Wrath of the Exiled

Madame de la Grande Bouche fastened Belle's dress up at the back.

"There," she said, "don't you look a sight?"

Belle gave herself a quick glance in the mirror. Her dress was blue, with a trim of white at the very hem of the skirt, and white shoulders rising up above the neckline and the sleeves, which went down to her elbows ending in white lace cuffs. A sash of slightly lighter blue than the rest of the dress was tired around Belle's hips, drooping slightly between them, and tied off in a loose bow on her right-hand side.

Her hair was worn in a ponytail, tied back with a blue ribbon.

It was a nice dress, reminiscent of the pink dress she had worn yesterday, although nothing compared to Cinderella's elaborate – one might even say over-elaborate – gown of yesterday. But… well, the fact that Belle had just thought of Cinderella's dress as being possible over-elaborate said a great deal, didn't it, if only inwardly. The dress sense of the princess of Armorique might heighten her beauty, but it wouldn't suit Belle; it was too frilly for her, too overly adorned. It would look as though she was trying too hard, and she wasn't even certain that she'd like the result.

She could appreciate the way something looked on someone else without wishing to wear it herself – Adam's clothes being a case in point.

"Thank you, Madame," she said. "This will do very nicely."

She and Adam were due at the palace this morning, to meet with Cinderella, Eugene – or Princess Cinderella and Prince Eugene, as they would no doubt have to refer to them in official company – along with the Prime Minister Lord Roux and the Foreign Minister Lord St Cyr to discuss how Armorique would put the Holy Roman Empire at ease regarding its intentions in the forthcoming – hopefully forthcoming – congress. Belle thought that it would either have to be some sort of official proclamation, made public by Armorique to the whole world, or it would be some sort of private communication from the King of Armorique, vouchsafed as genuine by Adam, to Maria Theresa.

She wasn't sure what else would achieve the desired aims. Nor, right at this moment, was she certain which was the better choice.

For herself, Belle felt that Armorique… Cinderella had told her last night that they all had ulterior motive, and that in the case of the Armorican royal family it was to achieve a greater legacy for King Louis, but that legacy could only be achieved by playing fair between the two sides; a congress that collapsed into chaos with nothing achieved, or which saw the peace disowned by one side or the other the moment the arbitrators were felt to have acted in bad faith, would simply tarnish the reputation that everyone was so anxious to burnish up.

Only by being neutral, and still finding a way to a peaceful solution between the two parties, could Armorique and its king achieve the glory that they sought. That was only logical.

Logic alone, however, would not satisfy Maria Theresa; she would demand something more than that. Perhaps even something more than Adam's word. But what, precisely, would she demand?

Belle wondered if either Amelie or – as much as the thought of asking him made her skin crawl – Avenant might know the answer; if either did it would more likely be Amelie, who was close enough to the Queen-Archduchess that she might just be in her confidence.

Perhaps she should ask the other girl before they left for the palace.

Or perhaps she should wait; after all, this was only the first meeting, there was no expectation to get everything hammered out right away. And it might be better to see what the Armoricans had in mind, and then talk to Amelie about whether she thought that Maria Theresa would find it acceptable.

Adam came into the dressing room; Belle saw his reflection in the conveniently-placed mirror.

"Perfect timing," Belle said, turning to face him. "Madame just helped me finish."

"And what a finish it is," Adam murmured, as he crossed the small room in three quick strides, cupping her cheek with one large hand and bending down to brush his lips against hers. He glanced over his shoulder at Madame de la Grande Bouche. "Splendid work as always, Madame."

Madame de la Grande Bouche snorted. "If you call such a little thing as helping the mistress put on a dress 'splendid', master, then what will you say when I do something truly stupendous?"

"If I don't remember to thank you for everything then…" Adam trailed off. "I don't ever want to take you all for granted again."

"For which we're very grateful, master," Madame de la Grande Bouche declared. "Just so long as we don't ever start to think you're insincere."

Adam half-opened his mouth, a frown disfiguring his features for a moment. "You mean… well, I suppose… thank you, Madame. You did… passably well."

"Passably?" Madame de la Grande Bouche declared in a haughty tone that almost squawked of outrage. "Passably now, is it? If there's nothing else, mistress, I'll take my leave." She started towards the door. "Passably!" she repeated, as she walked out into the corridor and disappeared out of sight.

