Keep reading for a preview of The Ring and the Crown, the first book in Melissa de la Cruz's exciting new series!

The streets of London were so much more crowded than she remembered. It was as if everything in the city had multiplied. The buildings were taller and closer together, rows of red brick houses next to the new tall, skinny, cement ones with slate roofs; and there were so many people jostling on the sidewalk, elbow to elbow, shoulder against shoulder, a great army of pedestrians marching purposefully to who-knows-where. For a moment, she felt claustrophobic and trapped; lost, adrift, and alone in a sea of humanity. Her senses were assaulted from every direction: smokestacks belching into the gray sky, newsboys yelling the headlines, the salty-tangy smell of fried fish from the sidewalk vendors. It had only been four years since she’d left the city, but it felt like four decades, and Aelwyn Myrddyn stood in the middle of it all, clutching tightly the battered leather valise that contained all she had in the world. The bag was heavy with bottles of herbs, tonics, and potions from Avalon.

“All right, miss?” the driver asked, tipping his hat in her direction.

She hesitated for the briefest moment, feeling a pang in her heart. She thought of Viviane waving a solemn good-bye from the shore, her golden hair shining through the mist. For a moment, Aelwyn wondered if she had made the right decision in returning to the city of her childhood. When Aelwyn had turned sixteen, Viviane had told her that it was time to determine her fate. Magic users had two options when they came of age: to join the invisible orders, or to choose exile in Avalon.

“Miss?” the driver asked again.

“Yes, quite all right,” she said, thinking of the letter in her pocket from her father. She squared her shoulders and nodded. The driver’s orders were to take her to the palace directly, but she had persuaded him to stop a few blocks away. She wanted some time to walk by herself, to see the city up close, before she disappeared behind the black iron gates of St. James Palace. Aelwyn watched as the driver whistled and shook the reins, which were connected to an empty harness hanging in the air. The black horseless carriage rolled away slowly down the street and disappeared all at once with a thunderclap and a cloud of white smoke. Viviane’s hansoms were a rare sight in the city, and so a few pedestrians blinked in surprise; but most hardly missed a step, and were more concerned with getting out of the way of the newfangled automobiles that were clogging the narrow roads.

“Need a hand?” asked a nearby gent, his eyes lingering over the curve of her form underneath the cloak. “That bag looks heavy, lass.”

She shook her head and pulled the cowl over her mass of auburn curls. The ability to command male attention was its own kind of magic, but one that could backfire on a girl if she wasn’t careful. Aelwyn had learned caution during her time away from home, and not to waste her charms on unworthy candidates. The nubby fabric of her wrap was cozy and comforting; the cloth was handspun, and reminded her of the island and the simple pleasures of life there. She had given them up to return to this metropolis.

As a child, she had not been allowed out of the palace very often; but, after the first few moments of terror and disorientation, she had navigated her way easily, using the tall tower spires of the castle as a guide and beacon through the crowded streets. Now, everywhere she looked, there were banners hanging from balconies, and storefronts were flying the red-and-blue flags of the empire. They were remnants of last week’s victory celebration for the soldiers and magicians, who were finally home from the long war against the Prussian kingdom—although “victory” was a bit of a misnomer. The smaller nation had wrestled the mighty empire to a bit of a truce, a standoff. But in any event, the war was over—and that was indeed something to celebrate.

She walked along the mall, a broad boulevard lined with flowering trees, pretty shops, and gardens, stopping once in a while to peek into dusty book emporiums and bakeries with Cornish pasties in the windows. This is what she wanted—to live in the moment, to live in London again, to matter. She had cherished her experience in Avalon, but couldn’t imagine living there for the rest of her life as a person out of time, living in an endless present. Alone and apart from the world, she would have watched the ages going by through her aunt’s crystal glass. Avalon, for all its glories and beauty, was not enough. She was her father’s daughter, after all.

During her exile she had yearned for the city, like a missing limb. She wanted to experience all it had to offer: live in the great palace, participate in the hectic preparations for the coming season, and dance at the Bal du Drap d’Or, the Ball of the Gold Cloth—an annual gala to commemorate the unification of the two kingdoms and the foundation of the empire. She wanted to see the queen again. Emrys’s magic might be the shield of the realm, but Eleanor was its center, its great beating heart.

Aelwyn took a shortcut down an alley that led directly to the royal mews, heading toward the side and back entrances for staff, ministers, and courtiers. The elaborate and heavily guarded front gates and reception halls were reserved for honored guests only. Here she slowed down her pace, nervous about seeing her father again. Four years ago, he had sent her away as if she had been nothing to him; as if she’d been just a girl from the kitchens, and not his only daughter. She knew she had done something wrong by losing control of her powers and starting a fire, and she understood expulsion was the only punishment the court would accept for the threat and harm done. But because Emrys never once wrote her while she was away, never once indicated that she was forgiven, Aelwyn had taken her banishment to heart.

In his letter, Emrys had invited her back to the palace, but she was still apprehensive about their reunion. When she was younger, she had sobbed bitterly at their parting; and while she was almost grownup now, as well as Avalon-trained, thinking about him made her feel like that sad girl once more. She wasn’t that much different, really, from the group of street kids—grubby little urchins with dirty faces—that had just emerged from the back of a fry shop into the alley. “Want some?” one of them asked with a grin, holding out mushy peas wrapped in greasy newsprint. She shook her head with a smile, and he shrugged, turning back to his meal and accidentally bumping her shoulder.

