Wolf Pact, The Complete Saga

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Good morning,” she said, pulling open the bed curtains and yawning.

  “Good morning, Princess,” her ladies chorused as they curtsied.

  “No breakfast today?” she asked, noticing that no one had set the little table at the edge of the room by the windows.

  “No, my lady. You have been asked to join the queen this morning.”

  Marie sighed. It meant that the rumors were true, then—her mother had plans for her. The formal request to join her at breakfast in front of the whole court meant that Marie would discover what those plans were, along with everyone else, in public—with no opportunity to talk about it in private beforehand. Which could only mean that her mother did not want to take any chances, and that any objections Marie might have to her designs would not be taken into account. She began to cough violently into her handkerchief, staining the white linen with blood and scaring her ladies.

  “I am all right,” Marie said when the coughing subsided, and the ladies helped her dress. Paulette, the Lady of the Robes, decided on the crimson silk.

  “Better for your coloring.” She smiled as she helped Marie pull the gown over her head. “There, you see? You carry it well—you can hardly tell you are sick.”

  “Paulette! Watch your tongue!” Evangeline reprimanded.

  “Oh! Forgive me, Your Highness,” Paulette said fearfully, with a bow.

  “It is all right, Paulie, dear,” Marie said gently, taking a long wheezing breath. “It is not a secret.” As a child, she had suffered from every childhood ailment, from infection to the pox. She had been slow to speak and slow to walk; for a long time, it was assumed she was slow in every capacity, and arrangements had quietly been made for transfer to an institution in Geneva—until she surprised her governesses by speaking in complete paragraphs at the age of four, and discussing logic with her tutors by age seven. She had worn braces on her legs to straighten the tibias, a helmet on her head to round out her skull, and a contraption on her back to make her sit up straight. For most of her life she had felt more like part of a machine than a girl, harnessed and strapped and attached to a variety of painful apparatuses to improve her looks and posture.

  Marie scrutinized herself in the mirror. She was seventeen now, no longer shackled by contraptions or sitting in a wheelchair. But a few years ago she had caught the wasting plague, a rare and debilitating illness of the tubercular variety, which caused blood in the lungs, shortness of breath, and weakness in the constitution. It had turned her pale coloring almost translucent. She had thin brown hair, a high forehead, a narrow nose, and intelligent gray eyes. The dress did give her a little bit more color, even as she despaired of ever looking pretty. It took almost an hour for the ladies to get her properly outfitted—to hook every eye in her corset and tie every bow on her skirt, to plait her hair and arrange it artfully around the nape of her neck.

  When they were finally satisfied with her appearance they led her to the queen’s bedroom, where two hundred courtiers were already gathered behind the railing that separated the private from the public space of the room. The assembled were the great and the good of the realm: the noble ladies and lords, dukes and earls, ministers and officials, high-ranking enchanters; even the Merlin was there for a change, looking impatient as he scanned his pocket watch. She had heard Aelwyn was supposed to return to the palace that day, and wondered when her friend would come to see her. Emrys nodded a greeting, and Marie shuddered inwardly; she had been uneasy in his presence ever since the day of the fire. He had stormed into the burning room and cast a spell to put out the blaze, his face full of wrath and anger. Emrys was a sorcerer, a wizard, a master of the dark arts. Like many of the queen’s subjects who did not understand magic or its workings, Marie was afraid of the man who wielded it.

  The queen’s bed was a grand four-poster draped with the most luxurious of velvets, embroidered with the white fleur-de-lis of France and the white roses of England. Marie held her breath as a gnarled hand reached and pulled the curtains away. The queen appeared in her nightdress: a small old woman, stooped, hunchbacked, balding at the top. She was neither stately nor regal, but when she appeared all two hundred members of the court bowed low. Marie kept her head bent and tried not to cough. She snuck a peek as her mother walked behind the dressing panels, where her ladies-in-waiting helped her into her morning robe and breakfast cap.

  The court kept their bows in place until the queen spoke.