"I thought that was what she wanted?" Adam said.

"Passably!"

Belle chuckled. "I think she's just teasing you."

Adam paused for a moment. "I suppose you're probably right. That's the problem with a household full of servants who watched me grow up – and who all suffered for my sins. Putting up with a little gentle teasing is the least that I owe them." He paused for a moment. "You really do look-"

"Passable?" Belle suggested.

Adam sighed.

"I'm allowed to tease you, too," Belle reminded him. "Albeit for different reasons than the servants." She chuckled. "You look very nice."

Adam was dressed, as was his habit, in the fashion of a few decades earlier, with white stockings rising up to his knees before making way for his black trousers. He wore a warm chocolate brown waistcoat over his white shirt, and a gold-coloured coat with blue facings over his waistcoat. An amber broach was pinned to his cravat at the collar, and when it caught the light coming in through the window it gleamed brightly.

"I try my best," Adam said. "Although Lumiere tries harder." He paused for half a moment. "You should wear your pearls."

"I thought about it," Belle admitted. She didn't own very much jewellery at all: a pair of gold earrings; a golden rose broach that had been in Adam's family for generations, which he had set with a single pearl and given to her even before his transformation; and a single pearl necklace, that he had given her for their first Christmas together after the curse had been broken. The relative poverty of the Franche-Comte, the need to set the principality to rights after Adam's return, and the fact that Belle had very little occasion to wear jewellery and even less inclincation to wear it without cause, had all militated against Adam buying her much. So when Adam referred to 'your pearls' Belle knew exactly which ones he was referring to; she doubted that was something every prince's wife could have said in the same situation.

"But," she went on, "I decided that there wasn't much point."

"They'd look nice on you," Adam pointed out. "Isn't that the point?"

"I…" Belle trailed off. "I wouldn't want people to think that I was trying to compete with Cinderella. Especially since it's such an unequal contest."

Adam's eyebrows rose.

"Don't look like that, you know what I mean," Belle told him.

"I have ideas," Adam admitted. "But I'm not certain which notion is correct."

"The number of pearls that she was wearing yesterday," Belle said. "All those diamonds and sapphires last night; I'd hate for my one necklace to make you or the France-Comte seem poor by comparison."

"I don't think Cinderella would see things that way," Adam pointed out.

"I'm sure she wouldn't, but someone might," Belle replied.

"Someone might, but why should we care?" Adam responded. "You've never cared about such things before?"

"It never mattered before, but now… I don't want to make a bad impression with so much at stake."

"A string of pearls are not going to be the difference between success and failure," Adam told her. "For us or for Europe. I mean, you don't have to wear them, obviously, but… I just thought it might be nice for you to wear them in front of someone who wouldn't mock the fact that they're quite small, and there aren't very many of them."

"You make a very good point," Belle conceded. She had never dared to wear her pearls in front of the Austrian Archduchesses for that very reason. "I will wear them. They're in the box on the bedside-"

She was cutoff before she could say any more by the sound of someone outside the house squawking in mingled pain and outrage.

And also by Avenant bellowing like a bear fried in oil. In neither case could words be made out from in hear, but in neither case did either voice sound at all friendly.

It was clear that something was going on outside.

"What on earth is happening out there?" Adam asked.

Belle thought that might be the wrong question; a better question, to her mind, would be what had Avenant done now?

Amelie crouched in the stable, peering through a crack in the door.

It was a worse view than many you'd find in a forest, and for no better concealment, but some forests were so thick as to offer such a little view as this, so the act of peering was not alien to her.

She was grateful for the somewhat shoddy door, though, to have left this crack between two of the wooden boards through which she could observe without herself being observed. It would take a hunter as good as she was to spot her.

And the fellow loitering outside the house with obvious intent – intent to do what, Amelie wasn't sure, but he wouldn't be here unless he intended something – was not a good hunter.

That was plain by the fact that Amelie had spotted him so easily; in truth, it had taken none of the finely-honed skills of the Queen's Huntress to spot the man hanging about outside the house, he was just there, standing outside the house, and as much to the point sticking out like a fox in a henhouse while he did it.

