Princess Dottie

Chapter Four

“May I ask if you've made a decision?” Randolph asked when he returned and found her alone.

“I'm nearly there. What have you done with Mike?”

“He's in his own apartments.”

“I want you to take me to him.”

“Wouldn't it be better if-”

“Now, please.”

“Is this the woman who couldn't give orders?” Randolph asked wryly.

She gave him back gaze for gaze. She understood now that this was a man of whom she must beware. He'd charmed her, but underneath he was pursuing his own agenda, and pursuing it all the more ruthlessly because it was driven by his duty.

“I'm just keeping my end up,” she said, defying him with her eyes. “And I need to, otherwise you lot will swamp me. Well, I won't let you swamp me. You thought I was an airhead who'd jump on command. Boy were you ever wrong! This is a tough cookie, and you may end up sorry you tangled with me.”

“Bravo, Dorothea!” he said at once. “With just such an attitude your ancestors led their people through times of crisis. And those who tangled with them ended up sorry.”

“Don't you smooth talk me. It doesn't work. Now let's go and find Mike-if you can remember where you've put him.”

“At Your Royal Highness's command.”

“I've warned you…”

Instead of leading her to the main door Randolph pressed a tiny knob in the carved panel on one wall, and a door clicked open.

“A secret passage,” Dottie breathed, forgetting royal dignity in childish delight.

“Not secret. There are a rabbit warren of these passages linking all the main rooms. It's quicker than going by the public corridors. And, of course, more discreet.”

It seemed to Dottie that he led her up hill and down dale before they reached one door that looked exactly like all the others, and Randolph opened it.

“You might have put him a bit closer to me,” Dottie observed. “But you weren't taking any chances, were you?”

“No,” Randolph said firmly, opening the door. “I wasn't.”

They found Mike confronting a splendid dinner, dressed in a silk robe that seemed to swallow him up. He beamed at the sight of Dottie.

“I was wondering where you were, love. This is grand. Mind you, this place is a bit big for me. I keep getting lost. But we've really fallen on our feet.”

“That's what they want you to think,” Dottie said urgently. “But it's all a huge con trick.” She looked at Randolph, regarding them, took Mike's arm and pulled him into a corner.

“It's not a joke after all. They really think I'm going to be their queen,” she said in a low voice.

“Get away!”

“That's what I said. But they mean it. Mike, what am I going to do?”

“Well, you don't have to do it if you don't want to, do you? Just tell them no. But not yet. Let's have that holiday we were promised. We're living in grand style.” grand. Mind you, this place is a bit big

“But if we stay too long I might be trapped here.”

“Nah, not you Dot! You always get people jumping to do what you say.”

“Keep your voice down,” she muttered, conscious of Randolph's sharp ears. “And it's not true.”

“Yes it is. What about that time-”

“Never mind that,” she said hastily. “All right. Just for a while.”

Randolph approached discreetly. “Why don't we leave Mike to get ready for his night out? Some army officers are eager to entertain him. Good night Mike. Have a pleasant evening.”

Dottie followed Randolph back to her apartment in silence. Once there she asked. “So what happens next?”

“Some refreshment. And a brief meeting with your chief ministers, at which you can receive their loyal greetings.”

“I can't really do that in shorts, can I?” she conceded with a sigh.

“Your Royal Highness is most gracious.”

“Oh no, not you too,” she protested. “There's got to be one person here who doesn't talk to me like I'm the fairy on top of the cake. It's Dottie.”

“Very well, for the moment-Dottie. Bertha will bring you some clothes, and Aunt Liz will help you with them. She's actually the Countess Gellitz, and I think you'll like her.”

The countess arrived a few minutes later. She was middle-aged, motherly and elegant, despite being plump. Dottie was soon calling her Aunt Liz, like everyone else.