  “Good morning,” she said, addressing them at last. Her voice had a majestic timbre, powerful and authoritative. It was a voice that made proclamations, turned commoners into lords, and sentenced enemies to death.

  The crowd chorused a hearty “Good morning, Your Majesty!”

  “Her Royal Highness, Princess Marie-Victoria Grace Eleanor Aquitaine, Dauphine of Viennois, Princess of Wales,” said the herald, announcing Marie’s presence.

  “Marie, my child, will you join me for breakfast?” Eleanor said, looking pleased and surprised, as if she had not orchestrated her daughter’s appearance herself.

  Marie took a seat across from her mother at the gold-and-white table in front of the railing, which was set with an exquisite breakfast. It was a command performance; the entire court hung on their every word and scrutinized their every action. Her hand was shaking a little as she accepted a cup of tea, but it was not from being on stage. No, the fear was always there; underneath the love and obedience, thrumming like a barely heard note, there was a cold panic in her bones whenever she was near this strange creature, this ancient mother of hers. Her eyes watered and her throat itched. Marie chastised herself for her cowardice, but she could not help herself. She had always felt mute and powerless and distant in her mother’s presence. She glanced at the queen’s wizened face, lined with wrinkles as heavy and deep as the folds in the curtains behind her. Queen Eleanor was over one hundred and fifty years old.

  Growing up, Marie had noticed that the other children who lived in the palace had mothers whose faces were creamy and soft to the touch. Who is this old crone? she’d wondered when the queen visited the nursery. She could still recall the shock and dismay she’d felt when she understood that her mother was not Jenny Wallace, the pretty, apple-cheeked nurse who held her in her arms, but the imposing old woman in jewels and furs who appraised her with a grimace.

  Mother and daughter sat across from each other. The queen was dressed in her plain morning robe, which even in its simplicity spoke of power and ease and position. The brocade and embroidery were so fine as to be almost invisible; the fabric was smooth to the touch, weightless on her frail shoulders.

  “I am so glad you have joined me today, my dear, as I have a wonderful surprise for you. The Prussian court will be our honored guests at this year’s Bal du Drap d’Or.”

  “The Prussians?” Marie asked. Just a few weeks ago the empire had been determined to crush the tiny obstinate nation, until the smaller kingdom had revealed its trump card.

  “You remember dear Leopold, don’t you? The Kronprinz? Such a handsome boy,” Eleanor said, attacking her breakfast with an uncharacteristic ferocity.

  Marie felt the blood slowly drain from her face. She was right to fear this day. Her mother meant to marry her off to Leopold VII of Prussia to secure a lasting peace between the two nations. Marie glanced at the Merlin. Emrys’s face was impassive, but she knew he had to be behind this. A truce; a marriage; an alliance that would turn a deadly rival into a close friend once again.

  The Prussians had once been allies. The royal families of Europe shared common ancestry, and Marie had grown up knowing Leopold. She even counted his younger brother as one of her closest childhood friends. But the relationship between the nations had slowly deteriorated until it reached full-blown hostility, and the Prussians had gone to war with the empire over the Alsace-Lorraine border for several years, with countless fatalities on both sides. The courage and resistance of the much smaller country was impressive, just like the power at their command—one of the last Pandor
a’s Boxes left in the world, which they had put to awesome use at the Battle of Lamac. The victory they’d won had led to the empire’s retreat.

  Marie heard that the Merlin had been stupefied and Eleanor incensed at this remarkable and astonishing turn of events. For centuries, the empire had maintained a stranglehold over the world’s only source of magic after defeating Jeanne of Arkk and her dark witches five hundred years before. How the Prussians had gotten hold of a weapon of such magnitude was unclear, but they had used it to their advantage, and this proposed marriage would be their reward.

