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Wait.
The breath stopped in Margaret’s throat as the final pieces of the puzzle clicked together...and King Thomas’s voice sounded once more in her head, raised in complaint about the emperor:
“The man’s such a relentless prig, he even uses the royal ‘we’ when he talks politics with us in private!”
“I understand,” she breathed.
“I...am glad?” Her husband’s eyebrows lowered. “Forgive me, but you’ve been lost in thought for the past few minutes. May I ask: are we still discussing Madame Amalie’s independence?”
“Not anymore.” Margaret slowly shook her head as she surveyed the whole new shape of the truth revealed before her.
All those different layers of Viennese illusions, just like the multilayered cake she’d eaten on her first night here...
Why hadn’t she suspected the truth until now?
As the scent of a familiar perfume washed over her once more, Amalie whispered in her ear, “His Majesty says the emperor refused even to reply.”
“Of course he did.” The king had said it himself in their meeting, hadn’t he?
“The man takes himself and his all-important honor so seriously, he won’t even tell a little white lie for the sake of convenience—he just lapses into a deathly silence...”
For the first time since their arrival in Vienna, Margaret smiled with true satisfaction. “I know exactly what’s been happening here and why.”
“In that case, shall we go to our king now and inform him of everything?” Lord Riven suggested.
Truthfully, it was tempting. Between the relief of surmounting her challenge and the irritation of her treatment by Prince Metternich, all Margaret wanted to do was call the music to a halt and spill the entire truth in the center of the ballroom, to vanquish her persecutor and glory in her intellectual victory before every gossiping noble who had sneered at her.
Unfortunately, those gossips at the first ball had been right about one thing: courtly life was different from academia, and she had never fit comfortably within its parameters. Now of all times, with continental peace hanging in the balance, the type of blunt announcement she always favored could be fatal—and by now, she knew her own ruler too well to dare leave the matter in his careless hands.
Fortunately, as she had been reminded early that morning, she had a partner by her side whose own strengths—particularly in the social arena—complemented hers to perfection...and another ally with a deep understanding of successful theatrical productions.
“Let’s not tell anyone else quite yet,” she murmured. “First, the three of us need to make a plan together.”
The next ball was officially hosted by the King of Britain, but Margaret was not at all surprised to find that he looked more puffy-eyed and dissolute than ever as he slouched against the wall at the front of the receiving line.
She had, after all, spent a considerable amount of the long night before alternately beseeching and berating him, supported by more diplomatic persuasions from her husband and the mostly silent but still meaningful addition of Amalie, who’d sat close to him on the couch in his private receiving room, fluttering her eyelashes in dramatic admiration of the great role he would play in tonight’s endeavor. Margaret had feared he might be outraged by the discovery of Amalie’s attendance at the last ball; it had been both a relief, for the sake of the lorelei, and an uncomfortable realization for Margaret that with the cloak keeping his mistress’s presence safely secret, he had apparently found the experience thrilling beyond measure.
Now, though, as Margaret curtsied to him with the night’s small Damenspende gift already tucked safely inside her reticule, he regarded her with a deeply jaundiced gaze. “I hope you know what you’re doing with all this stage management, Lady Riven.”
“Think of your mother,” she said firmly. “She would be proud of you for taking a stand.”
“Ha!” King Thomas let out a low huff of laughter. “Shows how much you know about my mother. She would’ve asked why I didn’t pull myself together and do something like it years ago.
“...She would have liked you, though,” he finished quietly.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Wearing that true compliment like a crown, Margaret moved down the rest of the reception line with her husband, curtsying to every royal in turn. As usual, the Habsburg emperor did not meet her gaze but bowed with distant formality; the Saxon king sneered as she rose from her curtsy, but then, Margaret had shamelessly glowered at him throughout.
Lord Riven only smiled blandly and tugged her onwards towards the ballroom.
When they reached it, she drew him to a halt. “This is where we always part.”
“Must we tonight, though?” His tone was light, but she glimpsed real unease in his gaze. “It’s far too early for the waltz itself—that seems always to come later in the evening.”
“Of course it does.” Margaret snorted. “They’d hardly set it off before the royals all arrived in the ballroom! Otherwise, it would have no effect on the peace conference. If our gamble is to work, though, we cannot afford to raise any suspicion. We must keep to our own schedule, so as usual, we’ll go our separate ways for the night.”
“And if suspicion has already been raised and you’re walking into a trap tonight? This time, Madame Amalie isn't here to help you.”
It was unfortunate but true; after missing one performance this week already, Amalie couldn’t withdraw again tonight without hopelessly endangering her position at the opera house. Margaret had given her the cloak of invisibility just in case she managed to come once the performance came to an end, but they all knew it would probably be too late to be of aid.