The sense of unreality increased when she found herself wearing a simple, elegant white dress, plainly expensive and like nothing she'd ever worn before. Then Bertha got to work on her face and hair while Aunt Liz explained that in future this would be the prerogative of her personal beautician and her personal hairdresser. They must be appointed without delay to prepare her for future big occasions, but as today's meeting was urgent, Bertha would do a “rush job.”

To Dottie's awed eyes Bertha's rush job was the equal of the expensive London salons where she'd pressed her nose against the window and dreamed. The woman looking back at her from the mirror had huge, subtly made-up blue eyes, perfectly lined lips and a flawless, peachy complexion. Her eyebrows had mysteriously developed an aristocratic arch, while her short hair had been teased into sophisticated curves.

Obscurely, she could feel herself being transformed into another person, and she tried to cling on to her self, which was hard because she was slipping away. Besides which, the other person looked as if she might be fun to be, and temptation was undermining Dottie's resolve.

I will be strong-minded, she told herself. I will not be seduced by all this. Well-not for long, anyway.

She realized that a dispute was taking place over her head. Aunt Liz had selected gold jewelry, while Bertha preferred diamond-studded platinum. The argument raged while Dottie looked from one to the other like a tennis spectator, ignored by both. Randolph, who'd left the room while she dressed, returned in time to witness the moment.

“I prefer gold,” she ventured to say at last.

“You see?” Aunt Liz cried triumphantly. “Her Royal Highness has excellent taste.”

Bertha glowered. Dottie mouthed, “Next time” to her

“Well done, Dottie,” Randolph murmured. “You have the soul of a diplomat.”

At last she stood and regarded her coiffured, manicured, made-up and gilded self in the mirror. There was no doubt that the woman staring back at her looked good. But who was she?

“It's time to meet your ministers,” Randolph said.

He positioned her in the middle of her reception room. The double doors were thrown open and a troop of middle-aged men streamed in. Each of them threw her a sharp, curious look before bowing. Randolph introduced them, Jacob Durmand, the prime minister, Alfred Sternheim, chancellor, Felix Andras, minister for Foreign Affairs, Bernhard Enderlin, the minister of the Interior. There were several others, but she lost count.

“Gentlemen,” Randolph said gravely, “allow me to present to you Crown Princess Dorothea, heiress to the throne of Elluria.”

As he spoke he moved away from her side and joined the men facing her. He was the first to bow, but a little stiffly, as though it came hard to him. Then it hit her. Randolph was openly proclaiming that he was one of her subjects. The thought disconcerted her more than anything else had done in that whole incredible day.

The prime minister stepped forward. “On behalf of your people and your parliament, may I have the honor of welcoming Your Royal Highness…”

It went on for several minutes, during which Dottie pulled herself together and worked out what she was going to say.

At last Jacob Durmand finished and everyone was looking at her expectantly. She took a deep breath.

“I'm grateful to all of you for wanting to make me your queen, but the fact is, it's not on. You're so anxious to find an heir that you've pounced on the first person who looks likely, but there's got to be someone better suited than me. I'm not queen material, honest.”

By this time her entire council was staring at her, aghast. Dottie hurried on before she could lose the thread.

“I know you need me around just now, because of Harold. Okay, here's the deal. I'll stay for another few weeks, just to hold the fort against him.”

“And when the few weeks are up?” Randolph inquired.

“By then you'll have found another heir. Yes, you will,” to forestall their protests she held up her hand in an unconsciously imperious gesture. “You will, because you're going to go on searching. When you've found someone, I'll go home.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Sternheim said scathingly.

Dottie regarded him. “In the meantime I think you should address me as Your Royal Highness,” she declared coolly. She then spoiled the effect by muttering to Randolph, “Or do I mean Your Majesty?”

“Not until after your coronation.”

“In that case,” she told Sternheim, “you should have said, 'You don't know what you're talking about, Your Royal Highness.”'

Sternheim was rendered speechless.

“What are we going to do?” the chancellor groaned.

“We're going to do what our princess suggested,” Randolph said.

