Perhaps if my country had done more for me in my hour of need, I would not have accepted Madame Lemieux's offer of employment. The details of our arrangement were discussed the very night the deal was made. The French woman was skilled in the art of negotiation and managed to resolve every one of the predicaments I proposed to her as reason for my declining her invitation. What would I tell the English? Abandoning a post with the English military would be considered treason. Madame Lemieux assured me that she would be writing to the General who held my command to inform him that I would be working for her in France and if he took issue with that or made any attempts to recover me, she would ensure that the whole world knew, not only that the English used sixteen year old girls for their reconnaissance efforts but also that the General who commanded her had a few scandalous dalliances in his past as well. I did not ask what she had meant by that. Judging by the wicked smile on her lovely face, I thought I would not like to know. What of my sister? I could write to her, perhaps visit in time if I proved my loyalty. It wasn't as if I had seen her a great deal in the previous two years anyway. The man who killed my parents? Well, we could forge a mutually beneficial relationship. She was well connected, in England as well as France. If I should prove my loyalty, she could assist me in uncovering their identities. What I would do then, I was not certain, but the idea of knowing who their murderers were was more tempting than I cared to admit.

So, with every one of my doubts put to rest, there had been nothing to do but to accept. And for two years hence I had been in French employ. Now, at twenty years of age, I felt a sort of constancy for the first time since I was a child. My life fell into a largely monotonous rhythm at the Lemieux estate. Placed in the service of Madame Lemieux's daughter, Giselle Lemieux, as her handmaiden, the girl grew attached to me quite quickly. She started proclaiming that I was her very best friend within a few months of our meeting. I spent my days with her helping her dress, fetching her food, and lazing about the estate. It was a far finer life than I was accustomed to and it put me in such a good humor that I was able to engage in her idle pratter without such frequent suicidal tendencies. She was vain and naive as all rich girls were but there was something behind it all as well. She was sweet, though that could be due to her ignorance, and she was kind to those whose company she enjoyed. I was, apparently, among that class.

When I was not gossiping with Mademoiselle Lemieux, I was working in the service of her mother. The war had, thankfully, ended only a few months into my service in France and so I had not been sent upon any missions in opposition to my home country as I had feared I would be. Instead, Madame Lemieux's demands seemed to center more on the same gossip which her daughter was nonchalantly spreading or, at least, it focused upon the same subjects. I was set loose upon the French nobility and the elite of French society to ascertain, for my employer's benefit, those things which people who have never truly suffered a day in their life deem important. My assignments included the discovery of which maiden a gentleman was most heavily considering for marriage, the tedious legality of lines of succession, and those involved in business plots regarded as impertinent to my employer. All in all, it was a comfortable way of life, far less demanding than my time spent with the English military. Though I saw my hosts as vapid, spoiled, and vain, they were kind enough to me to justify my continued existence here. There were far worse engagements for a girl of my status.

I sent every penny I made home to my sister so she could post it against our debts. Still, with another two years of interest, we had much more to pay off. We were over halfway by now but only barely. I suspected that my sister had not been able to pay as much as she had before. At her advanced age of twenty two, many of her former clients had lost interest. I had expressed my disgust at such a notion in a letter to her before but she had seemed far less surprised at their behavior. I wrote to her every week though she did not always write back. Still, my heart soared every time one arrived. Evelyn never asked me when I would return, knowing that I could never make such a promise. In truth, I wasn't sure I ever would. Despite what Madame Lemieux had done to assure me that the English military would not be a problem for me, I still feared the possibility of being tried for treason should I ever return to my homeland.

"What are you thinking about?" someone asked suddenly. Drawn out of my reverie, I glanced over to Giselle Lemieux who lounged on the outdoor chaise beside me. Her hazel eyes twinkled in the afternoon sun as she twirled a strand of her elegant auburn hair around a finger and shot me a mischievous smile.

"My sister," I told her.

"Do you miss her?"

"I do."

"What's it like? To have a sister? I mean, I'm an only child so I wouldn't know. But Celeste tells me it's a bond like no other."

I glanced at her again. She had sat up in interest, her hair falling back from her shoulders in chestnut waves.

"Celeste is right," I told her, giving credit to one of the girl's more insipid friends. "The bond of blood is stronger than any I've ever known. It's a connection I can't explain. When we were younger, we were together so often that when one of us injured ourselves in a minor way such as a small cut the other would instinctively know. I still feel that sometimes. Have you ever had a day that you feel very sad but you don't know why?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head, eyebrows knitted in thought.

"I have. I've always thought it must be because she is sad. Somewhere else, far away. Like my heart goes out to her when I don't even know what for."

She fell quiet then, considering what I had told her. I considered it myself. It was true. Somedays I imagined my sorrow was a consolidation of the pain for the trials we both faced and that my heart was heavier when hers was too. But I had no way of verifying my suspicions and, more often than not, convinced myself that it was only I who was having a particularly difficult day and that there couldn't possibly be such an emotional connection with a woman living hundreds of miles away.

