Brie glanced out the window as they climbed up, steadily up, a long, winding road. There were many trees, with palms among them, their fronds fluttering. There was rock, gray, craggy rock thrusting out, but wildflowers shoved their way through the cracks. The sea was below, deep, paintbrush blue and serene.

If she looked up, following the direction of the road, she could see the town with its pink and white buildings stacked like pretty toys on the jutting, uneven promontory.

A fairy tale, she thought again, yet it didn’t surprise her. As they approached, Brie felt again a sense of quiet comfort. The town lost nothing of its charm on closer contact. The houses and buildings seemed content to push their way out of the side of rock, balanced with one another and the lay of the land. There was an overall tidiness and a sense of age.

No skyscrapers, no frantic rush. Something inside her recognized this, but, she thought, she’d been to cities where the pace was fast and the buildings soared up and up. Yet this was home. She felt no urge to argue. This was home.

“You won’t tell me about myself.” She looked at Armand again and her eyes were direct, her voice strong. “Tell me about Cordina.”

She’d pleased him. Brie could see it in the way his lips curved just slightly. “We are old,” he said, and she heard the pride. “The Bissets—that’s our family name—have lived and ruled here since the seventeenth century. Before, Cordina was under many governments, Spanish, Moorish, Spanish again, then French. We are a port, you see, and our position on the Mediterranean is valuable.

“In 1657, another Armand Bisset was granted the principality of Cordina. It has remained in Bisset hands, and will remain so, as long as there is a male heir. The title cannot pass to a daughter.”

“I see.” After a moment’s thought Brie tilted her head. “Personally I can be grateful for that, but as a policy, it’s archaic.”

“So you’ve said before,” he murmured.

“I see.” And she saw children playing in a green leafy park where a fountain gushed. She saw a store with glittery dresses in the front, and a bakery window filled with pink and white confections. There was a house where the lawn flamed with azaleas. “And have the Bissets ruled well?”

It was like her to ask, he thought. While she didn’t remember, the questing mind remained, and the compassion. “Cordina is at peace,” he said simply. “We are a member of the United Nations. I govern, assisted by Loubet, Minister of State. There is the Council of the Crown, which meets three times a year. On international treaties, I must consult them. All laws must be approved by the National Council, which is elected.”

“Are there women in the government?”

He lifted a finger to lightly rub his chin. “You haven’t lost your taste for politics. There are women,” he told her. “Though you wouldn’t be satisfied by the percentages, Cordina is a progressive country.”