"Emilie, such impertinence," Luisa said.
Olympia straightened. "No, my dear. In this case, Emilie is quite right. I have taken it upon myself to make an inquiry or two, in hemi-demi-semi-official channels, about your case. After all, you are family."
The last word echoed heavily in the room, calling up the image of the girls' mother, Olympia's sister, who had died a decade ago as she labored to bring the long-awaited male heir of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof into the world. The baby, two months early, had died a day later, and though Prince Rudolf had married thrice more, applying himself with nightly perseverance to his duty, no coveted boys had materialized. Only the three young ladies remained: Princess Stefanie, Princess Emilie, and-bowing at last to the inevitable four months ago-Crown Princess Luisa, the acknowledged heir to the throne of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof.
But their mother still hovered, like a ghost in the room. Olympia's favorite sister, though he would never have admitted it. His own dear Louisa, clever and handsome and full of charm, who had fallen in love with Prince Rudolf at court in the unending summer of 1864, during the height of fashion for German royalty.
Emilie, he thought, as he gazed upon the young princesses, had Louisa's eyes.
"And?" she asked now, narrowing those familiar eyes.
The electric lamp gave a little flicker, as if the current had been disturbed. Outside, a dog barked faintly at some passing drunkard or night dustman, and the corgi rose to the tips of his paws, ears trembling. Olympia crossed his long legs and placed his right hand at the edge of the desk, fingers curling around the polished old wood. "I have no inkling, I'm afraid, who caused the death of your father and"-he turned a sorrowful gaze to Luisa, who sat with her eyes cast down-"your own husband, my dearest Luisa." This was not entirely a lie, though it was not precisely the truth; but Olympia had long since lost all traces of squeamish delicacy in such matters. "One suspects, naturally, that the murder must have occurred by the hand of some party outraged by Luisa's official recognition as heir to the throne last summer, and her subsequent marriage to . . . I beg your pardon, my dear. What was the poor fellow's name, God bless his soul?"
"Peter," Luisa whispered.
"Peter, of course. My deepest apologies that I was unable to attend the ceremony. I felt I would not be missed."
"By the by, that was a jolly nice epergne you sent," said Stefanie. "We absolutely marveled on it."
"You are quite welcome," said Olympia. "I daresay it has all been packed safely away?"
"Miss Dingleby saw to it herself."
"Clever Miss Dingleby. Excellent. Yes, the murders. I thought to send for you myself, but before I could make the necessary arrangements, word had reached me . . ."
"So quickly?" asked Emilie, with her clever eyes.
"There are telegraphs, my dear. Even in the heart of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, I'm told, although in this case the necessary communication came from a friend of mine in Munich."
"What sort of friend?" Emilie leaned forward.
Olympia waved his hand. "Oh, an old acquaintance. In any case, he told me the facts of this latest crisis, the . . . the . . ."
Luisa looked up and said fiercely: "My attempted abduction, do you mean?"
"Yes, my dear. That. I was gratified to learn that you had defended yourself like a true daughter of your blood, and evaded capture. When the papers reported the three of you missing with your governess, I knew there was nothing more to fear. Miss Dingleby would know what to do."
"She has been a heroine," said Luisa.
Olympia smiled. "I had no doubt."
"Well then," said Stefanie. "When do we begin? Tomorrow morning? For I should like to have at least a night's sleep first, after all that rumpus. I declare I shall never look at a piece of licorice in quite the same light."
"Begin?" Olympia blinked. "Begin what?"
Stefanie rose from her chair and began to pace about the room. "Why, investigating the matter, of course! Finding out who's responsible! I should be more than happy to act as bait, though I rather think it's poor Luisa they're after, God help them."
"My dear, do sit down. You're making me dizzy." Olympia lifted one hand to shield his eyes. "Investigate? Act as bait? Quite out of the question. I shouldn't dream of risking my dear nieces in such a manner."
"But something must be done!" exclaimed Emilie, rising, too.
"Of course, and something shall be done. The Foreign Office is most concerned about the matter. Instability in the region and all that. They shall be conducting the most rigorous inquiries, I assure you. But in the meantime, you must hide."
"Hide?" said Emilie.
"Hide!" Stefanie stopped in mid-pace and turned to him, face alight with outrage. "A princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof does not hide!"
Olympia lifted himself away from the desk and gathered his hands behind his back. "Of course, there's no point hiding in the ordinary manner. These continental agents, I'm told, are unnaturally cunning in seeking out their targets. Simply sending you to rusticate in some remote village won't do. Your photographs are already in the papers."
Stefanie's hands came together. "Disguise! Of course! You mean to disguise us! I shall be a dairymaid. I milked a cow once, at the Schweinwald summer festival. They were all quite impressed. The dairyman told me I had a natural affinity for udders."
"Nonsense. A dairymaid! The very idea. No, my dears. I have something in mind more subtle, more devious. More, if you'll pardon the word . . ."-he paused, for effect-". . . adventurous."
Luisa drew in a long and deep breath. "Oh, Uncle. What have you done?"
"I admit, I had the idea from you yourselves. Do you remember, a great many years ago, when I came to visit your . . . er, your charming homeland? You were just fifteen, Luisa."
"I remember." Her voice was dark with foreboding.
"You put on a play for me, did you not? Hamlet, I believe, which was just the sort of melancholy rubbish a fifteen-year-old girl would find appealing." Olympia came to a bookshelf, propped his elbow next to a first folio, and regarded the girls with his most benignly affectionate expression.
"Yes, Hamlet," said Luisa warily.
"I remember!" said Stefanie. "I was both Claudius and the Prince of Norway, which proved rather awkward at the end, and Emilie of course played Polonius . . ."
Olympia widened his beneficent smile. "And Luisa was Hamlet. Were you not, my dear?"
The timepiece above the mantel chimed three o'clock in dainty little dings. The corgi went around in a circle once, twice, and settled himself in an anxious bundle at Stefanie's feet. His ears swiveled attentively in Olympia's direction.
"Oh no," said Luisa. "It's out of the question. Impossible, to say nothing of improper."
Stefanie clasped her hands. "Oh, Uncle! What a marvelous idea! I've always wanted to gad about in trousers like that. Such perfect freedom. Imagine! You're an absolute genius!"
"We will not," said Luisa. "Imagine the scandal! The . . . the indignity! No, Uncle. You must think of something else."
"Oh, hush, Luisa! You're a disgrace to your barbarian ancestors . . ."
"I should hope I am! I, at least, have some notion . . ."
"Now, ladies . . ."
". . . who overran the steppes of Russia and the monuments of Rome . . ."
". . . of what is due to my poor husband's memory, and it does not require trousers . . ."
"My dear girls . . ."
". . . to create the very wealth and power that makes us targets of assassins to begin with . . ."
"HUSH!" said Olympia.
Luisa paused, finger brandished in mid-stab. Stefanie bent over with a mutinous expression and picked up the quivering corgi.
Olympia rolled his eyes to the ceiling, seeking sympathy from the gilded plasterwork. His head, unaccustomed to such late hours, felt as if it might roll off his body at any moment and into the corgi-soiled Axminster below.
Indeed, he would welcome the peace.
"Very well," he said at last. "Luisa rejects the notion; Stefanie embraces it. Emilie, my dear? I believe it falls to you to cast the deciding vote."
Stefanie rolled her own eyes and sat with a pouf into her chair, corgi against her breast. "Well, that's that, then. Emilie will never agree."