Good heavens, they were all behaving like five-year-olds.

This, thought Emma, sinking down in her seat in the back of the imperial box, was what she had to look forward to if she stayed in Paris. The Emperor and his wife sat in the front, with cousin Robert in the place of honor at the Emperor’s right. It helped to be the envoy of a foreign power, even a not so very powerful power. Behind them, in a phalanx armored in feathers and jewels, sat Mme. Bonaparte’s ladies-in-waiting. The Emperor’s aides, less privileged, were left to crouch on stools along the sides, casting glances at the ladies and occasionally the stage. Guards—once consular guards, now imperial—ranged themselves at the entrance to the box, controlling access to the Emperor.

At the back sat Emma. The Emperor was cross with her, she knew, for refusing Mme. Bonaparte’s offer. As the American envoy’s niece, however, and the author of the masque, she couldn’t be entirely slighted. So here she sat, at the back of the box, simultaneously honored and chastised, her silk skirt neatly arrayed around her legs, her hands folded demurely in her lap, and her mind in turmoil.

Emma cast a longing look at the back of Hortense’s head. Imperial princess that she now was, Hortense was seated on Mme. Bonaparte’s left, too far away to whisper or gossip or drag outside for a hurried consultation.

But what would she say to her if she could say it? I think I’m in love with an English spy? Who also happens to be a truly awful poet? And he’s going to leave within the next few days and he wants me to go with him and I don’t know what to do.

Yes, that was going to go over well.

What would Hortense say? Emma realized that she didn’t know anymore. Her old friend, the one who had helped pack her belongings for her flurried flight with Paul, had cares and worries and divided loyalties she could only begin to understand. She would never doubt Hortense’s friendship or her love, but what would she say if Emma told her she was in love with a man sworn to bring down her stepfather’s empire?

From long ago, as clearly as though she were sitting next to her, Emma could hear her best friend’s voice.

Yes, yes, said Hortense. But do you love him?

But it’s not that simple, Emma argued with the phantom Hortense in her head. We’re older now. She was sure there were other considerations, if only she could remember what they were. Family? Hers was thousands of miles away, estranged long ago. Friends, then. Adele, careless and restless. Hortense, ever more a part of Bonaparte’s new imperial circle.

Carmagnac? Carmagnac practically ran itself, the fields drained, all of Paul’s reforms accomplished.

Emma could feel her excuses running through her fingers like straw. She frowned at the back of Mme. de Rémusat’s head. When she broke it down into its component parts, this life she had built for herself in France proved a surprisingly ephemeral thing. Cousin Robert was due to return to America; Mr. Fulton was going to England. Her structure of friends and acquaintances was collapsed around her as neatly and noiselessly as a Gypsy tent.

Which left her, then, with that one, crucial question: Do you love him?

On the stage, Americanus had retired for the night, and the pirates were beginning to creep around Cytherea’s tower. Emma found herself envying Cytherea, not for her beauty, but for the fact that her decisions were made for her. Carried off by pirates, rescued by the hero, she never had to wrestle with her heart or her conscience. There was a divinity that shaped her end: her author.

Whereas Emma…Emma was dithering, and she knew it.

She could toss a coin, she thought wildly. Heads, I love him; tails, I love him not. On the new coinage, the head was Bonaparte’s. That would be an amusing bit of irony right there, the Emperor unintentionally blessing her elopement with his enemy.

“But I must!” came an urgent whisper from the curtains that blocked the entrance to the box.

Emma twisted in her chair, grateful for any distraction. All she could see was a hand being waved about for emphasis, a hand and a bit of lace on the sleeve.

Whoever it was sounded as though he were in a high state of excitement, so excited that he was tipsy with it. “I must see the Emperor right now. I have urgent tidings for him. Important tidings.”

The guard was unimpressed. “The Emperor is not to be disturbed until after the performance.”

“But you don’t even know what my news is,” said the other man indignantly. “I assure you, the Emperor will want to know.”

The curtains moved and Emma could see him at last, Horace de Lilly, in a green waistcoat with cameo fobs. His light brown hair was charmingly tousled around his face, his cheeks pink.