“Oh, excuse me!” she said, dropping her bag. But when she leaned over to pick it up, it was no longer there.

It was gone.

She stood there, staring at the ground, and realized she had been had. That bump had been no accident. She looked up to see the little thief running away with it, his food scattered everywhere. “STOP!” she cried, horrified. “STOP, boy!” But he paid no attention to her, darting into the busy streets, weaving quickly through the crowd, and was soon lost in a sea of dark coats, hats, and parasols.

Her precious stones, tonics, and herbs. Viviane’s crystal glass: her treasured inheritance from Avalon. Aelwyn pushed up her sleeves, hiked up her skirts, and ran after the little criminal, pushing gentlemen to the side and stepping on ladies’ toes. Her face flushed with anger and embarrassment. Had she looked that much like a rube? Like such an easy mark? It shamed her to think she had been robbed the minute she set foot in London. Her aunt had cautioned her, had ordered the driver to see her safely into the palace, and Aelwyn had only her stubbornness to blame.

She saw the boy ahead of her—he was about to turn the corner—and once he did, she knew he would be lost, her valuables gone forever if she did not act. There was no other recourse. She had to do it. The boy had given her no choice.

She stopped running and forced her heartbeat to slow, her breath to steady. She closed her eyes and focused. She had seen him for the briefest moment when he’d offered her a bite. She touched the stone she wore around her neck—obsidian, deep as midnight—and called up his face in her memory.

His grubby little face; the face of a young street beggar, a naughty boy with shifty cold blue eyes; an operative of a local syndicate, working for a Fagin who was sure to be lurking somewhere, taking whatever he stole and stringing him along with a pittance. She concentrated and called up her memory of his eyes, and looked through them into his soul.

Aelwyn would not have been able to do this to just anybody, but the boy was young and poor, untrained and uneducated. Children from good families were taught how to protect one’s soul from a mage. But the little thief had not had the privilege of learning how to hide his soul from the world, to disguise its nature; and so she had been able to see into his very essence, into the spirit that made him who he was. As she looked into that deep abyss, a calm settled upon her.

The name of his soul came to her mind in a whisper.

Bradai, she called. To me.

She opened her eyes. Just as she had commanded, a thin gray column of smoke, shimmering in the afternoon light, came streaking toward her. She reached out and caught it with her fist. It was small and cold and shivering. His soul.

No one noticed the little boy frozen in his tracks in the shadows, his mouth agape, his foot hovering above the sidewalk in midstep, a large ladies’ valise hanging off his arm. Aelwyn took her time as she walked toward him, holding his soul in the palm of her hand. She looked right into his eyes, which were blank now; dead. He did not know what had happened to him; did not understand what had taken hold of his very essence and frozen him into place.

She plucked her bag from him and slapped him, hard, on the cheek. His soul trembled in her grasp, wriggling—gasping for air, for breath—for release. Aelwyn sighed. He hadn’t deserved this. It was wrenching to perform an extraction on so small a child. He was only a little boy, a desperate, hungry street urchin, and his gang leader probably wouldn’t have even known what to do with the treasures he carried. Most likely he would have tossed the jars of tonics and herbs into the garbage, broken the crystal glass, and sold the stones for a tenth of what they were worth. She turned away. When she was a few blocks safely past, she released her grasp on him and let his soul back into his body.

St. James Palace, the home of the sovereign, was a monolith: heavy, brown, and solid. It lacked the symmetry of Parliament and the Crown’s other great structures, as its twin towers were located off to one side, their octagonal turrets standing like two sentries at the ready. The red-and-blue Franco-British flag flew proudly from the roof and whipped in the air. Above, the sky was gray, as it always was; the clouds stirred and streaked across the horizon, but never parted to reveal the sun. Perhaps the great palace would look less dour if the sun ever shone on it, but it rarely did. The gray of London made the castle look darker, more ominous. Aelwyn felt increasingly small and insignificant as she got closer to it. St. James was the seat of the queen, and had been home to centuries of British and Franco-British rulers. Its architecture spoke of unquestioned power, of a strength that had stood for centuries without interruption—of a power that would never bend, never compromise.

Her father was in his study, she was told by his unsmiling secretary. It was the same dour old woman who had ushered her out of the castle four years before. The chamber was tall and narrow; like the castle itself, the proportions of the room were designed to intimidate anyone who entered. Slender pilasters dressed the walls, their thin golden lines interspersed with panels of rich red cloth. In the early morning light, the cloth reminded her of blood. A brazier of candles made the darkness of the room even more intense, more foreboding. Her father’s desk occupied a faint patch of light below the flickering candles. The mighty table could seat a dozen men, and the desk nearly dwarfed the man sitting at its head. A globe decorated one side of the tabletop; it spun slowly, apparently of its own accord, and she guessed it was her father’s magic that made it spin. Indeed, it was the power of the Merlin that made all things turn. Behind the desk hung a loosely knit tapestry embroidered with a map of the empire. The map’s size, its age, its glorious detail, all said one thing to anyone who braved a visit to the first magician of the realm: Our empire is vast, our power unquestioned; our rule will stand forever.

