Madame curtsied. "Amelia continues to have difficulty mastering cursive, sir, and Sylvie is sometimes reluctant to practice her music."

Michael frowned. Was it Sylvie who wore the green ribbon or Amelia? He could never remember, although he'd decreed the identifiers himself. They both looked dutifully at the carpet, but he could see that they each held their dimpled hands tightly gripped in front of them. They seemed very small, and it astonished him how two separate individuals could be so utterly identical. Presumably, they had different characters-not that their individual personalities were particularly relevant to anything.

"Anything else?"

"A degree of unseemly levity, sir." The children remained motionless. How could such stiff, expressionless little dolls show unseemly levity? It struck Prince Michael as extraordinary.

However, he had other things on his mind and decided these peccadilloes weren't worth considering.

"I daresay their mother will correct these faults," he stated.

Louise looked as if she'd been struck by a lightning bolt. "I… I beg your pardon, sir? Their… their mother?"

Amelia and Sylvie forgot their fear and looked up, showing their father two pairs of wide blue eyes, two rosebud mouths, two small noses. Elvira's features. He could see nothing of himself in them, but their paternity didn't interest him. Had they been boys, it would have been very different. But girls were simply currency and he would spend them wisely. They were bidding fair to be as beautiful as Elvira, and if they fulfilled that potential, he should have little difficulty making advantageous marriages for them.

"B-b-but our… our m-mother's dead, sir." They spoke in stammering unison.

"Your first mother, yes," he said with a touch of impatience. "But you are to have a new mother. You may look at her likeness." He held out the miniature.

Amelia took it from him with a quick, darting movement as if she were afraid she was putting her fingers in a trap. The two girls stared at the face and said nothing.

Louise felt the earth slipping beneath her feet. A mistress in the house was bad news for a governess. She would have to make herself agreeable to the new princess, who could well threaten her hitherto undisputed authority over the girls.

"Pray allow me to congratulate you, Prince." She curtsied stiffly. "Is the marriage to be soon?"

"The wedding has already taken place by proxy in Vienna. Viscount Kierston is accompanying the princess here with the dauphine's party." He held out his hand for the miniature. Amelia handed it back with a curtsy, immediately lowering her eyes to the carpet again.

Louise struggled to keep the chagrin and vexation from her face. It didn't surprise her that her employer hadn't considered it necessary to impart this information before, but it surprised her that Viscount Kierston had kept silent about it. He was so interested in the girls, it seemed extraordinary that he wouldn't have hinted at something this important. She longed to see the portrait, but it seemed it was not to be. The prince dropped it into his coat pocket. "You are dismissed."

The little girls curtsied and backed out of the room. Amelia's hand crept into Sylvie's as they edged out of the door. Their governess, after another stiff curtsy, followed them. No one said anything until they were back in the schoolroom, then Amelia gave a joyful jump.

"She's so pretty."

"Yes, like a real princess," Sylvie agreed, doing a little dance. "And Monsieur Leo will be coming back too."

"Now stop that at once!" Madame was looking very pinched and cross. "I will not have you dancing and jumping like a pair of peasant hoydens."

The girls composed themselves, but their eyes still shone. For once they had the advantage of their governess. They knew that she hadn't seen the miniature of the new princess, and they knew how vexed she was.

"She had black hair, madame," Sylvie said kindly.

The governess wanted to ask the single burning question: How old was this new Princess von Sachsen? But she wouldn't demean herself by asking it of her charges. The majordomo would know everything. Monsieur Brion always knew everything- before anyone else. It would be almost as demeaning to beg information from him, but it was necessary.

"It's time you were in bed," she announced.

The girls couldn't yet tell the time, but they knew it was far too early. The sun hadn't gone down and they hadn't had supper. They gazed at their governess in dismay.

"You have both been exceedingly ill behaved," Madame declared. "This unseemly laughter has to stop. You will have bread and milk for supper and go to bed immediately."

They knew protestation would only make matters worse. Just as they knew they were suffering for their governess's pique. At least in bed, tucked behind the drawn bedcurtains, they could whisper about this amazing new event and speculate in perfect safety about the pretty young girl who was going to come to live with them.

And Monsieur Leo would come with her. They hadn't seen him for weeks and weeks, and they missed the one ray of sunshine in their drab little lives.

