Forty-nine
“I don’t know what you mean,” Cam said.
Peter gazed at her in the light of the museum’s entryway, looking so beautiful and so worried, “I mean, try not to worry.”
He kissed her forehead, which felt as soft as a summer breeze, and slipped the coat off her shoulders. “Go talk to your master. The gala doesn’t start for half an hour. I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out.”
“But how…?”
“Have faith.”
“Faith, huh?”
“And self-confidence, aye?”
She nodded uncertainly, and he kissed her again before pushing her gently on her way.
As he watched her climb the long staircase, he thought that though he’d seen more than one queen crowned in glory at the head of a court, he’d never seen anything to match this Cenerentola, with her breathtaking fall of flame-kissed curls.
If she lost a slipper as she rose higher and higher, he would not have batted an eye.
When she disappeared, he turned to a guard. “Where might I find a woman named Anastasia? I need to speak to her. ’Tis a matter of great import.”