“You see?” Dottie said sunnily. “I'm right.”

“I didn't say you were right,” Randolph repressed her. “I said we were going to do it your way-for reasons of realpolitik.”

“Pardon?”

“It means you hold all the cards,” he said wryly. “But if you're going to be convincing you have to play this for real. As far as the world knows you're here to claim your throne. Let Harold get a hint to the contrary and he'll be at our doors.”

“But I don't know how to be a princess.”

“At this stage you only have to look like one,” Randolph assured her. “Receptions and receiving lines.” He added slyly, “The hardest part will be the hours you'll spend being fitted for your new clothes.”

“New clothes?” Dottie murmured.

“Your royal dignity demands that you don't wear the same outfit in public twice, so it means a lot of work. But I know you'll do your duty for the sake of the country.”

She considered. “Well, if it's my duty, I suppose I might.”

“You'll find that-what was that noise?”

“That's the royal stomach rumbling,” Dottie muttered. “You promised me something to eat and I haven't had it yet.”

“The audience is over,” Randolph declared hastily.

Everyone filed out, but Dottie noticed that each man stopped in the doorway to give her a final, doubtful look.

“They know I can't do it,” she told Randolph when they were alone.

He whirled on her. “Never, never say that,” he said fiercely. “Never speak it again, never even think it.”

“All right, all right,” she said, alarmed by the change in him.

He calmed down. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to shout at you, but this is more important than you can imagine. You must be convinced that you can do it, convinced to your depths. The essence of being a princess is to believe in yourself as a princess. Otherwise how can anyone else believe it?”

She was too tired to argue with him. She watched thankfully as two footmen wheeled in a table, already laid.

“Only for one?” she queried. “Aren't you going to stay?”

“I have urgent business to attend to. You have a full day tomorrow, so when you've eaten, go straight to bed.”

“Your Royal Highness,” she reminded him mischievously.

“Go straight to bed, Your Royal Highness.”

She climbed into the four poster as soon as she'd eaten, and found it more comfortable than she'd expected. But her thoughts were in too much turmoil for her to sleep, and after lying awake for half an hour she put on the light and began to explore the royal apartments.

The bed could have slept five. It stood on a raised dais that was reached by three steps, so that she had no choice but to look down on the rest of the world, which didn't suit Dottie's ideas at all.

She examined a bookshelf, but its contents were in German, except for a few English magazines about horse breeding. It seemed she had nothing to help her through the long night.

Then she remembered Royal Secrets. She'd glanced at the magazine just long enough for Randolph to make his point, then stuffed it into her bag, where it still lay. She pulled it out and curled up in bed for a good read.

It was clearly designed for the semiliterate, which Dottie reckoned was why Brenda read it. Text was kept to a minimum, and pictures covered each page. Many of them were of Randolph, “the dispossessed heir.” In flashy accents the magazine described his life. Thirty-two years old, raised to inherit a throne, instructed in military matters, statecraft, diplomacy, then abruptly deposed when his parents' marriage was found to be bigamous.

There were pictures of Randolph as a child, accompanied by a coolly correct looking woman who turned out to be his mother. There he was in his teens, this time with his father, the late King Egbert III, the man who'd so cruelly let him down by making a secret marriage and forgetting about it. Studying his face, easygoing, amiable, weak but lovable, Dottie felt that if she met him in life she would have liked him, even though she, like Randolph, had to suffer for his way-wardness.

More pictures: Randolph in army uniform, in white tie and tails, Randolph attending parades, in the royal box at the opera, dancing with a beautiful woman in his arms. The woman was unusually tall, Dottie observed from the dismal depths of five foot one, almost tall enough to look her partner in the eye. The caption said she was Countess Sophie Bekendorf, Prince Randolph's fiancée.

Here the magazine outdid itself, describing the love story in throbbing accents.

