The one concession she’d made was her bridal train, which stretched far down the aisle behind her as she advanced to meet her waiting groom. Honor and her maids of honor followed her, and at Rivka’s insistence, Faith Harrington led the entire procession scattering flower petals across the rich-toned carpet with solemn concentration. Her brother James followed her, carrying the royal blue cushion with the waiting wedding rings and the princess’ coronet.

Arranging it all had been a long journey and plenty of hard work for everyone, Honor reflected, following Rivka in her own Grayson-style gown and over tunic in deep, rich, “Harrington green” with the Star of Grayson, glittering about her throat on its crimson ribbon, her only jewelry. And a welcome one, in the aftermath of what had happened to Massimo Filareta and his fleet. A distraction, yes, but also a reaffirmation of life and a promise of hope, and she’d needed that. Being there for Rivka, helping to choose the wedding theme, to pick designs for the invitations, support her in fighting for the simplicity of the gown she’d chosen, choosing flowers, picking gifts for the bridesmaids. She’d never gotten to do something like that before. Her own wedding had been a much more…impromptu affair, and she’d discovered that planning a bridal shower had helped to heal a heart weary with killing and bloodshed.

Of course, finding time for all of that had been something of a challenge among her “merely” official duties as the commander of Grand Fleet. Fortunately, most of her subordinates had happily conspired to take as much as possible of that load off of her, and she was grateful to all of them. She’d always liked Rivka; over the last few months she’d come to understand exactly why Elizabeth approved of her son’s choice so strongly.

She’s going to do well, Honor thought. She’s exactly what Roger needs. If anyone can keep him sane when he finds himself on his mother’s throne, it’ll be Rivka.

Not that Rivka didn’t have some qualms of her own. Even now, Honor could taste the undercurrent of trepidation in the composed young woman’s mind-glow. Becoming the future queen consort of the Star Kingdom of Manticore at the age of twenty would have been daunting enough for anyone; becoming the future empress consort of the Star Empire of Manticore was even worse. And the fact that the Star Empire in question faced a fight for its very life against all the ponderous might of the Solarian League was downright terrifying. But somehow Rivka had coped with all of that, and the clean, focused taste of her mind-glow, the joy and eagerness which infused it—and Roger’s—despite all of those worries, all of those future threats, as they looked at one another told Honor how well they both had chosen.