  She knew from the way the Merlin ignored her and her mother chastised her that they considered her too weak, mild, and sickly ever to become an effective ruler, and the most they could hope for was to marry her off to one. She supposed that with this peace treaty they were forced to accept Leopold, but she couldn’t help but think that they must be relieved as well. Leopold VII was one of the most eligible of the royal sons of Europe: tall, broad-shouldered, classically handsome, with bright blue eyes the color of the Danube and a halo of golden curls upon his brow. More than that, he was supposed to have grown up a real gentleman; he was said to be well-read, smart, diligent, and hard-working—instead of the usual lazy Lothario. From his performance at the battle, it was clear he was a real leader, a hero brave and true, who had the love and respect of his subjects. Not that it mattered when it came to her happiness. She remembered him as a sly little boy, one who had little interest in other people, other than as his admirers. He would not care for her as a person, nor should she expect him to. Romantic love did not factor into royal matrimony; the most one could hope for was civility. He was marrying her for the empire, for the crown she could place upon his head; for the chance to be king.

  She had known this day would come, but it was still a shock that it had arrived so soon. She knew she had no choice when it came to her own marriage, and that love was the least of considerations when a princess chose a mate—or, more to the point, when a mate was chosen for her. Even though she had been preparing for it all her life, it was still unexpected when it finally arrived. She thought briefly of a person she would choose if she were allowed to, but it was too painful to even think of him. Gill Cameron had left her service for months now, and it didn’t appear he would be back anytime soon. Besides, there was no possibility of the queen and the Merlin ever approving that union.

  Her mother tapped her spoon against her cup, to show she was still waiting for an answer.

  “Yes, I do remember Leo,” Marie said finally. “But he is engaged, isn’t he?”

  There was a titter from the assembled courtiers, which the queen silenced with a frown. “Is he?” Eleanor asked pointedly.

  “To Isabelle—you must remember—the pretty little French girl,” Marie insisted. House Valois was not welcome at court, but like many, she had heard that sixteen-year-old Lady Isabelle of Orleans was very beautiful indeed, blessed with dark eyes like limpid pools in a small, heart-shaped face. Uncommonly breathtaking and lovely: everything Marie was not. Marie knew she was displeasing her mother by bringing up Leo’s engagement, but she couldn’t help it. What was the use of power and privilege if one could not be happy in life? She missed Gill and wished with all of her heart that she could see him again. If she could, she would tell him exactly how she felt about him this time. She did not want to think about a future with Leopold.

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “I am quite certain he is unattached. And if not, he will soon be.”

  Marie nodded. This was not just her mother’s will, but the Merlin’s. The peace of the empire depended on her taking the Prussian prince as her bridegroom. The sooner she accepted her fate, the easier her life would be.

  “In any event, he is to be our guest. I trust you will help make his stay with us more pleasant.”

  “Of course, Mother.” Marie wondered what her father had been like—if her parents had loved each other as history claimed. The great love story of Queen Eleanor and Prince Francis. Or was that another lie? Marie had seen portraits of her mother as a girl. Eleanor had been so beautiful once, with her crown of red hair and dazzling green eyes. They called her the English rose with French charm. Once in a while, she saw glimpses of that fierce, gorgeous girl in the old lady sitting before her—like today, for instance, as her mother planned her daughter’s betrothal, her bright eyes flashing.

  “I am sure he will be quite taken by you,” Eleanor said, her voice brimming with confidence as she slathered butter on her toast. It was clear that as far as the queen was concerned, the courtship, proposal, and wedding were as good as done. “If all goes well, perhaps you will be wed by the end of the season.”

  It was late March, and the season ended in June, just a few months from now. A royal wedding was just the thing to distract the populace from the costly failure of the long-fought Prussian campaign. The public loved a royal wedding; there would be tea towels with their faces on them before the year was out. At least Leo had a handsome profile. “You will adore him,” Eleanor said in that voice of hers that brooked no argument.

  “Yes, of course, Mother,” she replied automatically, and was seized by a hacking fit that left her red and breathless.

  Eleanor was instantly alarmed. “Have you taken your tonic?” the queen demanded.

