The cathedral was like an immense jewelry box, packed with aristocrats in the formal court dress and colors of their houses and commoners whose sartorial splendor and jewelry tended to put the understated elegance of court dress in the shade. Stained-glass windows glowed with late morning light, filling the cathedral’s interior with pools and patterns of gleaming, slowly moving brilliance. Centuries-old wooden paneling glowed in that light, the deliberately antique organ’s bronze pipes shone with hand-polished brilliance, vestments glittered with rich embroidery, candle holders flashed back the light, and the crowds of newsies had been banished to the discreet concealment of the balconies just inside the narthex.

Against all of that visual splendor, that richness of texture and color, of light and sound, the slender, white vision with the armful of flowers at the bridal procession’s heart stood out with heart stopping purity as she moved gracefully through the music.

Brides, and especially royal brides, were always beautiful. That was an incontrovertible law of nature—just ask any publicist or newsy. In this case, however, it was true, Honor decided. Not because Rivka Rosenfeld was a stunning beauty, because she wasn’t, although she was undeniably attractive with a face full of wit and intelligence touched with the bloom of her youth. And not because of the hours of effort the Star Empire’s best cometicians had put in, either. No, it was because of the glow in her eyes as they met Roger Winton’s down the length of that long, long cathedral aisle.

And, Honor conceded, it was also because of Rivka’s own impeccable taste. As her matron of honor, Honor had been deeply involved in planning the wedding. Her duties had been less extensive than those of Lord Chamberlain Wundt or Dame Arethea Hart, perhaps, but they’d been focused on the official aspects of the day. Honor had been focused on Rivka, and on more than one occasion she’d found herself acting as the young woman’s champion as she stood up against the demands of an occasion of state.

Rivka had held out steadfastly for an elegantly simple wedding gown, without glamour or elaborate embroidery or glittering jewels, and Honor—whose own tastes ran in very much the same direction, if the truth be told—had supported her strongly. Not that simplicity implied cheapness, of course. Honor had become far more knowledgeable about fashion matters and designer gowns than she’d ever expected to, and she knew how expensive that deceptively simple, flawlessly fitted gown had actually been. Yet it was also perfect, the inevitable setting for the slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed young woman advancing to meet her fiancé.