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frozen, my fork poised halfway between my plate and my mouth.
    “There is to be a royal wedding later this month. You have no doubt got wind of it,” the queen continued.
    “No.” It came out as a squeak.
    “Princess Maria Theresa of Romania is to marry Prince Nicholas of Bulgaria. He is the heir to the throne, as I expect you know.”
    I gave a half nod as if the royal families of Europe always discussed their wedding plans with me. Thank God it was someone else’s wedding we were talking about. I brought my fork to my mouth and started chewing.
    “Naturally our family should be represented,” the queen went on. “We are, after all, related to both sides. He is from the same Saxe-Coburg-Gotha line as your great-grandmother Queen Victoria, and she, of course, is one of the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringens. If it were in the summer, we should have been delighted to attend; however, there is no question of the king himself traveling abroad at this bitter time of year.”
    I nodded, having found a particularly chewy piece of meat in my mouth.
    “So His Majesty and I have decided to ask you to represent us.”
    “Me?” I managed to squeak, my mouth still full of that large chunk of meat. I was now in a tricky situation in more ways than one. There was no way I could swallow it. There was no way I could spit it out. I tried a sip of water to wash it down but it wouldn’t go. So I had to resort to the old school trick—a pretended cough, napkin to my mouth and the meat expelled into the napkin.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself. “You want me to represent the family at a royal wedding? But I’m only a cousin’s child. Won’t the royal families in question see this as a slight that you only send someone like me? Surely one of your sons would be more appropriate, or your daughter, the Princess Royal.”
    “In other circumstances I would have agreed with you but it so happens that the Princess Maria Theresa has particularly requested that you be one of her bridal attendants.”
    I just stopped myself from squeaking “Me?” for a second time.
    “I gather you two were such good chums at school.”
    At school? My brain was racing again. I once knew a Princess Maria Theresa at school? I was friendly with her? I went through a quick list of my friends. No princesses appeared on it.
    But I could hardly call a foreign princess, apparently related to us, a liar. I smiled wanly. Then suddenly an image swam into focus—a large, chubby girl with a round moon face trailing after Belinda and me and Belinda saying, “Matty, stop following us around, do. Georgie and I want to be alone for once.” Matty—it had to be she. I had never realized that it was short for Maria Theresa. Nor that she was a princess. She had been a rather pathetic, annoying little thing (well, not so little, but a year behind us).
    “Ah, yes,” I said, smiling now. “Dear Matty. How kind of her to invite me. This is indeed an honor, ma’am.”
    I was now feeling decidedly pleased with myself. I had been asked to attend a royal wedding—to be in a royal bridal party. Certainly a lot better than freezing and starving at Rannoch House. Then the ramifications hit me. The cost of the ticket. The clothing I would need . . . the queen never seemed to take money into consideration.
    “I suppose I’ll have to have a frock made for the wedding before I leave?” I asked.
    “I believe not,” the queen said. “The suggestion was that you travel to Romania ahead of time so that the dresses can all be fitted by the princess’s personal dressmaker. I gather she has excellent taste and is bringing in a couturiere from Paris.”
    Had I got it wrong? Matty, who always looked like a sack of potatoes in her uniform, was bringing in a couturiere from Paris?
    “I will have my secretary make all the travel arrangements for you and your maid,” the queen continued. “You’ll be traveling on official royal passports so there will be no unnecessary