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A grenadier footman opened the carriage. The scents of Saint James’ courtyard tickled her nose—kerosene, heavy perfumes, and anticipation. Servants scurried, lanterns in hand, casting light across the faces of the gathering crowd.

Helene leaned forward, peering through the carriage window. Light spilled from grand archways. Coaches lined the street like a procession of dreams. Music floated through the air—refined, regal. It was breathtaking. And utterly alien.

Baines offered his hand to help her alight, his gaze steady. She stepped down, and watched the other women waddling toward the entrance, their bell-shaped dresses ballooning with silk and crinoline. In her narrow-cut gown, she felt like a shorn sheep among a flock still heavy with wool—her silhouette lean, stripped bare, while theirs billowed and swelled like sails catching the wind.

“Baines,” she whispered, “what can a sylph without wings do at a fairytale ball?”

He gently pressed a hand to her shoulder. “When I look at you, Miss Beaumont,” he said, “I see magic to last beyond midnight.”

If this truly were a fairytale, then Maggy deserved to be the princess.

“Good luck, Miss Beaumont,” he murmured.

She turned to him and, on impulse, kissed his cheek.

He blinked, visibly startled, a blush creeping into his weathered face.

“In ballet,” she said with a small smile, “we say break a leg.”

Keeping her fan close to her face, she entered the foyer. The clatter of the horse’s hooves gave way to a blend of music, laughter, and the rustle of silk. Chandeliers, ablaze with candles, cast a warm glow upon the assembly, reflecting off diamond tiaras and the gilded details of military uniforms.

Helene found the gallery where the debutantes awaited. Maggy was among the tittering ladies, her face pale and crestfallen. Thankfully, she was alone. Lady Thornley must already be waiting at the Presence Chamber. Dwarfed by the hoops of her skirts, Maggy clasped the train with her forearm, as if letting go would cause her entire ensemble to fall apart.

Helene maneuvered through the girls’ enormous dresses, afraid someone might recognize her. Still, the debutantes, caught up in themselves, paid her no heed. When she arrived at Maggy’s side, the girl’s eyes lit up, and she latched herself into Helene’s neck. Only Helene’s sense of balance prevented them from toppling onto the floor.

“I’m sweating so much I fear I will dissolve.” Maggy fanned herself in quick motions of her hand like a hummingbird’s wings, upsetting the obligatory feathers atop her head. “Do you think I will swoon? If I swoon, will I be excused from the presentation?”

Helene caught both of her hands in hers. “You won’t faint. Do you think Wellington fainted before a battle?”

“No, well, there is this one time when—”

“Maggy, you trained for this. You are beautiful, and this ordeal will take only three minutes of your life. All you will have to do is curtsy in front of the queen.”

“Should I picture her naked?”

“Pretend she is your grandmother. The poor lady is more concerned about the health of her ailing husband than about this event. Think that you will show her kindness. Breathe, and remember not to bend your knee too far when it is time to curtsy.”

The tittering of the girls increased, and they all flocked to the gallery’s window.

Helene fussed over Maggy’s dress, straightening the train. “Why the commotion?”

“An Austrian officer has stolen the spotlights. Well, I shouldn’t be complaining. If everyone pays attention to him, they won’t see when I make a terrible mistake.”

Helene lifted her brows at Maggy warningly.

Maggy smiled sheepishly. “His name is Christoph von Hohenberg, Count of Adlerstein. If I had my books here, I would research this title. Adlerstein means Eagle Rock in German. Don’t you think it is strange?”

Helene stilled, her hand pausing against the brocade of Maggy’s dress. When Helene was little, her brother used to take her to the top of the mountain behind their property. He called it their Pierre d’Aigle, Eagle Rock.

“You can teach him a thing or two about strategy,” Helene murmured.

The Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat and opened the door.

Maggy’s hand trembled in Helene’s. “Who should I pretend to be?” she whispered. “Tell me a part to play. Any one.”

Helene smiled and cupped her cheek. “You’ll play Lady Margaret Thornley—the gentlest, kindest, and most clever girl I know. Just let them see who you really are.”

Maggy’s eyes filled with sudden brightness. She nodded, beaming.

Helene followed Maggy to the throne room entrance and knelt to fan out the gown’s train.

As the lord-in-waiting announced Maggy’s name, Helene stood to the side, watching her pupil’s slow progress, her heart speeding up.

Maggy performed a perfect curtsy. The queen smiled, her gentle eyes crinkling at the corners, then bent to kiss Maggy’s forehead.

A second curtsy. A backward retreat. No stumbles. No missteps.

Helene’s vision blurred.

Maggy had done it. She had done it brilliantly.

Scanning the salon, Helene spotted Lady Thornley, whose face radiated pride. Their eyes met. Helene placed a hand over her heart. Lady Thornley smiled and gave a single, approving nod.

The connection was brief—but warm, like a sunbeam.

Before anyone else could recognize her, Helene slipped quietly back into the gallery.

The room was empty of debutantes now. Helene wandered to the window and pressed her palms against the cool glass, her breath fogging the surface.

Below, the queen’s birthday celebration had begun in earnest. The orchestra struck a glittering melody, and couples glided into intricate shapes, their minuet a choreography of refinement and joy. Laughter and conversation rose like champagne bubbles to the ornate ceiling.

Every ballet had this moment—when the tension resolved, the final trials passed, and a grand celebration followed. It had always been her favorite part to dance.

William stepped into her line of vision, and her breath caught.