Who can see into the hearts of these lovers, reared to occupy a throne together, now seeing their fortunes shattered? Once a great man in his country, Randolph is now no more than an illegitimate commoner. The Bekendorfs have always raised their daughters to be queens. Will Sophie stay true to the man she loves? Will he hold her to her bargain, or be strong enough to release her?

A strange feeling came over Dottie as she realized that the cardboard cutout in this purple prose was the flesh-and-blood man she'd met in Wenford. This was “Mr. Holsson,” who'd helped her make up the bed and laughed at his own awkwardness, who'd charmed her until her head spun.

And all the time he'd known something that she didn't. He'd deceived her. She'd been hurt and angry about that, but now a glimmer of understanding, even sympathy, came to her. What had it been like for him to come and find her, bring her back to Elluria, offer her the throne that was rightfully his? He'd done it smiling, with no hint of what it must have cost him, because it was his duty. For his people he'd sacrificed himself. For their sake he would be no less ruthless in sacrificing her.

Dottie yawned and rubbed her eyes. The clock said two in the morning, and she supposed she ought at least try to sleep. But when she'd turned out the light the room was filled with moonlight, and she couldn't resist going to the window and looking out over the great park that surrounded the palace. The moon picked out the tops of the trees and bushes, and turned the lake into a sheet of silver.

Then she became aware that two figures were walking under the trees beside the lake. One was a tall man whose familiar outline made Dottie grow very still. The other was a woman almost as tall as himself. Together they glided by the water, his arm around her waist, his head bent down toward hers. Dottie watched as they stopped suddenly and turned to each other. She held her breath while there was a sliver of light between the two faces. Then they began walking again, and were soon lost in the blackness of the trees.

Dottie turned away, feeling uncomfortably as though she'd pried into something that was none of her business. After all the new impressions that had assaulted her senses that day, this was one too many.

Leaving the window open, she began to explore again. She'd briefly glimpsed the bathroom before, but now she studied it properly. It was a magnificent creation with a thick cream carpet, elegant tiles and a circular bath sunk into the floor.

“Like Cleopatra,” she murmured.

She thought of the bathroom back in Wenford that she shared with five other people, with constant squabbles. The next moment she'd run the water and plunged in. It was bliss and she enjoyed herself for half an hour before emerging to dry herself off on a towel and look around for a bathrobe to snuggle into.

She couldn't see what she wanted, but she caught a glimpse of herself in the tall mirrored doors of the bathroom wardrobe. It was almost the first time she'd seen herself like this, full-length. Both her home and the place where she now lived were too crowded for dancing around naked.

“Hmm!” she murmured, turning slowly, while trying to look over her shoulder. “Pity I'm not taller, but I suppose I'll do.”

Not finding a robe, she pulled open one of the doors to the wardrobe. Here too, there was luxury, with the same thick carpet, its own soft lighting, and enough room for her to step inside. She did so, and walked the length, but it was completely empty. She sighed, and decided to go to bed.

Then she discovered a problem…

Randolph was awoken next morning by the sound of someone pounding on the outer door of his apartment. He was sleepily aware of the murmuring of voices, then his valet hurried into the room, his face tense.

“She's gone,” he said aghast. “The princess has vanished from her room.”

“Impossible,” Randolph said testily. “What were the footmen doing?”

“Sir, there have been four footmen outside Her Royal Highness's room all night. They swear she hasn't gone out that way. Nor can she have used the concealed door, because that seems to be locked from the other side.”

Randolph knew that this was true, having secured it himself the night before. He'd done the same with the concealed door in Mike's room. He was taking no chances.

He dressed hurriedly and almost ran to the state apartments. Once there he began to be seriously worried. The only possible escape was through the window, which, alarmingly, stood wide open. It was two floors up, and although he told himself that even Dottie wouldn't be crazy enough to escape that way, an inner voice whispered that he had much to learn about her.

He became aware of a flutter among the maids. “What is it now?” he demanded.

“Sir, there's a funny noise coming from the bathroom.”

