Gunner listened, his mouth a grim line as Roy also detailed the last two weeks, starting with the moment Alan Martin had shown up outside a Paris coffeehouse, to stopping a EMP bomb attack in Italy, to the kidnapping and liberation in Germany of an orphan Russian girl, the near assassination attempt, and finally the bombing in Florence.

The protection officer leaned back, his back to the wall, arms folded over his chest. “I don’t like you bringing trouble to Lauchtenland, Roy.”

“Not us who brought trouble, mate.”

Gunner nodded. “Fair enough.”

“And we’ll do our best to keep it away from you. But we can’t whisk Director Grey out of the country without arousing or garnering attention, especially if we want to figure out what is going on.”

“I just don’t want trouble at the Rosendans. The Queen is not in the best of health, and this may be her last Garden event. It must go well.”

York understood the desire to protect their royals. As far as he could understand, Lauchtenland ran much like England, with the sovereign more of a figurehead than a true ruler, but they still held the country together.

“We’ll be watching the dance, and York will pose as the CDC director after the dance starts. If they try anything, we’ll catch them.”

Gunner drew in a breath, nodded. “I’ll get in contact with the Captain of the Palace Guard, and we’ll post extra guards, as well as watch your man.” He took a drink of his beer. “And you and your bride, York.”

“Thanks, Gunner.”

From behind them, the door opened to a starry night, and a man walked in. He wore a woolen anorak and wide brimmed hat, leather boots.

A coat, in the middle of summer?

“Emmanuel.” The name summoned from Ernst, and he nodded at the table. “There. See. Marriage.

“That’s why I’m here.” The man came over. He wore a hint of a beard, longer brown hair, and had a kindness about his eyes that settled through York. “Who is getting married?

“Me.” York said.

Emmanuel scooted onto the bench beside Roy, his work worn hands on the table. He ran his palm across it, as if assessing the table.

“Are you a preacher?”

“Sometimes.”

“Can you marry us.”

“Marriage is a divine union. Are you ready?”

York looked at him. “I love her more than life itself. She is my home. She is my always.”

Emmanuel smiled. “Then, yes.” He stood up. “At King Rein’s Chapel, three p.m.”

“Sounds good.” York held out his hand. The preacher took it. Warm. Solid. And then he smiled.

“I’m glad to see you here, York Newgate.”

York had nothing, even as Emmanuel left. Then he sank down onto the bench. “I don’t remember giving him my name.”

Gunner grinned. “It’s Emmanuel. He knows your name, York.”

Huh?