“New clothes?” Dottie murmured.
“Your royal dignity demands that you don't wear the same outfit in public twice, so it means a lot of work. But I know you'll do your duty for the sake of the country.”
She considered. “Well, if it's my duty, I suppose I might.”
“You'll find that-what was that noise?”
“That's the royal stomach rumbling,” Dottie muttered. “You promised me something to eat and I haven't had it yet.”
“The audience is over,” Randolph declared hastily.
Everyone filed out, but Dottie noticed that each man stopped in the doorway to give her a final, doubtful look.
“They know I can't do it,” she told Randolph when they were alone.
He whirled on her. “Never, never say that,” he said fiercely. “Never speak it again, never even think it.”
“All right, all right,” she said, alarmed by the change in him.
He calmed down. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to shout at you, but this is more important than you can imagine. You must be convinced that you can do it, convinced to your depths. The essence of being a princess is to believe in yourself as a princess. Otherwise how can anyone else believe it?”
She was too tired to argue with him. She watched thankfully as two footmen wheeled in a table, already laid.
“Only for one?” she queried. “Aren't you going to stay?”
“I have urgent business to attend to. You have a full day tomorrow, so when you've eaten, go straight to bed.”
“Your Royal Highness,” she reminded him mischievously.
“Go straight to bed, Your Royal Highness.”
She climbed into the four poster as soon as she'd eaten, and found it more comfortable than she'd expected. But her thoughts were in too much turmoil for her to sleep, and after lying awake for half an hour she put on the light and began to explore the royal apartments.
The bed could have slept five. It stood on a raised dais that was reached by three steps, so that she had no choice but to look down on the rest of the world, which didn't suit Dottie's ideas at all.
She examined a bookshelf, but its contents were in German, except for a few English magazines about horse breeding. It seemed she had nothing to help her through the long night.
Then she remembered Royal Secrets. She'd glanced at the magazine just long enough for Randolph to make his point, then stuffed it into her bag, where it still lay. She pulled it out and curled up in bed for a good read.
It was clearly designed for the semiliterate, which Dottie reckoned was why Brenda read it. Text was kept to a minimum, and pictures covered each page. Many of them were of Randolph, “the dispossessed heir.” In flashy accents the magazine described his life. Thirty-two years old, raised to inherit a throne, instructed in military matters, statecraft, diplomacy, then abruptly deposed when his parents' marriage was found to be bigamous.
There were pictures of Randolph as a child, accompanied by a coolly correct looking woman who turned out to be his mother. There he was in his teens, this time with his father, the late King Egbert III, the man who'd so cruelly let him down by making a secret marriage and forgetting about it. Studying his face, easygoing, amiable, weak but lovable, Dottie felt that if she met him in life she would have liked him, even though she, like Randolph, had to suffer for his way-wardness.
More pictures: Randolph in army uniform, in white tie and tails, Randolph attending parades, in the royal box at the opera, dancing with a beautiful woman in his arms. The woman was unusually tall, Dottie observed from the dismal depths of five foot one, almost tall enough to look her partner in the eye. The caption said she was Countess Sophie Bekendorf, Prince Randolph's fiancée.
Here the magazine outdid itself, describing the love story in throbbing accents.
Who can see into the hearts of these lovers, reared to occupy a throne together, now seeing their fortunes shattered? Once a great man in his country, Randolph is now no more than an illegitimate commoner. The Bekendorfs have always raised their daughters to be queens. Will Sophie stay true to the man she loves? Will he hold her to her bargain, or be strong enough to release her?
A strange feeling came over Dottie as she realized that the cardboard cutout in this purple prose was the flesh-and-blood man she'd met in Wenford. This was “Mr. Holsson,” who'd helped her make up the bed and laughed at his own awkwardness, who'd charmed her until her head spun.
And all the time he'd known something that she didn't. He'd deceived her. She'd been hurt and angry about that, but now a glimmer of understanding, even sympathy, came to her. What had it been like for him to come and find her, bring her back to Elluria, offer her the throne that was rightfully his? He'd done it smiling, with no hint of what it must have cost him, because it was his duty. For his people he'd sacrificed himself. For their sake he would be no less ruthless in sacrificing her.
Dottie yawned and rubbed her eyes. The clock said two in the morning, and she supposed she ought at least try to sleep. But when she'd turned out the light the room was filled with moonlight, and she couldn't resist going to the window and looking out over the great park that surrounded the palace. The moon picked out the tops of the trees and bushes, and turned the lake into a sheet of silver.
Then she became aware that two figures were walking under the trees beside the lake. One was a tall man whose familiar outline made Dottie grow very still. The other was a woman almost as tall as himself. Together they glided by the water, his arm around her waist, his head bent down toward hers. Dottie watched as they stopped suddenly and turned to each other. She held her breath while there was a sliver of light between the two faces. Then they began walking again, and were soon lost in the blackness of the trees.
Dottie turned away, feeling uncomfortably as though she'd pried into something that was none of her business. After all the new impressions that had assaulted her senses that day, this was one too many.
Leaving the window open, she began to explore again. She'd briefly glimpsed the bathroom before, but now she studied it properly. It was a magnificent creation with a thick cream carpet, elegant tiles and a circular bath sunk into the floor.
“Like Cleopatra,” she murmured.
She thought of the bathroom back in Wenford that she shared with five other people, with constant squabbles. The next moment she'd run the water and plunged in. It was bliss and she enjoyed herself for half an hour before emerging to dry herself off on a towel and look around for a bathrobe to snuggle into.
She couldn't see what she wanted, but she caught a glimpse of herself in the tall mirrored doors of the bathroom wardrobe. It was almost the first time she'd seen herself like this, full-length. Both her home and the place where she now lived were too crowded for dancing around naked.
“Hmm!” she murmured, turning slowly, while trying to look over her shoulder. “Pity I'm not taller, but I suppose I'll do.”
Not finding a robe, she pulled open one of the doors to the wardrobe. Here too, there was luxury, with the same thick carpet, its own soft lighting, and enough room for her to step inside. She did so, and walked the length, but it was completely empty. She sighed, and decided to go to bed.
Then she discovered a problem…
Randolph was awoken next morning by the sound of someone pounding on the outer door of his apartment. He was sleepily aware of the murmuring of voices, then his valet hurried into the room, his face tense.
“She's gone,” he said aghast. “The princess has vanished from her room.”
“Impossible,” Randolph said testily. “What were the footmen doing?”
“Sir, there have been four footmen outside Her Royal Highness's room all night. They swear she hasn't gone out that way. Nor can she have used the concealed door, because that seems to be locked from the other side.”