He was dressed in full naval uniform, the red lapels echoing the depth of his mahogany hair. Though it was a court requirement, it didn’t make him any less absurdly handsome. He bowed to Maggy and extended his hand. She hesitated, eyes downcast, until he said something that made her giggle.

Helene’s love for him burst from the vault of her chest and filled all the little corners of her being.

Maggy would be all right.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Helene couldn’t contain the sigh that slipped from her lips. She closed her eyes, and at once, the music fell away. In its place came rain—the soft, persistent tapping against the glass panes of memory.

She was back in his arms, curled in the heat of that rainy afternoon, her cheek resting on his chest. Promise me you’ll stand for Maggy’s first dance, she had asked. He had frowned. I don’t dance at court.

But you must, she’d said, brushing a kiss to his cheek.

The girl’s terrified of me, he’d replied.

You terrify everyone, she’d teased, laughing. But you’ll say something kind, and she’ll feel safe. And it will all begin perfectly.

He had sighed, then—deep and warm—and let himself sink into the mattress. I might be persuaded, he’d murmured, not in his ducal voice, but in the low timbre she loved best. She had trailed kisses down to his navel and done exactly that…

The music returned in fragments. The sounds muffled. The glass before her turned stingy, hoarding the warmth and laughter on the other side. The dancers blurred into color and motion, distant and unreal. Whenever William held her, she had been the princess of her own story. Playing her part. Bathed in light. Now, she watched from the wings. How did the fairy godmother feel after she helped Cinderella? Was she lonely and a little envious of her charge’s brilliant success? Her fingers traced the glass over William as if she could draw herself into the scene. Did the fairy godmother wish it was her dancing with the prince? Even knowing that as a magical being, she belonged to a different realm? Was that why she told Cinderella she had to leave at midnight? Was the curtail of her fun a display of her envy?

A chill crept through the gallery. Helene shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. It was time to go.

But as she turned, her gaze caught on something new. Across the ballroom, one figure stood out in stark relief—an Austrian officer, the pristine white of his coat glowing against a sea of crimson. His posture was upright. Commanding. His chin lifted with quiet arrogance.

Recognition struck her like lightning.

Gaetan.

***

Helene tiptoed into the ballroom. She kept her face down, but her heightened senses placed William closer to the ballroom’s exit. A quick glance revealed she was right. Lord Thornley spoke with him, his words punctuated by quick stabs of his hands. Her heart accelerated, and Helene meandered away from their group, scanning the guests. Where was that Austrian officer?

A flash of white caught her eye near the refreshments. Helene wove through the sea of hostile hoops and ceremonial swords, stopping behind him. He stood with his back to her, golden hair gleaming under the lights, broad shoulders straight. Her stomach fluttered. The last time she had seen her brother, he had been a boy.

A tightness gripped her chest, making it hard to breathe. How foolish to be this affected—as if this stranger were the promise of solid ground for a castaway.

Partners lined up for the next waltz, their laughter and chatter blending with the strains of the orchestra. If the officer found his partner, she would lose her chance. Her hand trembled as she poised it over the officer’s arm.

He turned to her. A sharp-cut jaw, sun-kissed skin, the impossibly handsome face framed by waves of golden hair that cascaded over his shoulders. The uniform adorned him, medals catching the light, but it was his face—so achingly, impossibly like the one she had lost—that unraveled her composure.

“Dance with me?” she whispered.

The debutantes gasped, no doubt shocked at her boldness.

Whispers of La Sylphide rose among the guests, the murmurs spreading like fire in a hayfield.

When he swept her into the first counts of the waltz, her heart sped. Though he had been laughing and entertaining the small group, he was silent, his shoulder stiff underneath her hand.

Helene’s throat was so dry she could not speak.

He lowered his gaze to her, and she knew. His eyes were the same—the color of St. Cloud’s honey. Warmth invaded her chest, and it was all she could do not to embrace him.

Gaetan smiled, his eyes turning misty. “Puce Mignonne?”

Helene laughed through tears. “No one calls me like that here.”

She searched his face, wanting to see him all at once. Lightness buoyed her, and if he were not holding her, she would have flown away.

Gaetan grinned. “That’s a pity. You are even smaller than I remembered you.”

Helene had to crane her neck to look at him. “And you became a giant.” She lowered her voice. “Why are you here? Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Puce, don’t tell a Frenchman he should be afraid of the English.” He lifted a golden brow. “Though it would’ve helped if you answered my letter.”

Helene’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry, I—”

“The revolution was like a storm that hit our family.” His gaze turned solemn, and he tightened the hold on her hand. “It stranded you on this island, but I got you now.”

Helene let him lead her into the waltz. Warmth emanated from his chest, and she wanted so much to bask in it.

“But how—”

“Not now. We’ve attracted considerable attention. Don’t look, but there are several eyes on us. I should have chosen a Prussian uniform. The English lost trust in the Austrians after their emperor married their daughter to Napoleon. Still, I’m not partial to Germans. Or Russians, for that matter. Come to think of it, I don’t enjoy the British either,” he smiled wickedly.

Helene’s chin trembled. No point in keeping it a secret. He would find out sooner or later. “They are looking at me. You see, I’ve done something shameful. I’m a reviled creature.”

Eyes flashing, Gaetan tightened his hold on her. “Helene, you are the most lovely woman in this shabby palace, and you well know it.”

Helene sighed. Somehow, with Gaetan here, she had this delicious notion that everything would be alright. “I thought I was small… A cute flea.”

“And willful as always. I have a ship waiting for us. This place is too British for my taste. We depart for Calais tonight.”