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the last light of the now-waning day, but no matter: Lighted candles ensconced on the outside walls illuminate the way and highlight the red, green, and blue banners and fragrant garlands of flowers draped over windows and doorways. “Vive la reine!” people continue to cry, but the shouts subside as the ragged and frayed tunics of the peasantry and the pale linens of the townspeople give way to colorful silks, velvet and fur, gold buttons, glittering jewels. These are the barons of France and their families, too refined to shout, too elegant to do more than smile and wave—if that. For at least one in their midst does neither, but watches her with contempt on his soft, almost womanly, face.
    Toulouse.
    She ducks behind the curtain. Why has he come to Paris? Not to congratulate her on her marriage, surely; not to bow before her tomorrow, when she takes the crown. Whatever his mission, it cannot bode well for Provence.
    The carriage halts at the cathedral grounds. Myriad candles and torches illuminate the festive scene: horses munching from oats poured onto the grass; silk-clad men and women drinking from under shelters of branches and leaves; the cathedral, its spires piercing the night sky, its enormous rose window overlooking the sculptured saints lining the path to its door. Perfumes scent the air, and horse dung and burning tallow. Laughter and music weave an intricate dance under the peeping stars; a baby cries; horses whinny and nicker. Uncle Guillaume opens the carriage door and beckons her forth. Aimée hands her a mantle; she pulls it close. The air is cool for May—but this is not Provence.
    The king’s smile makes her forget the chill. Her hand in the crook of his arm, they pass a mélange of faces—friendly, curious, bland, sullen—before stepping into a white palace beside the cathedral. These, the king tells her, are the archbishop’s apartments, given up for their use.
    Up a set of stairs, then into a lamplit room. On the walls: a tapestry of gold, red, and saffron hexagons from Outremer; another depicting the crucified Christ, tears like diamonds on his cheeks. Carpets pad the floor in red and blue. Green velvet curtains hang at the windows. Gold and sandalwood perfume the air. She detects a faint fragrance of rose as well. Sumptuousness stretches like a cat in her lap. Her father’s household was never so luxuriant.
    “Behold my mother.” Louis murmurs as if this were the cathedral. Marguerite blinks, adjusting her senses: the flickering light, the music of the vielle—and the woman with the snow-white face on the red velvet throne. When her sight returns, she moves across the room to kneel at the feet of Blanche de Castille, the legendary White Queen.
    She extends her hand, allowing Marguerite to kiss her heavy gold ring. “I am deeply honored, my lady.” Marguerite’s handtrembles as she touches the cool fingers. “You are much acclaimed in my home of Provence.”
    Blanche de Castille gives an indelicate snort and looks away, as if bored. Louis helps Marguerite to stand.
    “Your home is in France now.” The queen mother’s voice holds a chill, like the night air. “The people of France are your people.”
    Marguerite tries not to stare. This is the woman of whose beauty the troubadours sing? Her shaved hairline makes her forehead seem to bulge, ledge-like, over her eyes. The paste covering her face and throat renders her a White Queen, indeed.
    She clears her throat. “And as queen, I only hope I can serve the French people as well as you have done.”
    “M. de Flagy told me that you are a good girl.” The White Queen’s voice has softened. “I can see that he was correct. We are going to get along very well.”
    “It is my fervent wish.”
    Her blue-gray eyes, the “eyes of vair” praised in many a song, peruse Marguerite from head to feet and back up again, as did M. de Flagy’s, but without the leer.
    “The problem is, ma chère, you do not look French. Your skin is as brown