“Both of who?”
“You and the state.”
“But you just said I was the state. So that's just one of us, isn't it?”
“In a sense. But you are you and the state is the state.”
“Except that I'm the state, and the state is me.”
To her surprise he beamed. “Excellent Dottie. Louis XIV expressed it in those very words. L'etat c'est moi!”
“Why didn't he speak English?”
“Because he was French.”
She tore her hair. “How did he get into this conversation?”
“Because you used the very same words, thus proving that you really do belong in the great line-up of rulers. Just remember, you use the royal 'we' to indicate that you speak for your country as well.”
“But I'll sound daft saying, 'We would like another slice of toast.' I'll probably end up with two.”
Randolph closed his eyes. “It's only for use in public,” he said with difficulty. “'We are delighted to declare that…' or 'It is our wish that…' And so on.”
“Okay, I'll try to get the hang of it. Now, would you mind going because it's late and we would like to do our toenails before we go to bed?”
In between learning the proprieties, she interested herself in politics in a way that set her ministers' nerves jangling. At the earliest possible date she carried out her threat to summon Enderlin to discuss the low number of women in parliament.
“There really is nothing to be done about it,” he protested. “Women aren't applying to stand for seats.”
“But they might if the hours weren't so long,” said Dottie, who'd been studying hard. “If you reorganized the debates so that the votes were at a reasonable hour I think the women would come forward.” After a moment's thought she mused, “With a little encouragement.”
Enderlin turned a hunted look on Randolph who was sitting to one side, but he seemed preoccupied with his notes.
“Do I understand that you intend to provide the encouragement, ma'am?” Enderlin asked faintly.
“Could be.”
“Might I suggest that these interventions would be more appropriate when you've been here a little longer?”
“You mean when the election's over?” Dottie asked mischievously. “I did know that there was one due in a year. I want things done before that.”
He made one last effort. “Such matters take time-”
“Not if you have the power of decree,” Dottie reminded him mischievously. “We'll have to move fast if we're to get things changed before then, but I know I can leave that to you. Randolph is always telling me how efficient you are.”
When Enderlin had bowed himself out Randolph said grimly, “Do you mind leaving me out of your assaults on the executive? I value my skin.”
“Coward.”
“Yes, I am a coward,” he said after a moment. “More than you know, ma'am.”
“Don't call me that.”
“It is appropriate.”
“I mean when we're alone. I'm still Dottie.” There was almost a plea in her words.
“No,” he said at last. “Dottie has gone a long way away, and how can I complain? It was I who sent her away.”
He walked out without the usual punctilious request for permission, leaving her wanting to burst into tears. Or throw something. Either one would have been better than the ache she felt all the time nowadays, and which she'd soon realized had nothing to do with the loss of Mike. It was the loss of Randolph that hurt.
It had been building up since that night in London when he'd whisked her away from her ordinary life, thrown magic into the air so that it dazzled her as it fell, and then…
“And then he made me fall in love with him,” she mused. “Dirty, rotten swine!”
Her feelings for him had always been there, from the first evening. No, from the first moment when she'd seen him in the café and known that he was unlike all other men. He was thrilling and dangerous, and he'd aroused her senses as Mike never had. She'd called him a magician, too ignorant and unsuspecting to know that the spell he cast was the oldest one in the world.
She would have seen the truth earlier if there hadn't been so many things in the way. But she saw it now, and it made her so angry with him that sometimes she could hardly bear to be with him. But when she wasn't with him it was worse.
Most painful of all was the knowledge that she could marry him tomorrow. A man as shrewd and subtle as Randolph would know the right words to convince her, because she longed to be convinced. Just let him once guess her feelings for him, and she would be lost. They would embark on a marriage of love on her side and duty on his. And in no time at all she would hate him.
Sophie had left the palace now and was living at the Bekendorf family mansion in Wolfenberg, at which, it was rumored, a stream of gifts arrived each day from Korburg. But she still had the freedom of the palace park, and arrived there most mornings for a ride.
Sometimes Randolph joined her, for it suited his pride to have the world see that they were still on good terms. And Sophie, still doing a hopeful juggling act, always welcomed him warmly.
One morning when he didn't appear she went to seek him out in his office. Strictly speaking she should have been properly announced before walking in on the crown princess's private secretary while he was reading the royal correspondence. But while So phie stuck rigidly to protocol for others, she blithely ignored it to suit herself.
“My dear,” Randolph said, rising to kiss her cheek. “It's good to see you looking so well.”
She was at her best, blazing with life and health, and elegant in her riding habit. She kissed him back, cheekily, on the mouth, lingering just a moment too long, so that he gently disengaged himself.
“Prince Harold would not approve,” he said lightly.
She shrugged. “Oh, nothing's settled. But he'll be here soon.”
“Sophie be careful,” he said, meaning only to be kind. “Harold is a cold, unscrupulous man. He won't treat you well if it suits him not to.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean he may be after bigger fish. He still wants the throne of Elluria.”
“As do you,” she said with a brittle laugh. “You'd better marry the silly creature quickly before she realizes what you're really after.”
“Don't talk like that,” he said in a voice he'd never used to her before. “I forbid you ever to mention the subject again. It's an insult to her and an insult to me.”
Sophie shrugged, not disconcerted, as Dottie would have been, by the bleak winter that had come over Randolph. She'd miscalculated, but she would recover. She perched on a corner of his desk and glanced over the letters there. Randolph didn't notice, being occupied in arranging coffee for her, to atone for his ill temper. By the time he dismissed the servant and looked back into the room Sophie was tearing open a small packet.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “You can't open her letters.”
“Why not? It's from England. You couldn't have given it to her anyway. It's probably from her lover. Read it and throw it away.”
Examining the wrapping Randolph saw, with a sinking heart, that it was postmarked Wenford.
Sophie gave a shriek of laughter. “Listen to this…'Dottie, love-”'
“Give me that,” Randolph snapped, tearing it from her hands. “How the devil am I going to explain to her that it's been opened?”
“I thought it was your job.”
“Not her private letters.”
“She shouldn't be getting private letters from her lover. Just don't give it to her.”
“I shall give it to her, because I won't betray her trust.”
“She wouldn't know.”
“She would if you grew careless and-shall we say?-let it slip.”
“Me? Do such a thing?”
“I'm not sure, but I'm beginning to realize that I never really knew you Sophie.” He gave her a level gaze that would have alarmed a more perceptive woman. “Perhaps you and Harold will go well together after all.”