that his mind remained as sharp and clever as any fox’s. “That a Fortunaro princess should be forced to scurry away like a low skulking thief, to snivel and beg for mercy from those heathen English—”
“Oh, hush, Romano,” said Mama mildly. “She is going to England because it is the only country that Buonaparte cannot capture. There is no other place where she will be as safe.”
Idly the marchese tapped his stick on the polished floor. “The English will adore our dear princess, you know,” he said, studying Isabella with a connoisseur’s eye. “They are all penny-gallants for a pretty face in distress.”
“She is more than simply a pretty face, Romano,” said her mother sternly. “She is my daughter, and a great beauty.”
“Of course, of course,” said Romano softly, soothing. “She will have no equal among those milk-fed English ladies.”
Though Isabella kept her head proudly raised, as if already confronting those English ladies, her unhappiness was mushrooming. Didn’t Mama plot and plan as expertly as any general? Hadn’t she already explained every detail to Isabella, how it was her duty to be the one Fortunaro to go into exile in London? Isabella wasn’t a fool, and she didn’t need Romano to tell her how to behave. The Monteverdian army had already been pounded and swept by the French in battle after battle, the few remaining troops now poised at the gates of the city for the same surrender that had humbled Florence, Naples, Venice, even great Rome herself. How could Isabella not fail to understand her role as the last proud symbol of her family’s defiance, there under the protection of the King of England?
But why must it be her duty—her fate!—to be the only one sent so far, far away for safekeeping? Why was she standing here in this near-empty palace, her clothes weighed down by the gold coins and jewels sewn into the seams and her heart made even heavier at the thought of the dangerous, lonely voyage before her?
As if to answer, the rumbling roar of the guns began again, closer now than ever before.
“It is time,” said Mama briskly, arranging her cashmere shawl more elegantly around her arms. She took Isabella by the shoulders, her face so close that Isabella could see how the powder settled into the lines around her mouth. “You must go, my brave little lioness. We cannot let the English change their mind, can we? You will go, and you will always remember who you are, what you are, and bring nothing but honor to our name.”
Isabella gave a quick jerk of a nod, not trusting her voice to answer. She must be brave and daring like Mama, and she must not weep and wail like a baby who’d not gotten her way. She turned each cheek for Mama to kiss, then kissed her in return, the quick brush that Mama had always preferred.
“I—I’ll miss you, Mama,” she said with a gulp, blinking back her tears. “God be with you, and with Father and Giancarlo, too.”
“Of course He will, my darling,” said Mama, her smile brilliant as she patted Isabella’s cheek. “He always watches over us Fortunari, doesn’t He? Now Romano and I must go, and so must you. Farewell, Isabella. Farewell!”
And as quickly as that, Mama was gone, leaving only the fading scent of her perfume and the click of her lacquered heels on the marble floors, followed by the fainter tapping of Romano’s stick. Swiftly Isabella turned away. She did not weep, of course, because Mama wouldn’t want that, but inside she felt as empty and abandoned as the palace itself.
She wished that when they’d said farewell, Mama had spoken less of duty and honor, and more of love. She wished that same farewell had been longer, warmer, sweeter, something for Isabella to remember on the perilous voyage to England, instead of the quick, formal parting before Romano. She wished she could admit her fears, instead of always having to be brave as a lioness. She wished—she wished for many things that couldn’t be, things that even a Monteverdian princess had no right to desire.
“Bah, Her Majesty has no heart,” muttered Anna, purposefully just loud enough for Isabella to hear. “No heart at all.”
“Enough, Anna,” said Isabella sharply. It didn’t matter that the older woman had become her lady’s maid by default, one of the last few servants who hadn’t panicked and fled the palace, or that Anna would be her one link with her old life as they traveled together. Isabella’s mother insisted that such familiarity should never be tolerated, no matter the circumstances. “It is not your place to fault my mother, unless you, too, wish to be branded a traitor.”
“Traitors, traitors,” muttered Anna, linking her finger and thumb together in the sign against evil. The gesture made her look even more like an ancient little crow, dressed in black from her stockings to the kerchief tied beneath her chin. “What does loyalty mean these days, eh, with the French devils at our gates?”
“Base-born rabble, nothing more,” countered Isabella, automatically repeating her father’s description of the tawdry French army. To her family, such upstarts were below contempt, unworthy to be even an enemy of their own ancient kingdom. “Our brave army will not waver before such a mob.”
Anna sniffed loudly, that sniff saying much about the pitiful chances she gave the brave Monteverdian army. “Your bonnet and gloves, my princess.”
Isabella lifted her chin so Anna could tie the bonnet’s silk ribbons in a bow, then took the gloves herself, unwilling to let Anna see how her fingers were trembling. Weren’t the Fortunaro women as famous for their strength as for their beauty? Couldn’t she prove herself worthy of her mother’s faith in her to do what must be done?
“Her Majesty said for you to make every haste, my princess,” insisted Anna. “Her Majesty said—”
“It is not your place to speak with such freedom, Anna,” said Isabella curtly, a perfect echo of her mother’s reprimands. “Do you see me disobeying my mother? Do you see me dawdling? Rather it is you and your clumsy old fingers that have delayed me with my dressing.”
“Forgive my clumsiness, my princess,” mumbled Anna, bobbing her head up and down by way of apology. As she did, a rough little pendant slipped free of her bodice: three twigs lashed with red thread into a triangle and strung on a black cord.
“What is that around your neck, Anna?” asked Isabella suspiciously. “You know heathen charms and talismans are not permitted in the palace.”
Quickly Anna tucked the pendant back into her bodice. “It’s naught to do with the devil, nor with the priests, my princess. It’s a family sign, that is all.”
“It still has no place here, and I do not wish to see it again. Now come, bring that lantern, so we might be on our way.”
For the last time, Isabella hurried down the marble staircase, the weight of the treasure stitched into her clothes slowing her steps. Down one flight, then another, into the dark, narrower hallway that led to the lower gardens and the beach. She’d never come this way by night, and certainly never with only a single servant holding a lantern against the darkness. Cobwebs brushed and clung to her clothes, and as she heard the mice scrambling to keep clear of the light, she whispered a quick prayer to guard her against whatever dangers might lie within the murky shadows.
Oh, that bats and rats and spiders and cobwebs might be her only threats!
“This way, my princess,” said Anna, puffing with exertion as she unbolted the last door for Isabella. “The English sailors will be waiting for you on the beach.”
Isabella nodded, holding her heavy skirts to one side as she slipped