Chapter Six

"Adieu, my dear daughter. Do so much good to the people of France that they will be able to say that I have sent them an angel." Maria Theresa embraced her weeping daughter for the last time. The whole Hapsburg family, the entire Austrian court, the highest echelons of the aristocracy, were all witnesses to this final meeting between mother and daughter in the great hall of the Hofburg Palace.

"Poor Toinette," Cordelia murmured, blinking back her own tears. "To have to make such a public farewell. She loves her mother so dearly. How will she manage without her?"

Viscount Kierston made no response. He too was moved by the poignancy of this farewell. The new dauphine of France knew that she would probably never see her mother again, and it seemed a brutal separation for a girl not yet fifteen. But the sentiments of private people had no place in the lofty reaches of international diplomacy. The archduchess's marriage to the dauphin would cement the vital alliance between Austria and France as nothing else could.

Still weeping, Toinette was escorted from the palace to the coach that would take her to her new country. She was accompanied by her brother, the emperor Joseph, who seemed nonplussed by his little sister's emotional state. Toinette had begged that Cordelia be allowed to accompany her in the coach as well, but the empress had refused. Her daughter must make her ceremonial departure from the land of her fathers in state. She must be seen to be strong, mature, ready to assume her royal duties.

As the coach moved sedately out of the courtyard, Toinette could be seen through the glass window, leaning back in a corner, her hand covering her eyes with her handkerchief, but as the carriage passed through the gates, she leaned out, gazing backward at her home, tears streaming down her face. Her brother's hand appeared on her shoulder, drawing her within.

"Her brother won't be much comfort," Cordelia observed. "He's so stiff and formal."

"You'll be able to be with her when we reach Melk," Leo said. "You had better make your own farewells now."

The empress took a fonder farewell of her godchild than Duke Franz did of his niece. Maria Theresa gave her a silver locket with her own portrait inside and embraced her warmly. The duke acknowledged her curtsy with a cold nod and the command that she obey her husband. Her marriage settlements were generous and she should be grateful to all those who had looked after her interests hitherto.

If she never saw her uncle again, she wouldn't shed a tear, Cordelia decided, moving to her own carriage, where Leo Beaumont waited to hand her in. The von Sachsen arms were emblazoned upon the panels.

"Your uncle has a harsh manner," Leo observed, with a frown. "I daresay he's uncomfortable with emotion."

Cordelia glanced up at him as he handed her inside. "There's no need to make excuses for my uncle, Viscount. I assure you there's no love lost on either side." Her face was tight, though, and her eyes were tinged with sadness. "My parents died of smallpox when I was a baby. If they had lived, perhaps this leaving would have been difficult. As it is, I can't wait." She seated herself on the crimson velvet squabs of the luxuriously appointed vehicle, her skirts billowing out on either side, filling the entire length of the bench. The tightness of her expression relaxed. "Is Versailles really as much of a fairy-tale palace as they say?"

"Only for the naive," he said dryly, putting a foot on the footstep.

"I don't consider myself to be naive," she protested.

He laughed, but not unkindly, as he stepped into the coach. "My dear, you are an ingenue, you know nothing of the darker side of court life, but if it pleases you to imagine a glittering fantasy, then do so. You'll be disillusioned soon enough." He sat back on the opposite bench, careful not to tread on the flounced hem of her gown as he adjusted his sword to his hip.

"I might surprise you, my lord," Cordelia said, not at all pleased at his somewhat patronizing tone.

"I'm not sure that anything you do could surprise me," he observed amiably, determined neither to quarrel in the close confines of the carriage, nor to offer an opportunity for one of her impulsive flights of passion. And after this ceremonial departure from Vienna, he would be able to ride while his charge journeyed by coach in decorous solitude.

The carriage started forward. Cordelia leaned out of the window to watch the procession fall in behind her. There were coaches laden with baggage and servants. Mathilde was traveling with Cordelia's trunks at the rear of the procession. A troop of cavalry escorted the procession, banners snapping in the breeze, the sun shining on the embroidered ceremonial trappings, the silver of bridle and stirrup. At the very rear, spare horses were led by troopers, her own Lucette, a Lippizaner like the viscount's, among them.