"Do you think that other bonds might be so strong?" Giselle asked then and I looked over to her to find that she was no longer gazing at me. Her eyes had turned to the horizon and she appeared to be watching the road, far out in the distance.

"What sort of bonds do you mean?"

"Well, like love."

"There are many kinds of love. I love my sister."

"You know what I mean," she said impatiently. "Like romantic love."

Oh. I said nothing. I was far from an expert on the subject.

"Do you think it's possible to have the sort of romance that exists in L'Astrée for example?"

"I don't know what that is."

She sighed. "What I mean is, does a perfect love exist?"

"A perfect love?"

"The sort of love where you are willing to sacrifice everything for each other. The kind of love which makes you feel as though you're living for the first time, as if every breath you take is entirely dependent upon the existence of another soul. The sort of love which consumes you until you spend every waking hour thinking of your lover. Do you think that sort of love exists?"

"I hope not. I imagine it would make it quite difficult to get anything done."

She burst into laughter and I smiled along. Tossing her head back so that her auburn waves fell behind her, smiling up at the sky in animation, she resembled a statue of an old Greek goddess, young and beautiful with a world ready to bow to her. I wondered what it must be like to have such hope. I had never ruminated on the idea of a perfect love because I had spent the majority of my life attempting to simply survive. How wonderful it must be to be born with ambition, gifted with desires.

"Why are you asking about love?" I asked her then. Her laughter subsided and she smiled at me, eyebrow arched in that expression she had, the same as her mother's, which translated directly to I know something you don't know. "What is it?"

"We're having visitors soon," she said, lying back on her chaise as though the news was of no importance to her at all. But I could see the excitement in her features all the same. "By tonight, I imagine."

"Tonight? Who?"

"English visitors even. Your fellow countrymen."

"Giselle, are you going to tell me who they are or continue hinting at their identity until I guess? Because I can guarantee you I don't know enough of the English nobility to engage in speculation."

She laughed at that. "Very well. It's the Duke of Gloucester's son."

"Ah," I answered, sitting back and losing what very little interest I had held previously. "Lancaster then."

"Not exactly."

I glanced over at her to find her still smiling, enjoying my struggle.

"He's not a Lancaster. Not yet. He's a bastard. The Duke is working to legitimize him," she told me and I harrumphed in vague interest. I hadn't known that the Duke of my region had a bastard son. Not that it mattered. The depravities of the nobility were of less interest to me, even, than Giselle Lemieux's meditations on love. Apparently unaware of my disinterest, she continued. "He is coming here with the intention of marrying me. Or, at least, becoming betrothed. Father says that the Duke thinks his association with our family will bolster his attempts at legitimization. And that the nobility are pressing him to ensure the boy is appropriate for rule in case of the Duke's passing which, if my mother is correct, could be any day now for the man is very ill and has been for some time."

I became more and more impassive as she blathered on. Problems of noble Englishmen far away did not hold my interest as they once might have. The belief that these people were somehow intriguing, that their lives held some sort of voyeuristic enjoyment for people like me, had fled with my youth. What remained was the cynical wisdom of a girl who had been forced to grow up far quicker than she should have been. Still, out of duty, I feigned an interest for Giselle's sake. I may not have an enthusiasm for this piece of news but she, unsurprisingly, did. She was the daughter of a French aristocrat. She had been born for breeding and so she had been waiting her whole life to see which stallion was to claim her. As abhorrent as the practice was, she was eager, at least, to see what her stallion looked like.

After a lazy afternoon in the sun during which Giselle spoke mostly of half remembered gossip and the dilemma she was experiencing in which she could not decide what to wear upon her brave white knight's arrival, we found our way back inside in an effort to cool down and prepare for the evening. I left Giselle in the capable hands of another maid named Selena and made my way to Madame Lemieux's room. I found the woman applying her third coat of makeup. One more and she would break her record. I stood patiently aside while she painted her red lips even redder and then puckered them and turned to me.

"You've heard, I imagine," she said then, standing from her seat and crossing the room to a wardrobe where she, too, seemed to be deciding upon a dress.

"About the arrival of a Duke's bastard son?" I asked. "So I have."

"She told you that he seeks to marry her."

"She did."

"Well, then, you know you'll be quite busy."

"During his visit, you mean."

She turned and, still holding one of the dresses in her hand, approached me until she was only a foot away. She poked her bony finger into my collarbone the way she always did when she intended to make a point.

"I want to know every word he speaks while he remains within these walls. I don't care who it's spoken to or whose privacy it violates. I want to know of it." She turned back to the mirror in front of her, holding the dress up and cocking her head to the side. "I am a lot of things, Avery, but I am a mother first and foremost. This boy wishes to wed my daughter. I need to know he's worth it."

"But is she?"

"Avery," she snapped, rounding on me in a fury. I stood my ground. Madame Lemieux knew of the contempt I truly felt for her daughter. Because of my skill and the ways in which I used it to benefit her family, she usually did not mind. But it seemed that impending events had her riled more than usual.

"I will see to him," I told her and she nodded.