  When she was able to speak, Marie nodded. She had taken the latest tonic, but there was nothing that could be done; no amount of spell-casting or potion-making could ease her affliction. The wasting plague was a disease even the healers from the sisterhood could not cure. Marie had heard the sisters murmur that it was her mother’s advanced age that had caused Marie’s many ailments, as Eleanor had been over a century in age when she carried her to term. The pregnancy had been an alchemy of creation, made from the preserved seed of Eleanor’s long-mourned and long-dead husband when the queen had decided that, at last, she was ready to bear a child. Even so, the wasting plague was a virulent disease, and one that afflicted perfectly healthy people out of the blue.

  “Emrys assured me this one would provide the miracle we have been hoping for. He had the herbs brought from the East; the viceroy himself sent it from the mountains of the Himalayas,” the queen said, exchanging a sharp look with her enchanter.

  “Yes, Mama,” Marie rasped, her chest heaving and her eyes tearing as her mother grew more and more upset.

  “You must rest, dearest,” her mother said, rising from her seat to kiss Marie’s forehead. With papery lips against her skin, Marie tried not to shudder.

  Marie nodded, still coughing blood, and stood from her chair. She waded through the rows of bowed courtiers, letting her ladies lead her back to her room so she could lie down.

  It was an odd thing, her cough; as soon as she left her mother’s presence it abated, and she almost felt fine.

  The Astor manor in Washington Square had once been the grandest house in the city. It was built in the French-Gothic style with a touch of Beaux-Arts flair, three-and-a-half stories high, with an imposing limestone façade. But the corners of its cornice were crumbling. A few slate tiles were missing from the roof, so that copper flashings left long streaks of gray-green oxide collecting in the cracks. In a drawing room on the first floor, the formerly vibrant Renaissance-style space with a scene from the Trojan War painted on the ceiling was empty, save for a lone ebony desk, at which the daughter of the house was currently bent over her studies.

  Ronan Elizabeth Astor grimaced at the book in front of her. The reproduction was badly faded, splotchy, and gray, so that it was difficult to make out the face of the boy in the picture. He was either afflicted with a bulbous nose and tragically triple-chinned, or it was an unfortunate angle and even worse lighting. She decided it was likely the former, as a handsome suitor’s features would be discernible even in an abysmal photograph. As far as she was concerned, he was a dog just like the rest of them—all these princes and barons, aristocrats and lords, dukes and archdukes, and more counts than she could count. Total bow-wow, she thought wi
th a naughty smirk. A collar would have been more appropriate than that ghastly ascot he wore. Her governess glared at her and rapped on the print with her finger. “Pay attention!”

  “One would assume that Viscount Stewart would have been able to afford a better court photographer,” she finally said in a bored voice. Ronan was tired of all this. For weeks, her governess had been showing her various portraits of titled, single male aristocrats from Debrett’s International—that august and authoritative guide to the landed, titled, and moneyed in the empire—and quizzing her on their names, positions and hobbies. It was a special edition, with lavish full-color spreads of their country estates, not the usual roll-call listing of names and titles. And therefore, it was much more helpful for a striving American outsider. All morning, Ronan had dutifully parroted back the correct responses until she knew their names, titles, and interests better than her own.

  This was to be her first London Season: a special privilege, as not many from across the sea were invited to court every year. Ronan had merited an invitation through a patron—an old friend of the family, one Lady Constance Grosvernor, who was a favorite of the queen. There were plenty of silly American girls who would jump at the chance to marry one of these fools, but Ronan was not one of them. At sixteen she had a restless, impatient quality that set her apart. It was the best and worst thing about her, depending on whom you asked.

  “I believe the correct answer is Peregrine Randolph, Lord Stewart, as that is the proper ‘courtesy title’ of the eldest son of the Marquess of Hillshire,” Vera Bradford admonished. Her nanny was very particular about such details, and Ronan’s mother had chosen her precisely because Vera had served at several great houses abroad, and knew the names and habits of the important characters intimately. Too intimately, the rumors had it—but then, there were always rumors of lordlings and their pretty young governesses. If one believed all the rumors, then one believed that Vera’s son would have been the rightful heir of Salisbury, if not for the absence of a silly little thing like a marriage ceremony. Noble and royal bastards: the world was full of them, babies like strays with Devonshire noses and Aquitaine eyes.