. I think she would refuse to go along if she weren’t so desperate to get home.”
“We can go without her,” said Bart. “You think I can’t wrestle Gabriel into Killian’s clothes? Let her come by mail coach at her own pace.”
“No,” said Elise. “He must look as fine and tailored and fitted as he possibly can.Ifhe’ll consent toa transformation. Being royal is ninety-five percent wardrobe.”
“Ninety-five percent,” said Bartholomew on a whistle. He glanced at his uncle.
Killian shrugged. “She’s not wrong.”