The person standing outside was a young man – maybe a little older than Amelie, but not by much; equally he might have been younger, although not by much – wearing a seaman's cap and a long oilskin coat which fell down to his ankles and which looked far too dirty for this rarefied part of town. Amelie was a little surprised that someone hadn't called the watch on him already, or whatever it was they had here by way of keeping order.

His hands looked scruffy too, and his face, and she wasn't talking about his peach fuzz either, but about the stains.

He was making… Amelie supposed that he was making some effort not to make it look as though he was standing across the road from the house rented by Prince Adam, staring at it; he had brought a newspaper, and he was trying to look like he was reading it, and he had a pipe, too, clenched between his teeth, and every so often he would turn the page of his newspaper, or empty his pipe down on the ground next to him, or tuck the paper under his armpit and light his pipe again.

The trouble was that he couldn't keep his eyes off the house. He kept looking at it, and he was obviously looking at it, and no amount of turning the page or fiddling with his pipe could hide the fact.

Amelie wasn't a spy, and if Princess Frederica of Normandie had someone watching the house then Amelie couldn't see them, but she also knew that this man, for all that he certainly wasn't a spy either, was watching the house, and she doubted that he meant well by it.

She heard Avenant's voice coming from behind her, he must have come back from the kitchen through the door leading into the house. "What are you-"

"Shhhh!" Amelie shushed him. She spoke in a hushed whisper. "There's someone outside the house."

Avenant said nothing more, but she felt him as he got closer, and shuffled aside so that he, too, could peer through the crack in the stable door.

"Ah, yes," Avenant murmured. "He doesn't exactly blend in, does he?"

"I should say not," Amelie muttered.

"So, what do you think?" asked Avenant. "One of your Norman friends?"

"I think they'd be more subtle than that," Amelie replied. "I mean until they decided to show themselves I didn't even know they were there."

"Maybe they've decided to show themselves again?" asked Avenant.

"Why?" responded Amelie. "They've made their point already, why make it a second time? I think this is someone else."

"It's not like we don't have any other enemies," Avenant said cheerfully. "Perhaps the Aquitainians are having to recruit rank amateurs. Perhaps it's an Armorican?"

"Why would they have spies watching us, in their own city?" asked Amelie. "Maybe it's a republican. They're everywhere, you know, and he looks the type: scruffy and unkempt."

"You realise you just described me?" Avenant said with amusement.

"Yes, and if I didn't know you then you'd worry me," Amelie muttered. There are times when you worry me anyway.

Avenant chuckled. "Well, since he's being so obvious about everything, we may as well respond in kind." And before Amelie had a chance to ask him what he meant by that Avenant had already pushed open the stable door and stepped out into the road.

"Avenant!" Amelie hissed. "What are you doing?"

What he was doing, and had already started doing to the extent that it was too late for Amelie's hisses to draw him back, was to swan across the road with a swaggering gait towards their mysterious watcher in his oilskin.

So intent was he upon the house itself that it took their observer a moment to notice Avenant's approach. He shied away a step or two, like a skittish horse.

Avenant spread his arms out wide on either side of him. "What ho, my good fellow!" he cried out loudly. "I wonder if I might trouble you for a spot of your tobacco?"

Amelie, still lurking in the stable doorway, watched as their watcher first scuttled sideways away from Avenant, then as Avenant bore down upon him, dropped his paper and his pipe and took to his heels off down the street, his heels kicking at his oilskin as he left.

"Oh no, you don't," Avenant growled as he took off after him, his coattails flying, his hat staying on his head by some means that Amelie could only marvel at. He moved like a wolf, one that has caught the scent, and their watcher had scarcely gone far when Avenant caught up to him, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and hauling him backwards.

"Now then," Avenant said, as the watcher squirmed in his grasp. "What's the rush?"

Avenant hit him for good measure, a punch to the stomach that made the watcher double over, while Avenant kept his grip on the collar of his oilskin.

The watcher reached into his coat.

"Avenant!" Amelie cried.

Avenant grabbed the watcher's arm. "Drop it!" he snarled. "Drop it, you bastard, or I'll make you wish you had!"

