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forth before the princesses who stood stair-stepped on the dais above her. The sunshine shone through the tall windows, brightening the long, elegant, gilded room, and complimenting the three sisters. The girls were dressed alike in white gowns with pink satin bows around their waists and pink bows in their hair. Supposedly they were pretty — for princesses.
    Rainger's father, King Platon, said so.
    Their father, King Raimund, beamed with pride when he saw them. Everyone in both courts whispered at their suitability and their comeliness. Rainger supposed it was true, but he had been coming to Beaumontagne once a year ever since he could remember, and to him the girls were sometimes fun to play with, but usually an annoyance, for they would tease him without any deference for his age or exalted position.
    "Today, we're welcoming the ambassador from France. This is an official court function, and all eyes will be fixed on you, the royal princesses of Beaumontagne." Queen Claudia wore her white hair in a chignon, with never a strand out of place and a tiara glittering with diamonds and sapphires. Her cerulean velvet gown perfectly matched her eyes.
    Rainger thought she had to be at least one hundred years old, maybe one hundred and fifty, but her skin, while wrinkled, was untouched by blotches or broken veins. Some people whispered she was a witch, and Rainger didn't discount the notion. She certainly sported a long, skinny nose, and everyone knew she brewed secret potions in the palace kitchen. She demanded perfection — from herself, and from everyone around her. She got it too.
    He himself had inspected his court dress before leaving his room, making sure his white linens gleamed and his dark suit fit his shoulders flawlessly. He had taken a moment too, to admire his muscled form. Countess duBelle said he was a fine figure of a man. He had to admit the countess was right.
    Queen Claudia stopped before her youngest granddaughter. "Amy, let me see your nails."
    Reluctantly, Amy extended her hands.
    Queen Claudia inspected the princess's outstretched palms, then examined the fingernails. "Better," she said. "Clean, but a princess does not bite her nails. Remember, your hands and every part of your person are representative of the royal entity of Beaumontagne. Everything you do and say is subject to examination and must be above reproach."
    Six-year-old Amy was an imp with hair as black as Rainger's and an honesty Queen Claudia had not yet been able to crush. "But, Grandmamma, I like to bite my nails. I don't want to be a princess if I have to stop."
    As Amy's candid response echoed through around the marble columns, Rainger grinned.
    Clarice put her hand over her eyes.
    Earnestly, Sorcha said, "Grandmamma, Amy doesn't mean what she said. She's only six."
    Sorcha was twelve, with red hair the color of new minted copper and a kind and gentle disposition. In Rainger's opinion, Queen Claudia had ground down her spirit with constant lectures about royal duty, and that was too bad, because she and Rainger were betrothed. He imagined he would be bored within a year of marriage.
    Queen Claudia fixed her eldest granddaughter with a freezing look. "I know Amy's age, and such sentiments are unacceptable at any time." She considered Amy until the little girl squirmed. "This honor which you would so freely discard is one given to only a privileged few, and a real princess should be willing to lay down her life for her country and her family. Balanced against such demands, giving up a disgusting habit is easy."
    Amy dug her toe into the rich pile of the red carpet leading up to the throne. She muttered, "Then I guess I'm not a real princess."
    Clarice released a smothered giggle.
    Queen Claudia turned on eleven-year-old Clarice, a blonde with masses of curls springing around her face. Her nostrils flared as she declared, "You will not encourage her in her insolence!"
    "No, Grandmamma." But Clarice's eyes still twinkled, and she dug her