She had not seen him in four years, but Emrys Myrddyn looked exactly the same, with his stern countenance and trim white hair and beard. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored morning suit, his gold cuff links catching the light. “Ah, there you are,” he said, looking up from his paperwork with a distracted smile, as if she had just disappeared for a moment and not been sent away for four years.

“Hello, Father,” she said politely.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. “How was your journey? Are you hungry?”

She shrugged. “I’ll get something from Cook later.”

Emrys took an apple from behind his desk, peeled it, cored it, and cut it into fourths. She was touched by the gesture. He’d remembered that as a child she had always preferred her fruit this way: peeled, prepared, cleaned of skin and pits and stones, which was the way the princess’s fruit was always served. When she was a child in this castle, she had insisted that everything she had be exactly like the princess’s. She had never settled for less than what Marie received.

She accepted the plate gratefully and took a bite from one piece.

“How is my sister?” Emrys asked.

“Viviane is well. She sends her regards.”

Emrys snorted. Aelwyn knew that Viviane believed Emrys had sold out the enchanters of the world by making them servants to the throne. “Your father is nothing but a glorified civil servant,” the Lady of the Lake liked to grouse. Viviane had chosen exile over subservience. “I will not bow to some lesser creature,” she’d told her niece, and made it clear what she thought of Aelwyn’s decision to return to the palace. “What is outside this mist that calls to you so? There we are but chattel, performing monkeys. Let them find someone else to create their fireworks and call for rain.”

“Is my sister as stubborn as ever?” Emrys asked in a bemused tone.

Aelwyn smiled. Other than inquiring about Viviane, her father did not mention Aelwyn’s long absence or its cause; he did not ask about her health or her happiness. Then again, Emrys had never been particularly affectionate. Her father was the nearly thousand-year-old wizard who had advised Artucus, the first King of England, and all his heirs—including Henry VI, for whom Emrys had brought the kingdoms of England and France together to create the foundation of the empire.

Emrys settled back into his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk. “I had to convince the Order to take you in; you know they aren’t very fond of Viviane, and were wary of her influence upon you. I had to assure them of your obedience. Do not fail me.”

“My will is to serve,” she said, showing him she had already learned the vows of her future station.

He nodded, pleased. “Run into any trouble on your journey?” he asked, taking a pipe out of his pocket and lighting it.

“No, Father,” she said with a shrug, fiddling with the obsidian stone on her chain. She thought of the little thief, and how she’d held his soul in her hands. “None at all.”

The prettiest room in the castle was built like a jewel box: all pink, white and gold, with gilt molding, pink damask wallpaper, fat cherub murals painted on the ceiling, and a crystal chandelier above the bed. It was a room fit for a sleeping princess. Except the princess, Marie-Victoria, was only pretending to be asleep. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing even as her ladies-in-waiting gathered around the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. Marie wondered how long they had been standing there—since dawn? Or for only a few minutes? She never knew; only that they were always there when she woke up. There was an audience for everything she did, even the most mundane of activities, from rising to dining to strolling in the gardens. The practice had been handed down from the French side of their family, and even though the court was in London they kept to the French ways.

She supposed she should get up soon. She could sense that her ladies were getting impatient; she could hear them coughing and murmuring to each other. But she also knew what was awaiting her that day, and so she wanted to stay in her soft warm bed for as long as possible. One of her ladies—Evangeline, most likely, the highest-ranking one—cleared her throat loudly, and Marie decided it was time to put everyone out of their misery.

“Good morning,” she said, pulling open the bed curtains and yawning.

“Good morning, Princess,” her ladies chorused as they curtsied.

“No breakfast today?” she asked, noticing that no one had set the little table at the edge of the room by the windows.

“No, my lady. You have been asked to join the queen this morning.”

Marie sighed. It meant that the rumors were true, then—her mother had plans for her. The formal request to join her at breakfast in front of the whole court meant that Marie would discover what those plans were, along with everyone else, in public—with no opportunity to talk about it in private beforehand. Which could only mean that her mother did not want to take any chances, and that any objections Marie might have to her designs would not be taken into account. She began to cough violently into her handkerchief, staining the white linen with blood and scaring her ladies.

“I am all right,” Marie said when the coughing subsided, and the ladies helped her dress. Paulette, the Lady of the Robes, decided on the crimson silk.

“Better for your coloring.” She smiled as she helped Marie pull the gown over her head. “There, you see? You carry it well—you can hardly tell you are sick.”

“Paulette! Watch your tongue!” Evangeline reprimanded.

“Oh! Forgive me, Your Highness,” Paulette said fearfully, with a bow.

“It is all right, Paulie, dear,” Marie said gently, taking a long wheezing breath. “It is not a secret.” As a child, she had suffered from every childhood ailment, from infection to the pox. She had been slow to speak and slow to walk; for a long time, it was assumed she was slow in every capacity, and arrangements had quietly been made for transfer to an institution in Geneva—until she surprised her governesses by speaking in complete paragraphs at the age of four, and discussing logic with her tutors by age seven. She had worn braces on her legs to straighten the tibias, a helmet on her head to round out her skull, and a contraption on her back to make her sit up straight. For most of her life she had felt more like part of a machine than a girl, harnessed and strapped and attached to a variety of painful apparatuses to improve her looks and posture.