Randolph strode into the bathroom and listened. From behind one of the huge mirrored doors came the unmistakable sound of soft snoring. He pulled open the door and they all stared down at the sight of the crown princess, naked as the day she was born, fast asleep on the floor.

Dottie opened her eyes and favored everyone with her sunniest smile. Randolph instantly tore off his jacket and arranged it around her, throwing a curt dismissal over his shoulder to the interested crowd.

“Dottie,” he said, controlling himself, “why are you sleeping on the floor in the-in here? I assure you, it isn't the custom.”

“Ouch,” she said, moving her stiff limbs gingerly. “Help me up.” She reached up her hands and he took them, drawing her gently to her feet while trying not to let the jacket become dislodged. It slipped and he only managed to keep it in place by pulling her against him. To his relief everybody had now left.

“Go and put something on,” he commanded in a tight voice. “I'll join you in a minute.”

He needed that time to himself to shut out the vision of her entrancing nakedness. She was daintily made and completely perfect, slender but rounded, with cheeky uptilted breasts that he had to fight to exclude from his mind. It was even harder to ignore the fleeting sensation of her enchanting little body pressed against his own.

Only when he was sure he was in command of himself did he join her. She was dressed in her own clothes, slacks and sweater, and for an appalled moment he had the impression that they'd become transparent. He took a deep breath.

Dottie seemed not to notice anything odd in his manner. She was too delighted over the arrival of her breakfast table.

“Oh lovely! I'm dying for a cup of tea.”

“Perhaps first you will tell me what happened?” He spoke coldly, for he was under a lot of strain. “Is this some old English tradition that Elluria will have to grow used to. Will sleeping on closet floors become the fashion in society?”

“Don't be silly. Last night I had a bath and went in there looking for a bathrobe, and the door clicked shut behind me. When I tried to open it I found it had locked itself, and I couldn't get any of the others open, either. I thumped and yelled but nobody heard me. I got a bit panicky, but then I realized there was no real problem. When people came in next morning I'd yell and they'd find me. So I settled down to sleep. What's happened to the tea?”

“There isn't any. It's coffee. But you didn't yell, did you?”

“Well, I would have done if I hadn't overslept. How do I get some tea?”

“I'll give orders for it. It's lucky for us all that you snore. Otherwise we wouldn't have found you.”

“How dare you say I snore!”

“If you didn't snore you could have been there all day. I was going to send out search parties.”

“I see. Bring her back, 'dead or alive.”'

“Just alive,” he snapped. “Dead would be no practical use.”

“You're all heart,” she complained.

“Dottie, don't push me. Right now you're talking to a man who's had a bad fright, and it hasn't left me in the best of moods.”

“And you're talking to someone who's spent the night on the floor wearing only her birthday suit.”

“There's no need to go into details.” he said desperately.

“It hasn't left me feeling that everything's tickety-boo either, especially,” she came to her real grievance, “since I can't get a cup of tea. What's the point of being a princess if I can't get a cuppa? I'd be better off in Wenford.”

“Where I'm strongly tempted to send you.”

“Can't be soon enough for me.”

In the seething silence that followed Randolph pressed a bell in the wall, and when Bertha appeared he said, “Her Royal Highness prefers tea with her breakfast. Please see to it immediately.”

“Yes, sir. Should that be China tea, Indian tea-”

“Just make sure that it's strong enough to stand the spoon up in,” Randolph growled, assailed by memories of breakfast in Wenford.

Bertha curtsied and departed.

Silence.

“Well, you got that right, about the spoon. I'll make an Englishman of you yet,” Dottie said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. From the look he threw her she knew she'd failed.

“Where's Mike?” she asked. “I think we should be eating together.”

“You can call him on the internal phone. Room 43.”

Dottie dialed and was answered at once by an unfamiliar male voice.

“Mike?” she demanded.

“Mr. Kenton is unavailable at the moment. This is his valet.”

