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She had been hearing footsteps all morning—soldiers and dock workers and British officers and the remnant of the Guard moving away from the quay.

These footsteps stopped.

She turned. Rodrick stood behind her, absurdly handsome in a red coat, the gold of his epaulets catching the last rays of sunlight.

His gaze found hers, and it felt like stepping beneath the stage lamps again—seen, illuminated, the world alive after a long night. Louise drew in a sharp breath and attempted a smile, though it trembled badly at the edges. Of course he had found her here. She did not know how to sing, could not send a song through stone and trust him to follow it, but Rodrick would know how desperately her soul had been calling for him.

He dropped to her side without ceremony, folding his long legs over the dock's edge so that his boots stretched nearly to the water below.

"You just missed him," she whispered.

"Did he leave any messages?"

"Yes." She rubbed her nose and brushed away her tears. "He told me to maneuver against you. Find a weak spot and launch an attack."

He exhaled. "I like him already."

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder and winced as his epaulets scratched her skin. Rodrick unfastened both and threw them into the Charente.

She watched them go under. "Why are you wearing an English uniform?"

"The best way to cross France riddled with Allied troops." He settled his arm around her shoulders. "Why are you wearing the Old Guard's coat?"

"The British wouldn't let the family through," she said. "The grenadier who lent it asked no questions."

He made a sound she felt more than heard.

They looked at the Bellerophon. Just a dot on the horizon. She could still see it. In a little while she would not be able to see it.

"The Danes are probably hovering around Basque Roads," he said. "For the right sum they can be persuaded in most directions. If we put our minds to it, we can kidnap Napoleon before he has time to persuade the sailors himself."

She brushed her cheek against the red coat. "I don't think he would want that. It was his decision to surrender. He had time. He had contacts. He is tired. What he wants now is to step away from daily history and become a legend."

"So he will sacrifice his life for posterity."

She nodded and felt him tense beside her.

"And you?" His voice was very quiet. "Is that what you want as well, Louise?"

Her name. Her actual name. Not princess, not Loulou, not the spy's irony or the armor's distance.

"No. I want to live my life now." She gazed at him. "With you."

This was it. She had looked at the man who had drugged her in a theater stairwell and braided her hair and made love to her in front of witnesses and had said the true thing. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat.

Rodrick stood. With a sigh, he pulled her to her feet with both hands, and her legs wobbled beneath her.

He cupped her face in his hands and looked at her. His gaze found hers, and the lamps came up again, warming her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, driving the shadows from every corner inside her. Louise drew a trembling breath and turned her face into his light.

“We should start right now,” he said.

His palms were warm against her cheeks. She could feel the calluses from the reins, the road, the riding.

He kissed her, a kiss salty and moist with her tears.

She pulled back. "I don't know what to do, Rodrick. I haven't thought of anything beyond this. And I don't think my legs can carry me very far."

He caught her in his arms. "Today, the farthest we will go is to the nearest inn."