Marie scrutinized herself in the mirror. She was seventeen now, no longer shackled by contraptions or sitting in a wheelchair. But a few years ago she had caught the wasting plague, a rare and debilitating illness of the tubercular variety, which caused blood in the lungs, shortness of breath, and weakness in the constitution. It had turned her pale coloring almost translucent. She had thin brown hair, a high forehead, a narrow nose, and intelligent gray eyes. The dress did give her a little bit more color, even as she despaired of ever looking pretty. It took almost an hour for the ladies to get her properly outfitted—to hook every eye in her corset and tie every bow on her skirt, to plait her hair and arrange it artfully around the nape of her neck.

When they were finally satisfied with her appearance they led her to the queen’s bedroom, where two hundred courtiers were already gathered behind the railing that separated the private from the public space of the room. The assembled were the great and the good of the realm: the noble ladies and lords, dukes and earls, ministers and officials, high-ranking enchanters; even the Merlin was there for a change, looking impatient as he scanned his pocket watch. She had heard Aelwyn was supposed to return to the palace that day, and wondered when her friend would come to see her. Emrys nodded a greeting, and Marie shuddered inwardly; she had been uneasy in his presence ever since the day of the fire. He had stormed into the burning room and cast a spell to put out the blaze, his face full of wrath and anger. Emrys was a sorcerer, a wizard, a master of the dark arts. Like many of the queen’s subjects who did not understand magic or its workings, Marie was afraid of the man who wielded it.

The queen’s bed was a grand four-poster draped with the most luxurious of velvets, embroidered with the white fleur-de-lis of France and the white roses of England. Marie held her breath as a gnarled hand reached and pulled the curtains away. The queen appeared in her nightdress: a small old woman, stooped, hunchbacked, balding at the top. She was neither stately nor regal, but when she appeared all two hundred members of the court bowed low. Marie kept her head bent and tried not to cough. She snuck a peek as her mother walked behind the dressing panels, where her ladies-in-waiting helped her into her morning robe and breakfast cap.

The court kept their bows in place until the queen spoke.

“Good morning,” she said, addressing them at last. Her voice had a majestic timbre, powerful and authoritative. It was a voice that made proclamations, turned commoners into lords, and sentenced enemies to death.

The crowd chorused a hearty “Good morning, Your Majesty!”

“Her Royal Highness, Princess Marie-Victoria Grace Eleanor Aquitaine, Dauphine of Viennois, Princess of Wales,” said the herald, announcing Marie’s presence.

“Marie, my child, will you join me for breakfast?” Eleanor said, looking pleased and surprised, as if she had not orchestrated her daughter’s appearance herself.

Marie took a seat across from her mother at the gold-and-white table in front of the railing, which was set with an exquisite breakfast. It was a command performance; the entire court hung on their every word and scrutinized their every action. Her hand was shaking a little as she accepted a cup of tea, but it was not from being on stage. No, the fear was always there; underneath the love and obedience, thrumming like a barely heard note, there was a cold panic in her bones whenever she was near this strange creature, this ancient mother of hers. Her eyes watered and her throat itched. Marie chastised herself for her cowardice, but she could not help herself. She had always felt mute and powerless and distant in her mother’s presence. She glanced at the queen’s wizened face, lined with wrinkles as heavy and deep as the folds in the curtains behind her. Queen Eleanor was over one hundred and fifty years old.

Growing up, Marie had noticed that the other children who lived in the palace had mothers whose faces were creamy and soft to the touch. Who is this old crone? she’d wondered when the queen visited the nursery. She could still recall the shock and dismay she’d felt when she understood that her mother was not Jenny Wallace, the pretty, apple-cheeked nurse who held her in her arms, but the imposing old woman in jewels and furs who appraised her with a grimace.

Mother and daughter sat across from each other. The queen was dressed in her plain morning robe, which even in its simplicity spoke of power and ease and position. The brocade and embroidery were so fine as to be almost invisible; the fabric was smooth to the touch, weightless on her frail shoulders.

“I am so glad you have joined me today, my dear, as I have a wonderful surprise for you. The Prussian court will be our honored guests at this year’s Bal du Drap d’Or.”

“The Prussians?” Marie asked. Just a few weeks ago the empire had been determined to crush the tiny obstinate nation, until the smaller kingdom had revealed its trump card.

“You remember dear Leopold, don’t you? The Kronprinz? Such a handsome boy,” Eleanor said, attacking her breakfast with an uncharacteristic ferocity.

Marie felt the blood slowly drain from her face. She was right to fear this day. Her mother meant to marry her off to Leopold VII of Prussia to secure a lasting peace between the two nations. Marie glanced at the Merlin. Emrys’s face was impassive, but she knew he had to be behind this. A truce; a marriage; an alliance that would turn a deadly rival into a close friend once again.

The Prussians had once been allies. The royal families of Europe shared common ancestry, and Marie had grown up knowing Leopold. She even counted his younger brother as one of her closest childhood friends. But the relationship between the nations had slowly deteriorated until it reached full-blown hostility, and the Prussians had gone to war with the empire over the Alsace-Lorraine border for several years, with countless fatalities on both sides. The courage and resistance of the much smaller country was impressive, just like the power at their command—one of the last Pandora’s Boxes left in the world, which they had put to awesome use at the Battle of Lamac. The victory they’d won had led to the empire’s retreat.