Interpreting that as my dismissal, I turned and left her chambers. I was on my way back to Giselle's room when one of the manor guards stopped me. I knew him well. His name was Gabriel Bisset. He was young, perhaps a year younger than me, and very friendly. The other servants at the estate seemed to find him very handsome and I could see the attraction with his fair hair and even fairer skin. But my interest fell upon the information he could give me. He was nearly always assigned to Madame Lemieux's chambers and, as she seemed to me to be the cleverest among them, I preferred to have knowledge of her affairs in case she ever decided to renounce me. I had learned that trick from her. The French called it chantage. I liked that better than the English term. Blackmail.

So I engaged Gabriel Bisset in a pleasant chat, beginning with the weather and the tediousness of his post and culminating in the excitement of a noble visitor. He was amiable enough though worthless as a source for today. I had begun to contemplate how best to extricate myself from this unending exchange when Giselle Lemieux herself arrived and saw to it for me. Apologizing profusely, she claimed to have need of me and led me off, arm in arm, back to her rooms. She fell into a fit of giggles when the door was closed tightly behind us and we were alone in her chambers. I only raised my eyebrows and waited for her to calm down.

"That boy is virtually obsessed with you," she pronounced upon the cessation of her hilarity.

"Pardon me?"

"Oh, don't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Gabriel Bisset and I are friends."

"Friends. Of course."

She passed to her vanity table then and settled herself in. She plucked the hairbrush from it's place and held it out to me. I complied, moving forward to take the brush and set to work on her elegant waves.

"I envy you, Avery."

I almost laughed.

"You envy me?" I asked incredulously. "Whatever for?"

"Are you joking?" she responded in genuine surprise, her gaze meeting mine through the mirror. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Your ringlet curls are perfect, your lips are naturally plump and pouty, and that tiny waist of yours is covetous. I can only imagine what your appearance would be if given the same potions and products we wealthy apply on the daily."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

She snorted. "Well you are beheld by Gabriel Bisset."

I said nothing, just smiled along so that she would pry no further. There was nothing other than cordiality between myself and Monsieur Bisset but Giselle would never believe me. Though I imagined our friendship was entirely one-sided. I was not blind, nor was I a fool, and I could see the way in which Gabriel looked at me. It was the same way that many men had looked at me in the past few years. I recognized the manifestations of infatuation when I saw them. The nervous glances, the sweaty palms, the stuttering. Gabriel Bisset was a boy with a crush he was unsure how to handle. It was so pure I lamented that he should soil it on me. I was only grateful that he seemed firmly mired in the apprehensive phase. I had dealt with my share of men who had chosen to take a more aggressive approach to satisfy their desires and I was glad he was not one of them. I liked Gabriel well enough. It would be a shame to have to unburden him of an appendage.

I worked diligently to craft Giselle's hair into something elegant. Serena had been teaching me how to do the latest styles recently and I thought I had done a rather fine job when I stepped back to allow her admiration. Then I chatted with her while she did her makeup and helped her select a dress for the occasion when she requested my assistance. I had just begun to lace up her bodice when there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" Giselle called out. I yanked the bodice tight and she let out a whimper as the blow nearly crushed her ribs. Seems the rich girl had been a bit overindulgent on sweets lately.

"The Duke's son has been spotted riding through the gates," Serena called through the door. "He will be here any moment."

"Thank you, Serena," I called out so that Giselle would not have to speak as I tightened the corset even further and tied.

Only a few minutes later, Giselle was secured within the bounds of her gown and I was panting at the exertion of fitting her into it. I blew a loose curl from my face as I helped her smooth out her skirts and subsequently followed her into the hall. Unfortunately, Gabriel Bisset himself waited just beyond to escort us to the foyer and Giselle could not resist giving me a scandalizing look just before she turned and walked on ahead of us. The boy fell into step beside me but, luckily, had not the nerve to speak as we walked.

We reached the foyer to find that Monsieur and Madame Lemieux were already waiting for us. I bent to help smooth Giselle's small train along the ornate marble and then rose to stand behind her, three feet out of the way so as not to be seen. Madame Lemieux reached out to adjust her daughter's sleeves but Giselle batted her away after a few moments of fussing. The hall settled into silence and the wealthy family awaited their future with baited breath. It was a strange scene for a peasant girl to witness. They had all the money in the world, a lavish home, and luxurious goods that I had never even dreamed of. Yet, they didn't have a title. And they wanted one. Badly.

Suddenly, the door we all waited, staring at, opened to admit a familiar Frenchman. He grinned broadly as he announced. "Monsieur, Madame, and Mademoiselle Lemieux, I give you the son of Duke Lancaster of Gloucester and his companion."

There was a collective drawing of breath from the Lemieux's and a rolling of the eyes from me as the man moved aside, swinging the door wide. The moment my eyes adjusted to the abrupt sunlight enough to see the man stepping through the threshold, my heart stopped. I blinked twice in effort to correct my vision, sure that the signals being transmitted to my brain had been misread somewhere. But the view before me never changed. I felt my mouth open at the realization. It had been eight years and quite a few stages of puberty but I would recognize Oliver Ainsworth anywhere.