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doll. But when you looked into those eyes, you knew—you always knew—that she would do what must be done.
     
     
    7
     
    “ HOW DO YOU LIKE IT SO FAR?” NICOLETTE ASKED AS THEIR carriage rolled across the cobblestones of London. They had just entered the city after two full days journey from the coast. They had seen much of England and only ten minutes of its capital city, but still Isabella knew her friend was referring to London; she was used to Nicolette’s sense of humor.
    Isabella smiled. “It’s a dream.”
    “It is a nightmare.”
    “It isn’t Paris, that’s what you’re saying.”
    “It stinks.”
    “Paris stinks. We’re just used to the way it smells.”
    “Paris smells like rotting flowers. London smells like rotting fish. If you prefer fish to flowers, then that is up to you.”
    Isabella laughed. Even in this bone-jarring carriage, with the rain falling and the French guards riding before and after the carriage weighted down by the mud, Nicolette brought warmth and laughter. “London is gray and dirty,” Isabella said, “but the people are hardy. Did you see that man back there at the bridge? He was waiting in the rain, had been for hours, I would guess, but he kept the bridge clear of traffic for us to pass. We didn’t have to stop and wait; he was already keeping it clear because he knew sooner or later we would be along. The people are efficient.”
    “Maybe there are stupid. Why else would a man sit out in the cold instead of waiting in a tavern by the fire and coming out only when there is a carriage there to make his job necessary?
    “I don’t think they are stupid,” Isabella said. “I think they are afraid.”
     
     
    8
     
    HER WEDDING DAY.
    Isabella woke in a fur-covered bed with four posts carved into angels. They all turned inward as if to watch over her. The canopy that stretched above their halos was woven with patterns of golden thread that caught the light of the fireplace, a cozy blaze maintained all night long by a silent-footed ancient attendant. But neither the wooden angels or the soft bed or the war fire had made her sleep deeply; several times throughout the night she had opened her eyes to see the flickering gold reflections above her. Now as the princess looked up she saw the gold washed out by the gray of a London morning seeping in at the edges of the window curtains, and she squeezed her eyes shut again and said to herself, “My wedding day.”
    Many times, as a girl growing up on a castle estate in the country outside Paris, she had imagined this day; she and Nicolette many times had described to each other what colors they would wear, the cut of their dresses, the flowers they would wear in adornment. About the age of fourteen they had begun to include their dreams of a bridegroom in their discussions. He would be handsome, tall, strong. Of course, they were children then, with immature ideas. Isabella was seventeen now, and her thinking was far more mature.
    Now she understood that she was a princess, soon to be a queen. She knew her duties: fidelity, respect, maintaining an appearance that would support her husband’s pride, and the obligation—greatest of all—natural; she had no doubts she would be a perfect wife.
    But she had other expectations, and they caused her some uncertainty. She hoped her new husband would want to share his thoughts, his feelings, his dreams saw it as her only chance for happiness. Isabella had always known herself to be headstrong. She had ideas; she liked to express them. She had been warned about this many times by the older ladies of the court who had undertaken her instruction in the responsibilities or royalty. They would practice flattery with her: how pressed an idea, how to be breathless with his brilliance. She remembered how Madame Bouchard, sent to her from the king of France, had tried to instruct her.
    “Now, my darling, suppose. I am your royal husband and I come to you and say, `I am so proud of my new