Marie heard that the Merlin had been stupefied and Eleanor incensed at this remarkable and astonishing turn of events. For centuries, the empire had maintained a stranglehold over the world’s only source of magic after defeating Jeanne of Arkk and her dark witches five hundred years before. How the Prussians had gotten hold of a weapon of such magnitude was unclear, but they had used it to their advantage, and this proposed marriage would be their reward.

She knew from the way the Merlin ignored her and her mother chastised her that they considered her too weak, mild, and sickly ever to become an effective ruler, and the most they could hope for was to marry her off to one. She supposed that with this peace treaty they were forced to accept Leopold, but she couldn’t help but think that they must be relieved as well. Leopold VII was one of the most eligible of the royal sons of Europe: tall, broad-shouldered, classically handsome, with bright blue eyes the color of the Danube and a halo of golden curls upon his brow. More than that, he was supposed to have grown up a real gentleman; he was said to be well-read, smart, diligent, and hard-working—instead of the usual lazy Lothario. From his performance at the battle, it was clear he was a real leader, a hero brave and true, who had the love and respect of his subjects. Not that it mattered when it came to her happiness. She remembered him as a sly little boy, one who had little interest in other people, other than as his admirers. He would not care for her as a person, nor should she expect him to. Romantic love did not factor into royal matrimony; the most one could hope for was civility. He was marrying her for the empire, for the crown she could place upon his head; for the chance to be king.

She had known this day would come, but it was still a shock that it had arrived so soon. She knew she had no choice when it came to her own marriage, and that love was the least of considerations when a princess chose a mate—or, more to the point, when a mate was chosen for her. Even though she had been preparing for it all her life, it was still unexpected when it finally arrived. She thought briefly of a person she would choose if she were allowed to, but it was too painful to even think of him. Gill Cameron had left her service for months now, and it didn’t appear he would be back anytime soon. Besides, there was no possibility of the queen and the Merlin ever approving that union.

Her mother tapped her spoon against her cup, to show she was still waiting for an answer.

“Yes, I do remember Leo,” Marie said finally. “But he is engaged, isn’t he?”

There was a titter from the assembled courtiers, which the queen silenced with a frown. “Is he?” Eleanor asked pointedly.

“To Isabelle—you must remember—the pretty little French girl,” Marie insisted. House Valois was not welcome at court, but like many, she had heard that sixteen-year-old Lady Isabelle of Orleans was very beautiful indeed, blessed with dark eyes like limpid pools in a small, heart-shaped face. Uncommonly breathtaking and lovely: everything Marie was not. Marie knew she was displeasing her mother by bringing up Leo’s engagement, but she couldn’t help it. What was the use of power and privilege if one could not be happy in life? She missed Gill and wished with all of her heart that she could see him again. If she could, she would tell him exactly how she felt about him this time. She did not want to think about a future with Leopold.

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “I am quite certain he is unattached. And if not, he will soon be.”

Marie nodded. This was not just her mother’s will, but the Merlin’s. The peace of the empire depended on her taking the Prussian prince as her bridegroom. The sooner she accepted her fate, the easier her life would be.

“In any event, he is to be our guest. I trust you will help make his stay with us more pleasant.”

“Of course, Mother.” Marie wondered what her father had been like—if her parents had loved each other as history claimed. The great love story of Queen Eleanor and Prince Francis. Or was that another lie? Marie had seen portraits of her mother as a girl. Eleanor had been so beautiful once, with her crown of red hair and dazzling green eyes. They called her the English rose with French charm. Once in a while, she saw glimpses of that fierce, gorgeous girl in the old lady sitting before her—like today, for instance, as her mother planned her daughter’s betrothal, her bright eyes flashing.

“I am sure he will be quite taken by you,” Eleanor said, her voice brimming with confidence as she slathered butter on her toast. It was clear that as far as the queen was concerned, the courtship, proposal, and wedding were as good as done. “If all goes well, perhaps you will be wed by the end of the season.”

It was late March, and the season ended in June, just a few months from now. A royal wedding was just the thing to distract the populace from the costly failure of the long-fought Prussian campaign. The public loved a royal wedding; there would be tea towels with their faces on them before the year was out. At least Leo had a handsome profile. “You will adore him,” Eleanor said in that voice of hers that brooked no argument.

“Yes, of course, Mother,” she replied automatically, and was seized by a hacking fit that left her red and breathless.

Eleanor was instantly alarmed. “Have you taken your tonic?” the queen demanded.

When she was able to speak, Marie nodded. She had taken the latest tonic, but there was nothing that could be done; no amount of spell-casting or potion-making could ease her affliction. The wasting plague was a disease even the healers from the sisterhood could not cure. Marie had heard the sisters murmur that it was her mother’s advanced age that had caused Marie’s many ailments, as Eleanor had been over a century in age when she carried her to term. The pregnancy had been an alchemy of creation, made from the preserved seed of Eleanor’s long-mourned and long-dead husband when the queen had decided that, at last, she was ready to bear a child. Even so, the wasting plague was a virulent disease, and one that afflicted perfectly healthy people out of the blue.

“Emrys assured me this one would provide the miracle we have been hoping for. He had the herbs brought from the East; the viceroy himself sent it from the mountains of the Himalayas,” the queen said, exchanging a sharp look with her enchanter.