He tugged at the guard’s arm. “Wouldn’t the Emperor want to know about…treason?”

The imperial box was warm, but Emma felt a chill prickle along the skin of her arms. Her nails dug into the arms of her chair. There were many treasons in France, she reassured herself. Georges for one. Treason didn’t necessarily mean Augustus.

De Lilly’s connections were with the aristocratic émigré community. If he were going to denounce anyone, it would be one of his childhood playmates. Perhaps someone had slighted his waistcoat or taken one of his toys away.

The thought didn’t bring the relief it should. Even if not from de Lilly, Augustus was in danger every moment he remained in France. Emma felt a sudden, impetuous need to urge him to flee, flee now. But that was foolish, wasn’t it? He knew what he was doing. He knew the risks.

Even so. Her eyes took in the guards stationed all around the theatre, seeing them as though for the first time. Guards at the imperial box, guards by the stage, guards on the stage, dressed as pirates. The new emperor didn’t stint on precautions, even at his wife’s beloved Malmaison.

The guard at the door took in de Lilly’s youth, his waistcoat, the slight English accent that persisted from a childhood in exile in England. Emma could see him arriving at the same conclusions she had, placing de Lilly in a compartment roughly labeled trouble-making aristo.

“After the performance,” said the guard implacably.

Horace jiggled with frustration, setting his watch fobs jangling. “But by then the poet may have got away!”

The guard pointedly let the heavy velvet curtain drop, right in de Lilly’s flushed face.

On the stage, the first signs of the storm were brewing. Emma could hear the distant rumble of thunder, and the pattering sound of raindrops, cunningly created by pebbles in a jar. Thank goodness for it. It masked the frantic pattering of her heart, clattering a mile a minute. The poet. There was only one man at Malmaison who could, with confidence, be called the poet. The gray silk storm clouds drew together, eked out with a fine haze of mist. At any moment, the full force of the storm’s fury would be unleashed.

Right on Augustus’s unwitting head.

Energy crackled through Emma like lightning; she could feel her fingers tingle with it. The masque was half done, proceeding unevenly but inevitably towards the storm, the sea battle, the reconciliation and happily-ever-afters.

They had an hour.

Leaning forward, she whispered in Mme. Junot’s ear, “There’s something not quite right with the storm machine. I’m going to get someone to fix it.”

Mme. Junot nodded without looking at her. “Good luck,” she whispered back.

Emma appreciated the sentiment. She rather thought she would need it.

She forced herself to move slowly, even though every instinct urged her to run. Her silk skirts dragged on her legs; her fan weighed on her wrist like an anchor. She wanted to shake free of them and sprint, but she confined herself to a measured saunter, smiling and nodding at her acquaintances as she went.

Augustus was standing at the back of the theatre, in the section reserved for those not favored enough to deserve seats. She saw him look up at her, his eyes eager, hopeful.

“The wind machine isn’t working properly,” she said, loudly enough that the people on both sides could hear it. “I need you to fix it. Now.”

The wind machine? They both knew he couldn’t tell one end of a machine from another.

Augustus cloaked his surprise. Her expression was imperious, but her eyes were watchful, her nails digging into the palms of her gloves. All his instincts immediately went on the alert. Something was wrong.

“Immediately, Madame,” he said, with a deep bow, following her through the door, between the laughing courtiers, who were reaching their own conclusions about the urgent summons. Their comments about ballast might not be original, but they certainly made their point.

Emma signaled silence, drawing him several yards away from the theatre, into the lee of a potted tree.

“If this is a seduction attempt…” Augustus began hopefully.

“It’s Horace de Lilly,” Emma said abruptly. “He knows.”

“Of course, he knows. He’s—” Augustus’s brain belatedly kicked back into service. “Wait. How do you know about de Lilly?”

Emma’s face was very pale in the starlight. “He came to the Emperor’s box. He demanded to speak to him. He said he had great tidings to impart. About treason.”

A double cross. He might have suspected it, but much as one played with the idea of drowning on a crossing. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but no one ever expected it. Augustus conjured up the image of old Mme. de Lilly, the spider in her web. She wanted the de Lilly estates back. How better to prove one’s loyalty to the new regime than a bit of double-dealing.