“His valet? Mike? Never mind. Haul him out of the bath. Tell him the love of his life wants to talk to him.”

“Mr. Kenton is not in the bath, Your Highness. He has been invited to drive a Ferrari and will be away for the rest of the day.”

“I guess I can't compete with a Ferrari,” Dottie murmured wryly, hanging up.

“It was only kind to keep him happy while you're occupied with more weighty matters,” Randolph said. He'd recovered his poise now, and could only hope that Dottie hadn't guessed the reason for his edginess.

The arrival of strong tea helped the atmosphere. Dottie offered him some, but he declined with a shudder.

“Since you've disposed of my fiancé, I suppose I'm all yours for the day,” she remarked. “What's the agenda?”

“Your appearance, clothes, hairstyling etc. After a couple of days of intensive preparation there'll be a press conference.”

“What do I say at that?” she asked in alarm.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Pretty pointless press conference, then.”

“Others will do the talking. You will smile and look regal. The point is that you should be seen.”

“Seen and not heard?”

“Exactly.”

“Come to think of it, they'll get a shock when Princess Dottie opens her mouth.”

“Princess Dorothea,” he corrected her. “Dottie makes you sound crazy.”

“Well, I am crazy. Always was.”

“You can't be Princess Dottie!”

“Fiddle!” she said firmly. “I'm Dottie. If they don't like it, they can send me home.”

“We'll address this problem later,” he growled, adding under his breath, “among many others.”

Dottie concentrated on her breakfast, refusing to answer this provocation.

“You also need to meet various persons of the court,” Randolph continued, “including your future ladies in waiting.”

“Must I have ladies in waiting?” Dottie asked plaintively. “After all, I'll be gone soon. You are looking for someone else, aren't you?”

“Diligently,” Randolph said. He'd ordered that no stone should be left unturned, in case she carried out her threat to leave. “But as far as the world knows, you've come to stay.”

She couldn't resist giving him an impish look. “Now there's an unnerving thought!”

He met her gaze. “Quite. I wonder which of us is more appalled by it.”

Her lips twitched. “You probably.”

That came too close to home. He turned away from her sharply, pacing the room. And that was how he noticed Royal Secrets lying open.

It was the copy he himself had given her and it was entirely reasonable for her to read it, but logic was useless against the revulsion that rose in him at the thought of her learning his most painful secrets in this vulgar way. He had to walk away to the window because he couldn't bear to look at her.

In London she'd charmed him, but that had been another world. Here, where she was taking over his birthright, it was hard for him to regard her without hostility.

He turned, meaning to tell her coldly that her humor was inappropriate, but he met her eyes, fixed on him, and saw the small crinkle of bewilderment in her forehead. She looked smaller, more vulnerable than he remembered, and his anger died. It wasn't her fault.

“Eat your breakfast,” he said more gently. “Then Aunt Liz will attend you. She knows all there is to be known about clothes. I suggest you appoint her as your Mistress of Robes, but of course that decision is yours.”

The countess was in an ebullient mood, having spent a hugely enjoyable night making plans for Dottie's appearance. She mourned Dottie's lack of height but praised her dainty build.

“We'll have clothes made to measure, but for your appearance this afternoon we will apply to a boutique, fortunately an extremely exclusive establishment. Once we've purchased the garments, they will withdraw them from their range, of course.”

“Of course,” Dottie murmured. “It'll be interesting to visit some of the shops.”

“What are you thinking of? You can't go to a shop.”

“Well, it won't come to me, will it?”

Aunt Liz was scandalized. “Of course it will.”

Within an hour four young women, trooped in, curtsied and proceeded to display an array of clothes that almost made Dottie weep with ecstasy. She spent two blissful hours trying on, discarding, trying again, changing her mind, going back to the one she'd first thought of. And not once did anyone grow impatient with her.

More young women. Shoes. Underwear. Finally Aunt Liz chose three dresses, “Just to tide you over while your official wardrobe is being made.”