“Yes, Mama,” Marie rasped, her chest heaving and her eyes tearing as her mother grew more and more upset.

“You must rest, dearest,” her mother said, rising from her seat to kiss Marie’s forehead. With papery lips against her skin, Marie tried not to shudder.

Marie nodded, still coughing blood, and stood from her chair. She waded through the rows of bowed courtiers, letting her ladies lead her back to her room so she could lie down.

It was an odd thing, her cough; as soon as she left her mother’s presence it abated, and she almost felt fine.

The Astor manor in Washington Square had once been the grandest house in the city. It was built in the French-Gothic style with a touch of Beaux-Arts flair, three-and-a-half stories high, with an imposing limestone façade. But the corners of its cornice were crumbling. A few slate tiles were missing from the roof, so that copper flashings left long streaks of gray-green oxide collecting in the cracks. In a drawing room on the first floor, the formerly vibrant Renaissance-style space with a scene from the Trojan War painted on the ceiling was empty, save for a lone ebony desk, at which the daughter of the house was currently bent over her studies.

Ronan Elizabeth Astor grimaced at the book in front of her. The reproduction was badly faded, splotchy, and gray, so that it was difficult to make out the face of the boy in the picture. He was either afflicted with a bulbous nose and tragically triple-chinned, or it was an unfortunate angle and even worse lighting. She decided it was likely the former, as a handsome suitor’s features would be discernible even in an abysmal photograph. As far as she was concerned, he was a dog just like the rest of them—all these princes and barons, aristocrats and lords, dukes and archdukes, and more counts than she could count. Total bow-wow, she thought with a naughty smirk. A collar would have been more appropriate than that ghastly ascot he wore. Her governess glared at her and rapped on the print with her finger. “Pay attention!”

“One would assume that Viscount Stewart would have been able to afford a better court photographer,” she finally said in a bored voice. Ronan was tired of all this. For weeks, her governess had been showing her various portraits of titled, single male aristocrats from Debrett’s International—that august and authoritative guide to the landed, titled, and moneyed in the empire—and quizzing her on their names, positions and hobbies. It was a special edition, with lavish full-color spreads of their country estates, not the usual roll-call listing of names and titles. And therefore, it was much more helpful for a striving American outsider. All morning, Ronan had dutifully parroted back the correct responses until she knew their names, titles, and interests better than her own.

This was to be her first London Season: a special privilege, as not many from across the sea were invited to court every year. Ronan had merited an invitation through a patron—an old friend of the family, one Lady Constance Grosvernor, who was a favorite of the queen. There were plenty of silly American girls who would jump at the chance to marry one of these fools, but Ronan was not one of them. At sixteen she had a restless, impatient quality that set her apart. It was the best and worst thing about her, depending on whom you asked.

“I believe the correct answer is Peregrine Randolph, Lord Stewart, as that is the proper ‘courtesy title’ of the eldest son of the Marquess of Hillshire,” Vera Bradford admonished. Her nanny was very particular about such details, and Ronan’s mother had chosen her precisely because Vera had served at several great houses abroad, and knew the names and habits of the important characters intimately. Too intimately, the rumors had it—but then, there were always rumors of lordlings and their pretty young governesses. If one believed all the rumors, then one believed that Vera’s son would have been the rightful heir of Salisbury, if not for the absence of a silly little thing like a marriage ceremony. Noble and royal bastards: the world was full of them, babies like strays with Devonshire noses and Aquitaine eyes.

Ronan wrinkled her own nose at the sight of the pudgy, squash-nosed boy in the picture. Peregrine Randolph, Lord Stewart was a handsome name wasted upon someone who was decidedly not. It was grossly unfair to think that she would be the one who would count herself lucky if he took a liking to her, and not the other way around. But as the heiress to a bankrupt house, with little access to the power of magic, such was her lot in life.

“Lord Stewart,” she said in a flat voice. “Hobbies: archery, still life, and discussing Plato.” More importantly, the Hillshire riches included a vast collection of rare and valuable amulets forged by the brotherhood of Merlin. They were said to bring the bearer good life, good fortune, and good luck—though obviously not good looks. She smiled, and supposed that was where she came into the picture.

The next photograph filled the whole page, which boded well for the wealth of the family of the aristocrat in question. This one was slightly cross-eyed and buck-toothed, but what did it matter if his family had a powerful enchanter at their disposal? Especially one who could make lands fertile and farms profitable. “Marcus Deveraux,” she said. “Or, as you prefer to call him, Charles Arthur Marcus Deveraux, Viscount Lisle. Hobbies include falconry, piano, and romantic poetry.” So pretentious. She bet he only knew that one line from Byron, the one everyone knew, about walking in beauty.

She flicked her eyes at the next titled lord in question, a grainy photograph of a dark-haired boy with a prominent nose and chin. “Archie Fairfax,” she said. At a sharp glance from Vera, she relented and recited his real name. “The Honorable Archibald Fairfax. He prefers champagne, music halls, and noise.” Finally, an honest answer, she thought.

Ronan sighed. They were all the same, these inbred, weak-chinned boys. They had too much money and time but too little to do, even as they professed a proclivity toward an athletic endeavor, supposedly cultivated an interest in some form of art, or followed the teachings of a great philosopher. Truth be told, it was common knowledge that boys from privileged backgrounds mostly favored cards, girls, and drink. Their only advantage came from their families’ magical holdings.