The watcher squawked in mingled alarm and pain. He cried out as Avenant stopped holding him by the neck and got him in a headlock instead, one of Avenant's muscular arms tight around his throat. The watcher writhed and wriggled like a snake, his face turning red. Avenant growled, loudly, as he hauled upon the man's arm, ignoring – or affecting to ignore – the way the fellow beat at him with his other hand.

Amelie emerged out of the stable, walking briskly towards the two of them, one hand reaching for the knife at her belt.

Avenant pulled the man's hand out of his coat, and twisted the pistol out of it so that it clattered to the road at their feet. He kicked it with one foot, so that it skittered across the road in Amelie's direction.

"Who are you, eh?" Avenant demanded. "Who do you work for?"

The watcher growled wordlessly, and struggled futilely in Avenant's grasp, but did not reply.

"I said who do you work for?" Avenant insisted. "Speak!"

"What is going on here?" Prince Adam demanded as the door to the house flew open and the prince stormed down the steps, with Belle not far behind him. "What in God's name do you think you're doing, release that man."

"I don't think you want me to do that," Avenant replied, grinning. "In fact I think you'd like that rather less than I would."

The watcher groaned.
"You be quiet, I'll get back to you later," Avenant said lightly.

"That man was watching the house," Amelie explained, because Avenant's desire to deliberately infuriate Prince Adam and his wife was going to get them nowhere. "And when Avenant confronted him, he turned out to have this." She held up the pistol for them both to see.

Adam's eyes widened. "Good lord," He murmured, holding his hand out to shield Belle. "You mean that-"

Amelie nodded. "It looks like it."

"But… but why?" Adam murmured.

"That's what I've been trying to find out," Avenant muttered, as he hauled the watcher upright and hit him across the face hard enough to break his nose and leave a bloody smear across his face. "Who are you working for?" he demanded.

"Avenant, that's enough," Amelie said. "You can't rough him up on the street, you'll make a scene." She paused. "Take him into the stables, we'll shut the door then work him over together until he squeals."

"No," Belle said firmly. "No, you won't."

Amelie's eyebrows rose. "You can see this gun I'm holding, can't you?"

"Yes, I certainly can," Belle replied. "But we're going to handle this properly. Adam, you remember General Gerard from last night, he said if there were any matters of security we needed assistance with, to call on him."

"Yes, of course, I'll have Lumiere go immediately with a message," Prince Adam said, turning away towards the house. He stopped, and looked back at them. "You two keep him secure until the Armoricans arrive – and no… 'working him over' as you put it. Just hold him firmly, but keep him safe. Do I…" he swallowed. "Do I make myself clear?"

Do I make myself clear? Who do you think you are?

He thinks he's a prince, doesn't he?

He is a prince. A prince whose no fun at all, but a prince all the same.

Amelie bowed. "Perfectly clear, your highness."

The hooves of Etienne Gerard's horse clattered on the stones of the city street, clattering in counterpoint to the sounds of des Voeux's horse as his aide rode a head behind him; both of their horses formed a rattling counterpoint to the tramp, tramp, tramp of the platoon of infantry of the First Battalion, Royal Saint Michel Regiment of Foot who marched behind him.

Their own officers were with them, of course, but Etienne had thought it best to come himself given the situation – given the people involved.

If this business had succeeded it really would have set the cat amongst the pigeons. It hardly bore thinking about.

The one thing that Etienne could tell himself, as he rode through the streets of Brest, was that at least this latest would-be assassination made a little more sense than some of the attempts upon the life of Princess Cinderella since her marriage. It was possible that this was another deluded madman, deranged, seeking attention, desirous of the infamy that would come from being a regicide; on the other hand it was also quite possible that this was an attempted political act, and that was almost a comforting thought.

After all, madmen were impossible to predict, while with a political killer you could at least try and get into their heads.

Mind you, there was also the possibility that this was but the first act in a conspiracy, and that… was a rather less comforting thought. The last thing this city needed as a web of Aquitainian spies sharpening their knives – or loading their pistols.

Perhaps a lone madman would be preferable after all.

