Count Andex’s first question to Olivia was this:
“What can Your Highness do?”
She had no faction, no retainers, no reputation. She had not been schooled in the arts of sovereignty, had no familiarity with politics, knew little of the capital’s court or its society.
Even if she could prove her birth, there was almost nothing such a princess without foundation could accomplish.
Yet Olivia answered with composure.
“I can be a rallying point.”
She was not much concerned even as she replied. The Count of Andex’s manner held no hostility; it seemed only a test.
“Both House Andex and Aunt’s natal house, House of Badenberg, are royalist. But as things stand, the royalist faction will either wither away or bend the knee to Duke Schwaben.”
The Emperor was feeble, and the only blood kin who might inherit was Princess Roella. Since she belonged to Ezekiel, once the Emperor died the royalists would have no recourse.
They might scour the lineage and fetch some distant relation, but no such kinsman could match Roella in legitimacy. As Olivia recalled, the closest was a foreign count.
“If House Andex means to turn noble-faction, then it matters not. But if not, then you will need me.”
The Count gave a discreet cough.
“Forgive my rudeness, Your Highness. You speak truly. For us, Your very existence is already a great strength.”
Why did she fling herself into peril? He did not ask. If Olivia changed her mind, their plight would worsen.
Olivia and the Andex couple agreed that revealing her identity at once and entering the palace was unwise. To confront Schwaben openly was too dangerous, and to step into a court ruled by the Empress, Schwaben’s creature, was impossible.
Olivia chose instead to disguise herself as a distant kinswoman of the Andex line in the Duchy of Laniere. She dyed her hair black, altered her appearance with heavy cosmetics and splendid dress.
Thus Lady Laila was born.
Calmly, she slit the envelope with her letter-knife, read the invitation, and passed it to Margarita. Inside were the banal phrases of a princess’s command, summoning her to grace a musical salon in honor of the Empress, along with the titles of several fashionable songs.
Margarita frowned slightly. Though not baldly stated, it was clearly an order to prepare them.
“They mean to treat you as a singer, an actress.”
“It’s all right. We knew an invitation would not come in kindness.”
“But this is—”
“It is well. This way I may openly approach the palace musicians and attendants.”
Olivia spoke without agitation.
From the first, she had acquired the troupe with the intent of drawing people to her in this way. To plant informants without Schwaben’s spies catching wind was near impossible.
Yet musicians, though servants, ranged more freely. Actors, though despised, won admiration and desire from many.
There were many nobles eager to borrow such entertainers to enliven their gatherings, and each time, her ears reached a little farther.
So far, the harvest was meager. She never thought to topple houses with scraps of gossip.
What she sought was the latest fashions, the currents of favor and disfavor.
First she must tarnish Roella’s standing. Only then could another princess become an alternative.
At the same time, she must draw goodwill to herself. So when her identity was revealed, she would not be scorned as a princess raised outside the palace, nor imprisoned under the Empress’s control.
She had learned during her captivity as Ezekiel’s plaything. From the maids’ chatter, from the musicians summoned to amuse her, from the dresses and jewels she had no one to wear them before—
And most of all, from Ezekiel’s own careless words.
Margarita spoke anxiously.
“What if you took Janette as your companion? If she plays your accompaniment, then it will seem but a refined lady’s small performance before the Empress—”
“Do not worry, Aunt. I do not take this as an insult. My only concern is that I may not sing well.”
“No, this will not aid your reputation. For your aim—”
“I have a plan. There is a little opera I wished to present before the Princess.”
Olivia smiled faintly as she said it.
“Do not worry. It is better I should meet the Empress so soon. And the Princess will not be able to mock me as some low actress.”
She would have no leisure for it.
She could succeed. She knew Roella well.
By day alone, by night sleepless, she had thought of her endlessly, shaping and reshaping her plan.
And yet even if she failed, it was well. She could do it again.
'As many times as needed, tens of times if need be.'
She could try until she succeeded. With that thought she engraved another resolve deep enough to pierce her heart.
But before all else, there was one task more vital than narrowing Roella and the Empress’s ground or breaking their reputations.
She must seduce Ezekiel.
The thought sickened her, but it must be done. For if she failed, she must return to the annex, and once more lay her hand on the Jeweled Box.
***
After sending Margarita away, Olivia left the annex.
Her Marel Troupe kept its office in a rented building in the bustling district. She could have housed it on the outskirts, but in the crowded streets her visitors drew less notice. On the ground floor, she had even set up a pawnshop for the same reason.
Arriving, Olivia removed her hat and entered with her lavishly adorned face uncovered, fixing Lady Laila’s image in all eyes.
Every passerby’s gaze turned to her beauty. None could connect her with the frugal young lady once dwelling in Ruttgard.
She climbed the narrow, worn stairs. A middle-aged man leaving the pawnshop started, staring up at her in shock, forgetting even to pull down his hat.
Olivia passed him with cool indifference, brushing at her skirt as though it had touched something unclean.
She had not known she possessed such talent for acting. But then, she had always suppressed herself—had once spent an entire life feigning a lover’s smile to please Ezekiel.
If she could endure that, there was nothing she could not do.
She reached the top floor and opened the office door. Inside, unlike the building’s age, the room was handsomely appointed, even fragrant. Olivia allowed no smoking, no neglect of cleanliness.
“Lady Laila!”
And the one she sought was there. A young opera singer named Sion Miller, famed as the most beautiful man in the Duchy of Laniere.
Olivia looked upon his shining honey-brown curls and gray-blue eyes. Sion laughed lightly and extended his hand to her.
“What is it? Do you mean to make my heart race?”
“Such jokes.”
She smiled faintly and willingly offered her hand for his kiss.
“Alone?”
“Yes. The others all went to rehearsal.”
“And you do not?”
“I sell my face, not my voice.”
He answered without pride or shame, perfectly at ease. Olivia said with mild concern,
“Still, one must at least keep the basics. Especially this time.”
“At last, has the moment come?”
Sion’s eyes gleamed as he asked.