Then she picked up the first letter from the packet obtained at such a perilous cost. She should get cards made up: Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge, Kidnapper, Conspirator, and Confederate of Spivs. No, that was too long. Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge, Spivette.

She was beginning to consider the consequences of failure. What if their prisoner turned on them? Or tried to blackmail them, which was his likely bent? Calling upon Archie for help seemed like a good idea at the moment, but she couldn’t help but think that rational thought was not what was taking place when the moment involved an unconscious man bleeding on Iris’s desk.

Nothing to be done about that now. It was the blighter’s own fault, wasn’t it? It was entirely self-defense. Except for the subsequent kidnapping and imprisoning of their attacker.

Maybe Patience could wangle them a pardon from the king.

To the task at hand, Gwen.

She examined the first letter, a folded piece of blue onionskin like the one previously sent to the princess. She held it to her nose. It smelled faintly of must and old wax and linseed oil. She opened it. It was in German, from a different hand. A man’s, she guessed.

My dearest A.,

You have looked so sad upon your arrival here that my heart breaks every time I see you. Be happy! We are all alive, we are all together, and our sojourn will not be forever. The family is everything, but if you find that there are empty spaces in your existence that cannot be ignored, please accept the enclosed gift as a beginning to a remedy. It is a work that I find provides remarkable insight into our lives in this world—and the next. Read it, and come talk to me any time you are feeling lost.

Your loving C.

C for Christo, the younger brother of her husband? There seemed to be a familiarity there that was consistent with the history. She turned to the next letter, written on cream-coloured stationery.

My dear C.,

I cannot thank you enough for the book. I have been so busy managing the girls while putting on a cheerful face for my husband, not to mention the King and his family, that I have spared no time for myself. M. Schuré’s work has opened my eyes—dare I say my soul? There is so much more to our existence than this world. I begin to see that now. If you can spare the time, I would dearly love to speak of this with you. My discussions with Andrea primarily consist of listening to him plot their return to power, and I find that sitting and nodding are all that he requires of me. My mind is starved for real conversation.

Your friend, A.

Poor thing, thought Gwen. Another woman trapped in a velvet cage. It’s so easy to withhold pity for someone living her exile at a first-rate hotel with a gorgeous view, but the lack of freedom was still oppressive.