Etienne's thoughts, and his horse, had carried him to the house where Prince Adam and his wife had set themselves up for the duration of their stay in Brest. It was a nice but unremarkable house, reminiscent of the house that Etienne had grown up in, along with Lucien and Marinette, when his father had been alive, and before the extent of his indebtedness had come to light and forced him to sell the townhouse and much of the country estate. Marinette had recovered a lot of the rural lands, and added some new ones, but she hadn't sought to buy back the townhouse, claiming that she had no need of it. Etienne wondered if perhaps she thought that recovering the old city home would encourage Maman to stay there, instead of safely out in te countryside far from court.

This was not the same house – that was, if Etienne's mental map of the city was accurate, a couple of streets away – but it was very much in that vein, in a similar part of the city, with steps leading up to the door and iron railings in front. And both had stables to one side of the house.

The door leading into the stable of this house was open, with a rather scruffy looking fellow in a moth-eaten white uniform – presumably Austrian, then – lounging beside it, watching Etienne as he rode down the street.

He reined in his horse, and dismounted, handing the reins to des Voeux. "Captain," he barked to the officer leading his infantry platoon. "I want four men in front of the house, and another four round the back."

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant, come with me," Etienne commanded, trusting the man – and those under him – to follow as he strode towards the open stable door.

The man in the moth-eaten uniform didn't salute, but did stand back for him, retreating into the shadowy recesses of the stable.

A carriage sat in the stable, and a team of horses snuffled and snorted in their stalls. Of more immediate concern was the rat-faced man who was sat on his backside in the middle of the stable, bound with ropes enveloping his entire body, and his hands presumably tied behind his back as well. He had a broken nose, by the look of him, but no other sign of obvious mistreatment.

A woman stood over him, with mismatched eyes of red and blue and short red hair that didn't quite reach past her chin. She had a pistol thrust into her belt and a knife in a sheath, and she stood with one hand on her hip defiantly as though she were expecting a challenge.

Etienne returned his attention to the bound man. "Is this him?"

"No, we dragged some poor soul in here and tied him up for the fun of it," the scruffy fellow muttered from behind Etienne. "The man you're looking for is in the kitchen having tea."

"That'll do, Avenant," the woman murmured. "Yes, sir, this is the man." She turned away, and reached for another pistol sitting on top of a stool not far from her. "And here's his gun."

She held it out, and Etienne moved a little closer towards her in order to take it from her hands. He turned the weapon over in his grasp: it was a rather ordinary looking weapon, the sort of pistol that you could find almost anywhere, and buy almost anywhere as much to the point. It was also incomplete.

"There's no flint," Etienne observed, holding his thumb where the flint, without which there could be no spark to light the powder, should have been.

"I removed it," the woman told him. "Just in case."

She tossed something to him; after Etienne had caught it cleanly in one hand he saw that it was, indeed, a flint.

"I see," Etienne said softly. "That was probably wise of you." He paused for a moment, looking the bound man up and down. His coat looked like something a sailor might wear, as indeed did the hat which sat on the stable floor beside him. Certainly he didn't look as though he belonged in this part of the city, with his smudged hands and dirty face and unshaven stubble on his cheeks.

"Has he said anything?" he asked.

"Not to us," said that man, Avenant as he had been called. "Although we haven't really tried to get him to talk. We were told to leave that for you lot."

"I see," Etienne said. He stared at the man on the floor.

The man on the floor looked up, and began to stare right back at Etienne.

Etienne glanced at the woman. "Prince Adam's man told me that you two caught this man before he could act. So what happened?"

The woman shrugged. "I saw him loitering outside the house. He clearly didn't belong there, and he was equally clearly up to something."

"How do you mean?"

"He was trying to act all innocent, like," the woman said. The more she talked the more Etienne noticed her accent, which was atrociously unplaceable, a mixture of Gallic and German that belonged to no one place and was not very pleasant to listen to. He couldn't help but wonder how she'd come by it.

"He tried to act like he was reading the newspaper, or smoking a pipe," the woman went on, "but he kept looking up at the house, couldn't keep his eyes off it. Avenant confronted him and he tried to run. That's when Avenant grabbed him, and that's when he reached for that pistol you're holding."

"I see," Etienne said. "Thank you." There might be a job for somebody to actually convict this fellow of anything, but Etienne wasn't a lawyer, and as the person responsible for maintaining order in the capital he was glad this man had been stopped before he could use his pistol, for all that it might have made a prosecuting barrister's job easier if he had fired a shot.

