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first week they married, sleeping with that lieutenant, Hippolyte Charles? And was she charming when he discovered that she had lied about her debts, year after year? She ruined my relationship with Fréron, and he still has sympathy for her. “What time is it?”
    Paul watches me slip on my gloves. My mother taught me the proper way to do it when I was eight. “You begin with your bare arm outstretched,” she said, then showed me how to slowly, very slowly , tease them on and off. And if every man in the room isn’t watching , she added, you’ve done it wrong . He leaves his book—Machiavelli’s The Prince , my very first gift to him—to look at the clock in the salon.
    “Twenty till eight,” he calls to me.
    My God, it’s all going to happen in twenty minutes. My heart is beating so swiftly that I can see its rise and fall through the light fabric of my dress. Then a spasm in my stomach nearly makes me bend double. I sit on my chaise and look around my chamber. From the pillars of gilded bronze to the statues of Isis, my brother has re-created the Palace of Thebes for me in here. We belong together. And tonight, when he is free of Beauharnaille, I will convince him to return to Egypt.

    W HEN THE CLOCK strikes eight, Paul offers me his arm, and we cross the palace toward my brother’s Throne Room. The halls are filled with dignitaries, all hurrying to get the best spot in the chamber, like a rushing stream of white diamonds and feathers. Nearly a thousand courtiers have arrived, including Eugène de Beauharnais and his sister, Hortense, looking sorry for themselves. It was my brother who insisted that Joséphine’s children be here tonight. Many years ago he madeEugène the prince of Naples, and Hortense the queen of Holland. I doubt he will take their titles away, so they could at least try and look grateful.

    “Y OUR H IGHNESS .” The ambassador of Russia bows deeply to me, and next to him, I acknowledge the governor of Paris.
    As we ascend the marble staircase, Paul whispers in my ear, “Look at your sister, Queen Caroline.”
    I follow his gaze to my younger sister. She is talking eagerly to a man I don’t recognize, and the pair of them are ascending the stairs together. “Who is he?”
    “The ambassador from Austria,” Paul says.
    “What’s she doing with him?”
    But he can no longer answer. We have entered the Throne Room, with its red velvet hangings and elaborate gold paneling. This was once the bedroom of King Louis XVI, but my brother has turned it into his Salle du Trône. After the barbarism of the Revolution, there wasn’t a single item of value left in the Tuileries. Since everything had either been stolen or sold, one room was the same as any other. I wonder how many of these courtiers realize how empty these halls were when my family first arrived. It was my brother who turned this ruin back into a palace; my brother who restored this country’s greatest treasures to their former glory. I step forward, and when I am the only figure in the door, I nod.
    “Her Royal Highness the Princess Borghese,” the usher announces grandly.
    The entire chamber turns, and the women gasp as I pass through the chamber, snapping open their fans to gossip behind them. Yes, keep up your nattering , mes chéries. I know what I’m wearing, and that you’re all dressed in black, as if we’re here for a funeral and not an act of separation . A second usher appears to guide me toward the dais, and Paul follows behind. I can feel his presence like a steady shadow, and when we’vetaken our places before my brother’s throne, I lean over and whisper, “Did you see their faces? Those women nearly expired!”
    “You never tire of creating a scandal, Your Highness.”
    I look toward the dais, where a single gilded throne remains: Joséphine’s has been removed. I remember the night the carpenter, Jacob-Desmalter, was summoned to the palace and told he must create something entirely unique. “Blue silk