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  Margaret drummed her fingertips on the desktop. Paisley would forever be one of the die-hards. Sometimes there was no masking the color of stripes or bleaching age spots.

  He wrung his hands together and then flipped wildly through the sheaf of papers in one the many folders he grasped. “I have no ‘Arthur’ here, ma’am. Is he another who must be seated? Where is he from?”

  “Camelot.” Amusement crept into her voice. The arrangements for the global summit had become more than a farce, as she and Michael had predicted they would.

  “Camelot?” Paisley echoed. “Where is that? Oh, dear. Where to fit him?” He rifled through his lists and papers, pausing to peruse the current seating chart. “Perhaps I could squeeze him in between the Sultan of Maroni and Duke of Quadeco. I must scan the addendum of treaties more carefully to see whether they are friends, foes, or largely indifferent to each other.”

  In another moment, Paisley, formerly her Lord Emissary, would prostrate himself on the floor at her feet and confess he’d let her down and could not complete the task she’d set before him. Fitting, perhaps, if she still wore the crown and retained her title as Queen of Brierly, rather than President of the Westisphere. But she and Michael had embarked upon this novel experiment in democracy to show their subjects that their many freedoms were not empty, and to prove to their enemies that their commitment to world peace and prosperity for all was not mere bluster. Not that it seemed to be working very well.

  She smiled, to put him at ease. Sometimes her patience with the rest of the world ebbed and she wanted to throw something. She really did. Although displays of temper were not in her nature. And her bewildered and ultra-loyal foreign affairs secretary, who’d lie in front of a train if she asked him to, deserved none of it. “Take a breath, Paisley. Arthur is not on your list. He is a legendary king of old. Myth, perhaps, as is Camelot. His barons quarreled, each unwilling to accept a lower position than any of the others. Arthur’s royal carpenter constructed a round table, and the king seated his knights around it so none was seen to be more favored in his eyes. Splendid idea. But, of course, it did not work. Some knights were far more worthy than others, more storied, in word and in deed. And, in the end, Arthur’s most favored knight, his best friend, turned on him. Over a woman. Arthur’s queen.”

  “That sounds a bit like what happened with the Worthingtons.”

  “Yes, a bit.” She paused. She did not like to be reminded of the Worthingtons, most especially not Link Worthington, and what had happened—or nearly happened—between them. The family had long been rumored to be sorcerers, practitioners of dark—if not black—arts. But Link Worthington and Michael had once been inseparable, drawing strength and power from each other. Until Michael had swept her away, whisking her off to Brierly before her other suitors—Link among them—had any inkling of the affair. When Michael took her to be his bride, jealousy consumed Link. The dangerous falling out between Michael and Link over Michael’s queen had proved disastrous for the small duchy, which no longer enjoyed most favored status in Brierly’s regard. Year after year, Mount Worth plunged deeper and deeper into poverty, debt and gloom.

  “The Worthington’s story is quite real and quite tragic, unlike Camelot.” Margaret shook her head briskly. “But Link brought it on himself. There was never anything between us. Once I met Michael, I was ruined for any other man.” She put thoughts of her old suitor out of her head and returned to business. “In any event, Paisley, there is no Arthur for you to worry about seating. Nor will any of the Worthingtons be in attendance.”

  Paisley drew in a long breath, his relief at not having to squeeze another egomaniacal head of state around the designated negotiation table quite evident. “Yes, I see, but that does not alter the fact we have no room now for all those who do wish to attend.”

  “It is not our fault they refused our hospitality when first we offered Brierly as the summit locale.” Margaret shrugged. “Brierly has numerous cities and sites large enough to accommodate them. Michael has even offered his foundation’s convention center at no cost. Tell them again we expect difficulties with the size of the venue they selected and express our willingness to host the conference.”

  “I have done, Madame, until my vocal chords have deserted me. But naturally, I will do so once more.”