He returned his full attention to the bound man at his feet. "My name is Brigadier General Etienne Gerard," he said. "And how easy or how hard this is depends entirely on you. I don't know who you are, yet, and I don't know what you want, yet, but I do know is that it sounds like you were waiting outside Prince Adam's lodging for a chance to shoot him, so if you've got anything to say for yourself now's the time to say it."

"I am a soldier," the bound man growled.

Etienne's eyebrows rose.

"He speaks," the woman muttered.

"That's no uniform I recognise," said Avenant, a touch of mockery in his voice.

"I am a soldier of Aquitaine!" the man cried. "I am a soldier in a war, and I sought to strike against my country's enemies!"

"Even if you have an Aquitainian ticket somewhere in that coat, which I doubt," Etienne said. "That man there is right, you're not wearing an Aquitainian uniform. As much to the point, this isn't Armorique, or the Holy Roman Empire, or Burgundy, Armorique is neutral in this war."

"Neutral?" the man repeated. "Neutral." He spat on the ground. "You treat my people like vermin, you corral them outside and make them sleep on the ground like dogs, while you welcome a prince of the butchers into your city! My country is being raped and despoiled by the Empire! Should I stand by while you welcome them, throw balls for them? No! Aquitaine will have its revenge!"

"I see, it's like that, is it?" Etienne murmured. Political, but also something of a madman too. At least, he thought, a member of a conspiracy or a ring of spies wouldn't boast about his intentions quite so openly. "Sergeant, seize this man, we'll take him back to the Gatehouse with us."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said. "You two, pick him up."

"I am a soldier," the man repeated, as two infantrymen strode forward – the woman stepped back to give them room – and grabbed him by the bound arms, hauling him up onto his feet. "I should be treated-"

"Until I find out otherwise, you're nothing more than an attempted murderer, and you'll be held in jail until I decide otherwise," Etienne snapped. He looked around the stable, spotting a door leading into the house. "Sergeant, I'm going to speak to Prince Adam for a moment, I'll be back shortly and we can get underway."

"Yes, sir."

Etienne took off his hat as he strode across the stables, pushing open the door with his free hand to reveal a wooden-floored corridor. The walls were painted in a soft fuchsia, but were devoid of any sort of paintings or hangings or anything to decorate the place and make it feel a little more alive. Etienne's boots squeaked a little on the polished floor as he walked down the corridor, emerging into a hallway, with the stairs rising above the corridor that he had lately exited. There was another open door not far away, and Etienne walked towards it, finding within a reasonable well-appointed sitting room, where Prince Adam and his wife were both sat upon a settee, while a slightly underdressed maid fussed over them.

"There, there, both of you, just settle back. Perhaps a glass of cognac to settle your nerves?"

"Our nerves hardly need settling," Prince Adam said. "Barely anything happened, and we witnessed barely any of it." He paused. "I mean, speaking for myself, Belle, how are-"

"I'm fine," Belle declared. "I'm… mostly fine."

"Your Highness?" Etienne announced himself from the doorway. "May I have a word."

The maid took a step back as Prince Adam and Belle both got to their feet.

"Of course, General," Prince Adam said. "Thank you for coming."

"I regret that I had to, your highness," Etienne said. "How are you feeling?"

"Well enough," Belle replied. "Although… the fact that someone wanted to hurt Adam is… it's enough to make my stomach a little uneasy."

"Some milk of magnesia, Mistress?" asked the maid.

"No, thank you, Babette, I'm not sure that would help," Belle replied casually. To Etienne, she said, "Was he trying to kill Adam? It seems the most likely reason for a man to be hanging around outside with a pistol, but I suppose I'd like to hope that this is all a terrible misunderstanding."

"Understandable, Madame, but I'm afraid not," Etienne said. "It seems you were the target. I've just spoken to the man in the stable, he described himself as a soldier of Aquitaine, out to revenge the wrongs inflicted on his country."

Belle snorted. "If Aquitaine had wanted to kill Adam they had a much better chance not long ago."

"We got caught up in a battle on our way to Armorique," Prince Adam explained. "The Aquitainians drove off a force of Hesse-Baden men, and we were trapped in their midst. We could have been taken prisoner, or worse. But Queen Eleanor allowed us to proceed on our way."

