The Mystic Marriage by Heather Rose Jones Page A

suitable thought to share with a lady.
    “Do you think that’s wise?” Barbara asked mildly. She felt uncomfortable, as if she had been thrust into the role of tutor over him. “Have a care how you treat the daughters of your people,” she urged. “The villages here have long memories and you should be careful what little souvenirs you might leave behind.” And with that face, there will be no lack of willing daughters .
    He made a dismissive noise. “Charlin says it’s understood how these things are handled.”
    “Count Mainek’s son has no expectation of being the next Prince of Alpennia,” Barbara retorted but she turned away and let the matter lie. If the princess left him running loose then it wasn’t for her to try to leash him. It would strain her resources enough to explain the day’s events to Elisebet without terrifying her more than she was already.

Chapter Five
    Antuniet
    Antuniet paused for a few moments in front of de Cherdillac’s small brick townhouse before climbing the steps. This time her heart didn’t pound as she lifted the knocker. The place was, if she recalled correctly, one de Cherdillac had inherited from her family. Her long-dead husband had brought little more with him than his title when he fled France in the chaos of the revolution. The vicomtesse might affect a French accent and manners but she was Alpennian born and bred.
    The house’s location was respectable but far from fashionable: on the northern side of the Rotein, but neither directly along the river where the oldest families lived, nor at the city’s edge where the new money had built. Close enough to the Plaiz that a woman careless of proprieties might walk to the cathedral or the opera house or other entertainments if she didn’t care to keep her own carriage, but far enough that the houses allowed for breathing space between them. One could catch glimpses of tidy gardens and carefully trained fruit trees through the side passages. A family would have filled the house to a cheerful chaos. De Cherdillac had no brothers or sisters that Antuniet knew of. Well, no, there would have been no brothers or she wouldn’t have inherited the house or the comfortable competence that allowed her to play queen bee to an eccentric social set of mildly questionable reputation. Antuniet knew the vicomtesse’s public face, played out in the salles and concert halls and the country homes of her wealthier friends, but today was business and private. She wondered if de Cherdillac had chosen to meet her at home rather than a public café to preserve her own reputation or to preserve her guest’s dignity. No matter, it suited them both.
    There was no bar to her entrance this time, rather a bland and dignified, “Mesnera Chazillen, if you would…?” and a gesture leading her past the dining room back into the small breakfast parlor that looked out over the garden. It was early to dine, unless one were going out later in the evening. Antuniet made a mental note to watch for signs of impatience. Better to make a dignified retreat than put de Cherdillac to the embarrassment of dismissing her. Places were set for two, and there would be no need to shout across the length of a long table to be heard. That could be excuse enough for using the smaller parlor without touching on how out of place she would look among the crystal and silver of the formal dining room.
    The man took her coat and bonnet, and she crossed to the windows to wait for her hostess to be informed. A thick, gnarled vine climbed along one edge of the view and disappeared above, testifying to the house’s age. How many generations of boys had used that route to escape for nighttime adventures? There had been a twisted ilex of similar function behind her own house. No, it hadn’t been her house, not then and certainly not now. The house she had grown up in—that was as much as she could call it. And she recalled the tree’s spiny leaves had held a penance for the