“Your Highness.” Greencomb bowed. “The regent and Lady Callista humbly beg the honor of your presence.”

“They are here?”

“Indeed. It is a day for family, sire.”

Alectus and Lady Callista had never attended previous Fourths of June. Titus frowned. This was exactly the sort of land mine that blew up in one’s face when one gave leave to one’s indispensable spymaster. What new devilry was Lady Callista plotting?

Greencomb indicated a large white canopy that had been erected at the edge of the field. With the attendants parting the crowd before him, Titus headed toward the canopy, Greencomb trailing behind.

Murmurs went through the gathering. He had never been the center of attention at Eton, but now boys who had known him for years were taking second and third looks.

The occupants of the canopy came into view. There was Alectus, looking as eager and useless as ever. Lady Callista, to his left, was gathering a crowd of gawkers. And to Alectus’s right—

Stood the Inquisitor.

Like everyone else, she had been wrangled into nonmage clothes. Tiered, gathered silk skirt over a large bustle, a feathered hat, and a fringed parasol, all in black. She looked ridiculous but perfectly healthy.

Their eyes met. She smiled, the smile of a predator ready to pounce. She had recovered. She knew that he had enjoyed the help of an elemental mage. And she had come to put him under Inquisition again.

Fear strangled him. But his feet continued to carry him forward. He was the heir of the House of Elberon and he did not lose his composure in public.

The regent had brought a retinue of twenty, and the Inquisitor almost as many minions. Whispered questions passed among the spectators concerning Titus’s origin and true rank. He would have laughed at “Is he the next Kaiser?” if his innards were not knotted tighter than a noose.

As he approached, the regent and the Inquisitor bowed, Lady Callista curtsied. Titus inclined his head. The murmurs of the spectators climbed half an octave. They had expected that he would be paying obeisance, not the other way around.

“Words cannot express my delight,” he said. “Will you be leaving soon?”

That hushed the crowd. Into the silence came Cooper’s loud stage whisper. “What did I always tell you, Rogers? He isn’t a piddling prince. He’s a grand prince.”

Lady Callista laughed softly, as if Titus had said something funny. “Your Highness, indeed, all too soon we will be leaving. So we must enjoy to the fullest what time we have together. The regent and I—and I am sure the Inquisitor too—are eager to meet your friends.”

Only then did Titus notice Nettle Oakbluff amidst the Inquisitor’s minions. She scanned the gathering with the wild-eyed greediness of a gold rusher, ready to find the one nugget that would lead to riches and glory. Next to her was Horatio Haywood, wan and unsteady on his feet.

Titus broke into a cold sweat. The Inquisitor had realized that he must keep Iolanthe Seabourne nearby. The Irreproducible Charm prevented her image from being drawn and disseminated. But it could not prevent her from being recognized by those who knew her.

Thank goodness she was away at her picnic with Kashkari and Wintervale.

Would that distance be enough to keep her safe?

“We have been provided a list of all your known associates, sire,” said Lady Callista, smiling. “We are determined to greet them all.”

Iolanthe and Wintervale lay on a small knoll by the Thames. Kashkari had been with them earlier, but had left for a walk.

Fat, fluffy clouds drifted across a perfect blue sky. The river shushed and soughed against its banks. Warm sunlight fell gently upon Iolanthe’s skin.

She opened her eyes, grimacing. She must have fallen asleep. And even after such a short nap, her hands—her entire arms, in fact—hurt. She tried to tell herself that it was a good thing—more pain probably implied a more fierce struggle between her potential and what remained of the otherwise spell. But it was taking too long, and her mastery over air was still questionable.

“Damn it,” exclaimed Wintervale, startling her.

“What’s the matter?”

He sat up. “Remember what Kashkari said about the tennis tournament?”

“That today is the perfect weather for bouncing a vulcanized rubber ball on grass?”

“That and he wants to hold it next Sunday,” said Wintervale gloomily. “I forgot I have to take a short leave that day.”

Iolanthe’s foot twitched—boys usually only took leaves to visit their families. “I thought your mother was in Baden-Baden.”

“No, she came back last week. I didn’t say anything about it—idiots like Cooper won’t understand why she chooses to remain home on the Fourth of June.”

“Oh,” she said.

“You don’t have to look so alarmed, Fairfax,” said Wintervale, looking a little put out. “Most of the time she is all right. In fact, she—already back, Kashkari? You didn’t go far.”

Kashkari sat down between them. “The strangest thing happened. I hadn’t gone five minutes before someone appeared out of nowhere and said that I’d stepped out of school boundaries and I’d best turn back. I walked north a couple of minutes, then turned west again; a different person popped up to tell me I couldn’t pass.”

Iolanthe frowned. The resident houses relied on a number of daily checks to make sure boys weren’t absent without leave, but nobody patrolled Eton’s ill-defined boundaries.

“That’s ridiculous,” huffed Wintervale. “This is a school, not a prison.”

“Gentlemen! You have been summoned.”

They started at Sutherland’s booming voice. He had not come alone; with him was Birmingham, their house captain.

“I’ve never seen such pomp and circumstance in my life,” complained Birmingham, a broad nineteen-year-old with a well-developed mustache. “Frampton made me come personally, in case Sutherland isn’t enough of a messenger to fetch you three.”

“Fetch us to what?” asked Kashkari.

“To the traveling court of Saxe-Limburg,” answered Sutherland. “I always thought Titus was one of those princes with an acre to rule. Guess I was wrong.”

“His family came?” Iolanthe was alarmed. He hadn’t mentioned anything.

“What?” cried Wintervale at the same time. He, too, knew that there was no such thing as the traveling court of Saxe-Limburg. Or Saxe-Limburg altogether.

“Just a great-uncle, but what a dame he brought,” said Sutherland. He turned to Birmingham. “Did they ever say whether Helen of Troy is the great-uncle’s wife?”

“I’ll wager she’s just his mistress—Europeans.” Birmingham remembered himself and turned to Wintervale, who, like the prince, was also said to be from a small European principality. “No offense.”

“None taken,” said Wintervale, still looking flabbergasted.

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” said Sutherland. “It took us a while to find you. His Highness must be getting impatient.”

Titus’s skin crawled.

The Inquisitor was not conducting an Inquisition—the sheer size of the crowd presented an obstacle to a mind mage wishing to examine one particular mind in detail. But sitting next to her was still nerve-racking. Half a dozen of her minions had their eyes trained on him, making sure that he did not attempt anything that might impede their quest.

But all that he could have endured if Fairfax were somewhere in Siberia. Instead she must be on her way to him, escorted by Sutherland and Birmingham.

The day grew warmer; his shirt stuck to his back. Human nature being what it was, the line of people waiting to be presented to the court of Saxe-Limburg had grown exponentially, boys and Old Etonians making up connections to Titus, hoping to get closer to the once-in-a-generation beauty that was Lady Callista. The sisters and mothers—didn’t English women usually pay no mind to Continental princelings? Yet they stood patiently in the queue, their white parasols like so many pearls on a string.