Unlike her own father, who wasted his time on such wrong-headed pursuits as “technology” and “progress” and who would have been dubbed “Empty Pockets Astor” in the papers if anyone knew the truth of their situation. Thankfully, her mother was good at keeping up appearances. No one in New York knew how badly off they were.

Perhaps she was just bitter. The Astors held one of the oldest and most important positions in the Americas; they were deeply loyal to House Aquitaine, and had been well-rewarded for it. If only her father had managed to hang on to more of his inheritance, instead of squandering it all away on frivolities—investing in such notions as railroads and steam engines that would never be built, nor run correctly. He continually assured his family they would soon receive generous dividends. But not soon enough for their comfort, she thought, knowing the vast sum that was mortgaged against the estate. That was the problem with Americans, they placed too much faith in science, when anyone could see that such pedestrian inventions as shoulder rifles or mechanized cannons would never beat England and its powerful Merlin. The American rebels had learned as much during the failed Insurrection of 1776, when the Redcoats and Her Majesty’s magicians had laid waste to the attempted sedition with their superior spell-casting.

Luckily, her ancestor had been on the right side of the rebellion, and had retained the governorship of New York and all the privileges that came with it. Their country home in Hastings was practically a castle. Of course, nothing could compete with the sprawling and magnificent stone piles that the Europeans called home, but even the queen had spoken fondly of her time at Hudson Park. Maintenance, however, was another matter; keeping up the estates and the staff had all but drained the family finances. Many of their beautiful things had quietly been sold to pay their monthly bills.

Relief was on the way however, in the form of passage on the Saturnia, which was to take her across the Atlantic. Once there, she would be presented to the queen. It was her family’s dearest hope that Ronan secure a desirable mate and land an engagement before the season ended and all the eligible aristocrats repaired back to their country homes. As it was, her trousseau was not worth its mention in the Herald. The enthusiastic descriptions of the fabulous gowns she would be taking to London masked the shabby reality: scraping together the very last of their resources had only resulted in a trunk full of knockoffs of the latest Parisian styles. She had a few of her mother’s glamorous gowns, of course, but they were twenty years out of date. Her jewels, or lack of them, were an unspeakable tragedy. No longer did she have her great-grandmother’s famed Astor tiara, but only an expert reproduction—it was a fake, paste and glass, and created in utmost secrecy. The real one had been sold long ago to an Arabian princess, who was probably wearing it somewhere in the desert. A shame.

Ronan was sailing across the sea so she could sell herself to the highest bidder, and she must make a match—a rich one that would allow her to pay off their debts and secure her future. And if the family came with a retinue of magicians at their beck and call, then all the better. It was tiresome living without a little glimmer every now and then. All of her friends had the latest fripperies from the empire: powders that turned your hair gold, creams that took away blemishes on the skin. She was at least fortunate in that she did not need a magician to appear beautiful.

“There’s my favorite girl,” her father said, entering the room. He was a large man with a bristly beard and a gruff but gentle demeanor, the type who was called upon to play Father Christmas every holiday. “What’s this?” he asked, looking askance at the book on the desk, which was open to a lavish illustration of a ducal coat of arms. He made a face, realizing what was going on.

“Oh, Daddy, it’s nothing,” Ronan said, closing the leather-bound book with a thump and handing it to Vera, who politely excused herself from the room.

“Your mother puts strange ideas in your head, but an Astor of New York doesn’t need anyone’s help—remember that. You have your good name. You don’t need to scrape at the feet of those empire snobs.”

Ronan held her tongue. To be honest, she did not have it in her heart to resent him. Her father was the one who had played backgammon with her and drawn her pictures as a child. He was the one who had attended her tea parties in the nursery, and read her picture books at night while her mother threw herself into the social whirl of the city. “Did you hear the Haltons have a new fortune-teller?” she asked eagerly. “She predicts a rise in the stock market.”

“Bah, that dark magic has no place in the future,” Henry said. “Fortune-tellers are nothing but frauds, my girl.” She knew her father did not want to admit it, but if she did not succeed in marrying well, they would have to move out west—a last resort—to her mother’s people, the “barbarians.”

She kissed her father on the cheek and left to dress for dinner, heading up the stairs. Ronan had always been fond of the grand staircase, with its oiled and shiny balustrade, treads that neither creaked nor wobbled, and rails solid as stone. When she was a child, she had turned it into a coliseum full of dolls, placing row after row of silk-garbed figurines on each of the steps. The stairs held her audience, while Ronan performed a dance at the base. Ronan remembered nervously descending these steps on Christmas mornings, her nightdress gleaming against the dark of the wood as she tiptoed toward the dazzling tree festooned with tinsel and presents. She’d miss these old boards when she went off to England. Not that they’d had much of a Christmas last year, anyway…and the ancient but beautiful brass chandelier that used to hang in the center of the room was gone now—sold, like all the rest of the most valuable décor.

Rounding the corner, past the now-empty corridors with the scraped-away wallpaper and more missing paintings, she stopped for a moment to stare at the pendant lights, whose candle mounts had been recently retrofitted for Edison bulbs. It looked as if strands of lightning were trapped within their tiny globes. Was this not magic? Wasn’t this power just as grand and unknowable as the Merlin’s? Her father believed so. Sometimes, looking at those incandescent lights, Ronan thought he might just have a point.