  “I do not know how it benefits anyone to convene so important a summit in so tiny a duchy. There must be something that attracts them, aside from the casinos, or they’d have jumped at the chance of a global conference in New Vegas or Neuva York. “

  “They believe Ministan to be a totally neutral venue, while New Vegas would not be.”

  “I do not see why not.”

  “Too much under your sphere of influence, they fear. And King Michael’s.”

  She clucked her tongue. “King Michael? Paisley, really. You must try.”

  “Yes, Madame President. But perhaps they are not entirely wrong about you and Mr., ah, ah, um, ex-King Michael.” He finished with a flourish, gazing at her with something akin to his old twinkle.

  She enjoyed seeing the spark of life amid all the stress and nearly smiled. Perhaps it was too much to expect someone as loyal as Paisley, with so many years of faithful service behind him, not to choke a little over Michael’s name.

  “Your word still carries undue weight. As does, um, um, ex-King Michael’s.”

  “Which is why I have done my best to stay out of this mess. Brierly/Westisphere would have no more say than any other country if they hadn’t all decided to dump the summit arrangements and scheduling in our lap— like we are some sort of inexhaustible wedding planner coddling fifty out-of-control bridezillas.”

  “Brierly has always thrown the most excellent feasts and galas and parties. The know that. And you are still the most powerful woman on the planet.”

  “If that were so, I’d merely knock all their heads together and have done with it.” Margaret said.

  Paisley’s worried glance swiveled around the office, as if he suspected someone might be listening.

  “We are still in Brierly,” she said, once again unable to quite keep her amusement from her voice. “We are secure here, Paisley.” She relied on him more than any other aide, but, really, sometimes he was so easily frazzled.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Who can be sure of anything these days?”

  That was the crux of the dilemma. Terrorism was rampant in the world. Fly-by-night cults, formerly disorganized, now had such advanced technology at their disposal anyone could be in jeopardy at any time, at any place. So many crazies, psychopaths and loose cannon roving the streets, there was no telling from what quarter the next hit would come.

  Commuters on the subways were exposed. Innocent business people, students, harried moms stopping into a café for a morning latte and cinnamon bun. Any lone wolf could strap on a vest of explosives and blow them all up to serve an imagined cause. Or just to seek celebrity and attention.

  So far Brierly, er, Westisphere, had been lucky. Very, very, extraordinarily lucky. Well, it had not all been luck. Michael had laid the foundation before relinquishing the throne to her. And then careful planning, attention to detail, formidable armed forces, intelligence networks, and domestic police agencies sifting through galaxies of chatter and drawing the correct inferences and conclusions. She could not take credit for all of that. But her steady hand guided a good deal of the interlocking mechanism.

  “They are also afraid you would seat anyone who wished to participate.”

  “Well, that only makes good sense, doesn’t it? If they truly want world peace, then the world must be invited to take part. But they may all rest assured I would never give a space at the table to a non-nation, rogue regime, country on which we’ve imposed sanctions, or to some dictatorial leader or demagogue who has not publicly condemned terrorism.”

  “Madame, I do not think they are really concerned with good sense. They are now saying the Duchy of Ministan does not possess enough good china in its cup
boards and coffers for everyone to have a solid gold charger beneath a matching plate.”

  Margaret laughed. “Well, that is certainly not our problem, is it?” She winked at him. “Why don’t you suggest they each bring their own covered dish from home? Like a potluck dinner?”

  This time, she managed to wring a laugh from the foreign secretary also. But she had little doubt the other participants would agree to her suggestion. Margaret’s hostess skills were beyond compare. No one on the planet had the command of etiquette and protocol she did.

  She already knew the setting she’d bring, with patterns of delicate hand-painted roses etched across the thin ceramic bone. The plates would remind her of home. Of the newborn daughter she could not bear to leave behind in Brierly, tucked into her rose-embroidered blankets and gowns. Maybe she could not bring Flora to the bargaining table. But some accommodation for the infant would have to be made. She refused to compromise on that.