“What about paying for them?” Dottie muttered, conscious of everyone looking at her expectantly.

“These matters are dealt with by your Mistress of Robes.” The countess paused delicately.

“In that case, Aunt Liz, will you do the honors?”

She had made her first appointment.

A hairstylist appeared and transformed Dottie's shortish hair into more sophisticated contours. While she was still in rollers she took a bath, and emerged to find her underwear and hose laid out ready.

The dress was simple, cream silk, with a high waistline. The shoes matched it exactly. About her neck she wore a pearl necklace that, Bertha said, had been a gift from the Tsar of Russia to Queen Dorothea I in the eighteenth century. Dottie gulped.

At last she was ready. Everyone curtsied their way out, leaving her to wait for Randolph, who would escort her to the reception. Now she felt good, full of confidence knowing that she looked terrific. She wondered if Randolph would think so.

She wandered out onto her balcony that overlooked the deer park. There was the lake she'd seen last night, blue and beautiful glinting in the afternoon sun. She could pick out the exact spot where the man and woman had walked.

There was a woman standing there now. She didn't move, but stood, looking down into the water, as though sunk in thought, perhaps dreaming of the man, and the intimate moments they'd shared. Suddenly she began to walk purposefully back toward the palace. As she neared the balcony she stopped and raised her head, looking straight at Dottie. It was a direct, challenging gaze, almost angry, and it revealed her face clearly enough for Dottie to recognize her from the magazine photographs.

This was Sophie Bekendorf, Randolph's fiancé, and perhaps the woman he loved.

Dottie sensed that Sophie was looking her over. She was getting used to that, but there was something disagreeable about this woman's manner, and the slightly scornful smile that touched her mouth before she moved on and vanished from sight.

A moment ago she'd felt full of confidence and courage. Now she saw herself for what she was, an impostor, playing a role that was beyond her, and making herself ridiculous. With a sinking heart she went to survey herself again in the mirror. She even looked different, she thought dismally. Everything was wrong.

Randolph found her in this mood. “It's no use,” she sighed. “I can't be a princess.”

He laid his hands on her shoulders, and spoke gently. “Why ever not?”

“I'm too short.”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I'm too short. Princesses should be tall and elegant, looking down their noses at everyone, and I'm…” she made a helpless gesture, “short.”

His lips twitched. He tried to control it but with her wicked little face gazing at him control was impossible.

“What are you laughing at?” she demanded.

“At you, and your scatty way of thinking.”

“Well there you are. If people are going to laugh at me I can't be a princess, can I?”

“I won't let anyone laugh at you,” he promised.

“Except you.”

“Except me.”

“But I'm still too short. You couldn't fix me another six inches, could you?”

“Dottie, I would fix you anything you wanted in the world, but I'm afraid that is beyond me. You'll just have to be a short princess. Now stop fretting. I've brought something to show you.”

He laid out before her a small painting, in the style of the eighteenth century. It showed a woman of about thirty, at the height of her beauty. On the top of her elaborately arranged hair was a diamond tiara. More diamonds hung from her ears and around her throat was a magnificent diamond necklace, the same one that Dottie was wearing now. They were jewels for a queen, and she wasn't surprised to read, at the foot of the portrait this had been Queen Dorothea I. What did astonish her was the woman's face.

“But…that's me,” she gasped.

“It's a family likeness that has carried down through the generations,” Randolph agreed. “There is no doubt that you are her descendant, and it will smooth your path as queen.” When she didn't answer he frowned slightly. “Dottie? Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said vaguely, her eyes fixed on the portrait.

Almost in a dream she went to the mirror to look at herself, then back at the picture. It was happening again, the feeling of morphing into somebody else. From a great distance she could hear the voice of Dottie Hebden saying, “I can't do this. Me, a queen? Don't be funny.”

Against that she set her own face looking back at her from the portrait. The lips never moved, and yet it spoke to her in a voice she knew, silently telling her that this was where she belonged.