"Well, I don't think this man is a real soldier, or that he's acting on orders," Etienne said. "Although I can believe that he is an Aquitainian. I'll take him to jail now, and see what else we can learn from him: his name, any associates-"

"Associates?" Adam asked. "You think that he wasn't acting alone?"

"I hope he was, but I won't assume it," Etienne replied. "That's why I'll leave men on guard outside your house, in case anyone else starts loitering outside. I can also provide you with an escort to the palace, if you wish; or, if you wish me to convey your apologies to the palace, I'm sure that-"

"No," Adam said. "No, we won't postpone our meeting. It's not as if I was shot, or even shot at." He paused for a moment. "The best way to protect ourselves," he said. "Is to work to bring an end to this war as quickly as possible."

Belle nodded, although she said nothing.

"A noble sentiment, your highness," Etienne said. "Very well then, I will take my leave of you, take my prisoner, and wish you good luck in your discussions at the palace."

"And we wish you luck," Belle replied. "Finding out just how much in danger Adam is."

Far off in the Neuschwanstein, hidden away from prying eyes within the Cardinal's secret room, Desiree du Villeneuve gazed into her crystal ball and watched the bane of her existence, that thrice accursed Princess Cinderella.

She who had usurped Grace's place, who had stolen the crown and kingdom and husband that should have belonged to Desiree's own dear sister, who had brought about the death of she whom Desiree had loved and admired most of all in all the world.

"If you love me so," Grace said snidely. "Then avenge my death, as is your duty as my kin."

Grace… Grace wasn't really there. At least Desiree didn't think that she was. Although perhaps she was. No. No, she could not be here, not now, not in daylight. Spirits of the dead could only walk abroad in nighttime, they vanished at the break of day, dragged back into the netherworld by the chains that bound them there.

She did not deign to visit Desiree at night, not even to chide her for failing to revenge, for faltering in her duty, for letting distance and difficulty and the Cardinal's command dull her purpose.

Desiree never saw her sister when Grace's spirit might have come, though she would have done all, and given all, dared all to see her again.

But no spell could forcibly drag a spirit up into the world, it was not possible.

Well, it was said to be impossible, just as resurrecting the dead – another thing that Desiree would have given her hand, both hands – and her feet too – to accomplish. To bring Grace back she would have made a pyre of this whole castle, but it could not be done. The most powerful sorcerers, the most accomplished scholars of the dark arts, the greatest conjurers of demons, had failed to accomplish this great feat, or the accompanying act of prolonging their own lives. That was the Great Work, the dream that magicians had striven for for centuries; one of the reasons the Black Order had faltered had been the obsession of its members with pursuing immortality instead of temporal power in the lives that they had.

It could not be done. To live forever, to bring back the dead, even to conjure true spirits at command, these were but dreams, they were beyond the power of dark magic or of light.

And yet… and yet there were rumours. One of the reasons the dream of the Great Work had endured so long, besides the hope that sprang eternal, was that there were whispers that it was not impossible. They said that Maleficent, the Mistress of All Evil, had discovered some means by which she could defy death itself. And yet, the counterargument ran, Maleficent had died, struck down by Philip of Anjou, his sword impaled through her breast. Ah, went the rumours, but what if she were not truly dead? What if she had preserved herself in some way, her state weakened, her existence diminished, waiting to rise again and reclaim all that had once been hers.

"Ridiculous," Grace declared. "What is she waiting for, it's been centuries? What glory would be waiting for her now? What could she reclaim? If she ever returned it would only be to die again." She snorted disdainfully. "You can't bring me back, sister."

"I would," Desiree said softly, glancing away from the crystal ball, away from the infuriating face of Cinderella. "I would, if I could. In a moment, I would do it; whatever I had to do, whatever it demanded of me, I would do it."

"And yet you don't do what you could do," Grace said. "You cannot resurrect me, but you could avenge me, and yet you hesitate. You sit here, idly, and stare into that crystal ball as if the sight of my destroyer gives you pleasure. Does the sight of her family idyll so enthral you?"

"No!" Desiree cried. "No, I hate her, I detest her.

"Then do something about it, and to her!"

"His Eminence-"

"What matters more to you?" Grace demanded. "The Cardinal's ambition or your duty to my memory?"