  “I wish you to leave the minutiae of tables and place settings and china to Ministan now, Paisley,” she told her Secretary of Foreign Affairs. “I will not leave my baby home this trip. Flora is still nursing and far too young to be without her mother. Please ensure security is of the highest order. By our standards, if you please. Not those of Ministan.”

  Her husband Michael had once been king, the best king Brierly had ever known. As a young man, he had visited the ocean lands where Margaret had been born and raised, sweeping the young princess off her feet and carrying her home with him.

  As the years passed, she had made Brierly—and its powerful prince—her own. Blissfully happy with her handsome charmer, she stood serenely by his side as he ruled both kingdoms with strength and wisdom beyond his years, beyond compare. A master politician and strategist, it had been his idea to step down, to abdicate, to create a new president out of his devoted queen.

  Their only regret was they had never been blessed with children—until Flora had so unexpectedly arrived. Both parents doted on the infant, worshiped her, their hearts overflowing with joy. Michael could no more leave the tiny baby, so adored and treasured by both her parents, than she could.

  Her most trusted advisor and consultant, Michael normally was content to read, write, study, and run his philanthropic foundation, traveling the world giving speeches in support of her positions and strategies. But he’d decided unexpectedly to accompany her to the summit.

  “To keep watch over both my girls,” he said. “I will be the First Nanny.”

  “And I will see you amply rewarded for your dedicated service.” She winked.

  The first day of the global summit was brutal. It reminded Margaret of the games she’d played as a child, Musical Chairs, in which chairs were removed from a circle so one fewer remained than the number of players, sending everyone scurrying for a seat when the music stopped. Or perhaps Duck, Duck, Goose, in which a designated “It” tapped each player on the head before tagging the next goose.

  Her head throbbed by the time she returned to her suite, where Michael fed Flora from a bottle and dandled her on his knee. The baby chortled with pleasure. Such a daddy’s girl, her tiny princess. Margaret’s heart swelled as she watched her beloved and the infant they both cherished.

  “Look, there’s Mama, baby girl,” he whispered to his daughter.

  Flora turned, letting out a squeal of joy, her small face smiling in delight. “Mama. Mama.” The baby held out her chubby arms. “Mama!”

  Margaret took the infant from her father’s arms, sighing, burying her face into the child’s neck to inhale her wonderful baby smell.

  “And what was your day like, my queen?”

  “You don’t want to know.” She rubbed her cheek against the baby’s soft skin. “Ah.” She looked up at last. “And you know better than to call me that.”

  “You’ll always be my queen, sweetheart. Whether we’re paupers, mere civil servants, exalted or pitied, the highest of the high or the lowest of the low.” His hand rested over his chest. “The heart of my heart. The love of my life. My queen. Nothing changes that.”

  She approached him, kicking off her shoes as she went. “Then scoot over, my darling, and make room for your little family. We want to snuggle in your chair with you and feel your arms around us.”

  “Always happy to oblige.” He grinned, making room for her in the armchair. She sat in his lap, her legs draped across his thighs. He rocked both mother and child in his arms.

  “There is nothing better than this.” She sighed.

  “No, there is not,” he agreed. “Shall we run away together, my love? Live secretly and quietly in a little cottage and let others deal with the problems of the world?”

  “Who are you kidding, Michael Brierly? You would never shirk responsibility that way.”

  “Don’t be too sure, Meggie. There is nothing I would not do for you and our beautiful little flower.”

  “Oh! You are such a golden-tongued charmer.” She leaned her head against his chest.

  “Do you want to tell me about it now?” he murmured.

  “And taint the purity and innocence of our daughter’s ears?”

  “We are raising her to rule,” he reminded her. “And one day she’ll do just that.” He offered her a wink. “If you don’t run away with me.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Well then, for now, know that I will always protect her.” He glanced down at Flora, blissfully asleep and making snuffling noises through her open mouth. “And I don’t think anything you say will affect her.”

  Margaret nodded. “I know you’re right.” She took a deep breath. “I was elected chair.”

