“I know.”
“Then?”
The young prince’s brow knotted, and he clutched the side of the carriage door. “It’s like she vanished completely, as if she never existed. No one knows who she is, and no one’s ever seen her before.”
“It is strange that she will not come forward,” Genevieve allowed. “You said she didn’t know you were the prince?”
Charles thought back to that night, remembering how—moments before she took off—she’d exclaimed that she hadn’t met the prince. “Yes, and she vanished soon after I tried to tell her.”
“I’m sure she knows by now.” Genevieve reopened her fan and batted it at herself. “Perhaps weshouldhave another ball.”
“Please, Aunt Genevieve, be serious.”
“I do not usually enjoy such spectacles myself. Heaven knows they’re a tremendous waste of money and time.” She paused. “But sometimes your father does have a spark of wisdom in him. The last ball was open to every eligible maiden in the kingdom. Do you understand the importance of that, Charles?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” he admitted. “Not until recently.”
“Ferdinand must not have been pleased about that, I can assure you. The villagers have few opportunities to mingle with nobility. Men like Ferdinand do not allow it.” She let out a resigned sigh. “Another ball may well be the solution. Maybe your girl will make another appearance.”
“I doubt it. I fear she’s vanished for good.”
“People don’t just vanish,” said the duchess. “Mark my words, if she has any sense in her at all, she’ll be at the ball. And ifyouhave any sense in you at all, you should make sure she’s the right one for you, not just because she fits a silly slipper. We’ll make it a masquerade.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following. Why a masquerade?”
Genevieve clasped her hands. “Because, my dear nephew, even if this girl is as wonderful and kind and beautiful as you say, I want you to be sure you’re in love with her and not a pretty face. What do you say?”
“What choice do I have?” said the prince with a sigh. But he managed a smile at his aunt. “My father did always say you were wiser than he.”
“Did he now?” Genevieve said with a twinkle in her eye. “That just may be the smartest thing he’s ever said. I’ll be sure to remind him of it.”
She opened the window of the carriage to wave outside at the people. “Besides, your father hasn’t officially welcomed me back to court. He owes me a party.”
“Won’t he be suspicious, given you hate parties, Aunt Genevieve?”
“I wouldn’t count on your father remembering that. In any case, it would be nice to be presented before the court again, to remind my old enemies that I’m still well and alive.”
Bemused, Charles shook his head at his aunt. “Then I’ll do it. But only to welcome you to the kingdom. It’s been so many years since I’ve seen you.”
“Oh, good. It’s rather gauche to suggest a ball be held in one’s honor, but I’ll have a word with your father. I used to be quite good at making him think my ideas were his own. You’ll see. That girl of yours will be there, too—I’m sure of it.”
Charles hoped she was right.
The duchess had instructed her to be back before lunch, so Cinderella walked briskly, making for the Royal Library.
She’d visited a few times now, but always to acquire books for the duchess; she’d never gone for herself.
The library was in the southern wing of the palace, at the end of a long hall that displayed not only paintings but also an eclectic collection of royal art: porcelain vases, sculptures of birds and trees, finely woven tapestries, jeweled trinkets.
She wandered down the corridor, skimming the paintings on the walls. There were plenty of the king and the late queen, and far too many of a man who looked like an older version of the Grand Duke—the current duke’s father, she presumed. Most of his portraits looked newer than the others, as if they’d been planted on the walls to replace what had been there before.
She soon came across a portrait of a young, unsmiling Prince Charles, mounted on a magnificent stallion.
“You look so serious,” Cinderella said to his portrait, her shoulders shaking with humor. But her laughter soon died. The artist had also somehow managed to capture the depth in Charles’s warm eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than seven, the age the duchess had said he’d been when he lost his mother.
A bittersweet mix of emotions stirred inside Cinderella, but she pushed them aside as she entered the library.
“What books should I seek?” she wondered aloud, unable to contain her excitement. “One of those pirate adventures Her Highness can’t seem to get enough of reading? Or a book on gardening—or art? I wouldloveto paint a portrait of Mama and Papa one day... then again, it’s been so long since I’ve sat with a good history book. The palace library should have plenty of books on how the royal gardens came to be, or on the palace’s architecture, or—”