This was not Grace speaking. This was Desiree's own spirit, her own conscience, taking the form of her sister before Desiree's very eyes, a vision born out of addled wits confined too long. Stuck in this room with no one to talk to but occasional visits from the Cardinal she had become… susceptible. Her mind had whirled around so long it had grown tired of talking to itself and summoned interlocutors for her.

It was not Grace speaking but her conscience, and her conscience spat barbs that she found difficult to answer. Cardinal Benes wanted Cinderella left alone so he could have his precious peace conference to advance his plans, but what was that to Desiree? What were his ambitions compared to the love of a dear sister, compared to the loss of the person Desiree had always looked up to and admired.

She had been so delighted when Grace had been chosen to become the princess and then the queen of Armorique. Surely she would do it, her beautiful, talented sister. Surely she could not fail.

Yet fail she had, and yet even after the first failure Desiree had believed in Grace. She would restore all their fortunes, she would turn the game yet, she would win out.

But she had not. She had failed again, and in the failing she had fallen.

And now… now it was up to Desiree. Her family was scattered. She didn't know where her brothers were, her mother had perished on the journey to Bavaria, life driven out of her by its hardships of the road.

She was all alone. All alone with her memories of her family, and all that they had had and all that they had been.

All that had been taken from them.

Taken from them by her. The smiling girl in the crystal ball, the laughing girl, the loving mother who… who looked as though she'd just gotten some bad news. Certainly she looked as though something had just shocked her.

Good. Whatever displeased the princess pleased Desiree.

"But it is not enough to be pleased at her passing distresses," Grace said, slinking across the chamber towards her. "What are you going to do-"

"I will do everything!" Desiree snapped. "I will do what you-" She bit back the words 'what you couldn't' because to say that to Grace, even to an imaginary Grace spawned from her own heady mind, would be a step too far, a step she could not take.

The words hung in the air between them nevertheless.

Grace's eyes widened. "You… you dare to speak to me that way?"

"I will dare much more than that," Desiree promised. "But I will more than just revenge to appease your shade, I will have back everything that you… everything that was taken from us all. All our land, all our wealth, all your titles and position, everything. When I'm done we will be as we once were, or greater still. Mere bloodshed… it is not enough. Not for us who are living. You said yourself, immortality is a false promise, we only have one life to live and… and it can be a brief life, so we must use it well."

Grace stared at her for a moment. Her face was impassive, and Desiree trembled, wondering if her imaginary sister might fly into a rage at her impudence in refusing to straight away do… do something, do anything, try her hardest to take revenge no matter the cost.

But instead, Grace smiled, or smirked at least, and her voice when it came was a soft purr. "Alright then, sister. I hadn't thought to see such ambition from you. I half thought you were broken."

"Our family is broken, broken by her," Desiree said. "But I will put it back together."

"And revenge?"

"Will come," Desiree promised. "I won't let you down, I promise you, I swear it, but at the same time… I will be greater than you, and I will have more than blood."

Grace leaned forwards. "How?"

Desiree placed one hand upon the crystal ball, and stretched forth her power; the image of Cinderella, that seemed designed to infuriate Desiree beyond reason, was replaced by the image of the Austrian archduchesses, Maria Sophia and Maria Carolina.

"Austrian Habsburgs," Desiree murmured. "Neapolitan Habsburgs – did you know that King Eric is a cousin of the Habsburg bloodline?"

"Of course I did," Grace said.

"And so why should there not be Armorican Habsburgs?" Desiree asked. "Aquitainian Habsburgs? Gallic Habsburgs, all the Gauls united under a German Caesar? Why should these two sisters not step out of the shadow of Maria Theresa and into their own dominions? If I can but inveigle themselves into their presence and their confidence, then if I can lead them to such a destiny, can open their eyes to it, can guide them through the obstacles that will stand in their way – and help them with a little touch of magic here or there – then they will surely reward me. And when an Austrian Archduchess sits upon the throne of Armorique, I will be rewarded as one who helped them to the throne. Vengeance and advancement, I bless myself in every way."

"That is not the Cardinal's desire," Grace murmured.

"And I will serve His Eminence," Desiree declared. "While serving him serves me."