  “Of course. We expected no less.”

  “But despite all of Paisley’s excellent planning, there are still people clamoring to get in.”

  He tensed, his arms stiffening around her. “People?”

  “Well, Flavian.”

  “We expected that, too, Meggie. But he is a heinous monster. He’s responsible for the massacre of thousands of his own people, the peoples of neighboring lands. Gassing, hanging, firing squads, beheadings. Nothing is too vile for him. Rumor has it he is a practitioner of the black arts, dabbling in curses, hexes, and spells of the worst sort. He is an insane creature. He must not be seated.”

  “No. I know that.” She shook her head. “His minions were extremely vocal today, demonstrating outside the meeting center, battering at the doors and demanding to be let in.”

  Michael shook his head. He set her gently on her feet and rose, placing the baby in her cradle. “Come, my love. Let us to bed. We will speak of this further. And then you will get a good night’s sleep.”

  Despite the tight security surrounding the summit venue, the next day proved disastrous.

  A massive explosion shook the conference room. Shards of glass from windows and doors blew inward, flying bits of shrapnel wounding the attendees. Chunks of the ceiling collapsed onto the round table, once the subject of such quibbling. Walls disintegrated.

  Then, suddenly, amidst the shrieks and blood and horror, Flavian arrived in an enormous plume of toxic purple smoke. He surveyed his handiwork, nodded his satisfaction, and then, unerringly, made a beeline to stand before the table where Margaret remained seated in shock.

  “So.” He smiled evilly. “It’s the little mother. Shouldn’t you be home tending your infant, instead of trying to isolate me and keep me away?”

  Moisture dripped down Margaret’s cheeks. She could not cry before this madman. She brushed her face with her fingertips and her hand came away red. Blood, not tears.

  Was she fatally wounded? Would Flora grow up without a mother? Was she safe? Was Michael? She prayed Michael had survived the blast, that he’d spirit himself and Flora to a place of safety.

  “I hereby declare war on you all,” Flavian intoned. “I will not rest until no corner of the globe is unscathed, no place on Earth not decimated, no inch of Earth not blighted. I have no interest in peace. There will be war as long as I live. And long aft
er I am gone from this Earth.”

  He stepped closer to Margaret, his hand beneath her chin, forcing her head up until she met his gaze. Pain shot through her like thousands of sharp knives, every cell on fire. Her belly shriveled at the monster’s touch.

  “I curse you, and I curse your progeny,” he said. “Forever after and a day. You and yours will never escape my wrath.”

  “What do you mean?” she croaked.

  “Even if you survive, even if you manage to hide your precious away, her skin will be so sensitive that the merest splinter will draw her life’s blood. Even the splash of a drop of rain will kill her.”

  Explosions of acrid smoke whirled through the room, one after another, seeming to burst forth from Flavian’s hands. Margaret’s throat burned; her lungs hurt so much she could not draw a breath.

  “Michael,” she whispered.

  “And yet she says his name.” A new voice, a new entrant into the smoke-filled room, accompanied by another billowing cloud, this one colored green, bringing with it the scent of pine, the scent of the sea, of grass, and of life. “I wonder where we’d all be now had she chosen a Worthington.”

  Margaret’s eyes stung as she peered through the miasma to the tall, regal woman, wielding such remarkable power. Some sort of relative of Link’s?

  “Please, I beg of you,” she whispered. “Spare my husband. My daughter.”

  “So true a love must be rewarded,” the sorceress proclaimed. Sparks flew from her hands.

  Margaret collapsed to the floor, her baby’s name on her lips.

  Chapter Four

  The gnarled gnome grasped his chipped mug in both hands and took a long drink of tea, as if his throat were parched. Then he put down the cup and leisurely relit his pipe, leaning back and taking a long drag of the fragrant smoke.

  Rosina’s head whirled, whether from the smoke rings Nicodemus puffed at her or from his words, she could not be entirely sure. Her head ached. Was the story done? How could it be when so many questions remained?