“Is that you, Ronan?” her mother’s voice called. She turned toward the sound, knowing it was more of an order than a question.

Ronan entered her mother’s bedroom, the only room in the house that still had all of its original furniture. It was the best room as well, with a view of the park and gardens. Outside, the first street lamps had popped to life as the sun hung low near the horizon. Inside, a single Edison bulb lit her mother’s room with a strong, consistent glow. The white paneled walls amplified the light, making her mother’s chamber not only the largest bedroom, but the brightest one as well. Her father had insisted the house be paneled in walnut, but her mother had disagreed. Against her husband’s will she’d had her room paneled in silk sateen, a finish as bright as newly fallen snow.

The bed was done in the English style, tall and canopied, dressed up like a queen’s with bunting stuck between four tall poles. The plush white rug beneath her mother’s bed abutted a second one that stretched underneath an armoire, a dressing screen, and a powder table. Each of these pieces was framed by a pair of gilded chairs, their backs pressed against the wall. Vera told her that the backs of chairs in great houses like theirs remained unpainted, because no one ever moved the chairs or used them. Ronan had never checked to see if it was true, if the chairs were indeed nailed to the walls, but it made sense. Everything in the room was meant to be admired. Every piece—from the exquisite French clock on the mantel, to the row of perfume decanters on the vanity, to her own mother.

At thirty-five years of age, Elizabeth Astor was still extraordinarily lovely, if a little haunted-looking. Her hollow cheeks and red eyes were the result of many sleepless nights. She came from the provinces—she was from nowhere, her parents nobody. Her only treasure was her arresting beauty, which had won over her husband, the third son of the then-richest man in New York. The youngest boy was traditionally not meant to inherit, or expected to come to much; but when the elder and middle sons of Jackson Pierce Astor were both lost during the War Between the Americans thirty years before, the youngest had inherited the governorship, and little Sue-Beth Morley (the horror of that name—so common—it held the stink of dusty towns and tumbleweed)—suddenly found herself the reigning doyenne of New York. Upon her arrival in the city, her mother had had the good sense to adopt the name Elizabeth, and went by the name “Bits.”

“Show me your court bow,” Bits Astor demanded now. “When your father and I were presented at court to meet the queen, they all said I had the most beautiful one.”

Ronan rolled her eyes. Her mother was forever waxing nostalgic about the glories of her season. Knowing the ingrained snobbishness of the Franco-Brits, Ronan was sure that was not all they said about the social-climbing young American.

“Yes, Mother,” she said, and dutifully displayed what Vera had taught her. The deepest curtsy, almost to the floor. Her head was bowed demurely, lashes against her cheeks, eyes downcast. Not once must she turn her back on the monarch. It was said that Queen Eleanor had her Merlin destroy those who dared to disrespect her, and Ronan did not want to suffer such a fate. She respected the power of magic; it was why she found her dear father so misguided.

“I sense a hint of rebellion in the curve of your cheek, my dear; and we must show utmost deference to the Crown. Again.”

Ronan nodded and curtsied again, deeper this time—so low that she felt the backs of her thighs burn with the effort.

When her mother was satisfied with her performance, she crossed the room to stand next to her daughter. She turned Ronan’s face toward the Venetian gold gilt mirror, one of the last antiques left. Bits’s hands were as delicate as a child’s, but her grip on Ronan’s chin was like steel. She turned it to the right, then the left, examining her daughter’s profile, and finally brought it straight back to face the mirror.

“My lovely girl.” Bits smiled.

Ronan looked at what her mother saw. Her otherworldly, celebrated beauty: the porcelain skin, luminescent and pearly; the high sweep of her forehead; a thin, sculpted nose; sharp cheekbones; her pink pout, a proper rosebud, ripe for the plucking. Her long golden tresses, finer than silk, fell on her shoulders loose and wanton; she had been impatient with her governess that morning, and had pulled away when Vera had tried to braid her hair and put it up properly.

“You look exactly like me at your age; thank goodness for that. A consummate New York blonde, as they like to say,” her mother said with satisfaction. “This is your fate. These are your riches. This face will win you a prince; take my word for it. You are an Astor of New York. You should do no worse, as you have much more than I started with.”

Ronan flushed. She looked at her face and her mother’s closely in the mirror. They were like twin images, except for the very faint lines around her mother’s eyes, the faded color in her thinner cheeks.

She knew all of this already, of course. She would choose one of those awful boys from the photographs and make him fall in love with her. And then she would find a way to make this estate matter again. The port town was booming, and New York City was being compared to the great capitals. If the Astors managed to get some enchanters at their service, they might be able to shape their fortunes and their future.

Her mother’s face, and her father’s name—her parents thought that was all there was to her, and maybe they were right. She would be married at the end of the London Season—and she determined right then and there that she would make not just a good match, but the best match; perhaps even catch the eye of the Kronprinz of Prussia himself. She had studied his portrait in the book with the greatest care, and had found much to admire in his noble profile. It was said that the Prussians had used a Pandora’s Box during the final battle, which had brought the queen’s army to its knees and ended the war. With a weapon of such magnitude, one could rule the world.

Ronan was nothing if not ambitious.