He did not have to be a rohn to hear her tenderness. It washed over him as sweet as a robin's song, undermining his natural caution.

"Of her," he said and handed her Louise's portrait. "My sister. I lost her two years ago in an accident. A runaway carriage."

She stroked the protective gla.s.s with her fingertips, her expression as gentle as it had been when she held Max in the car. "Now I understand how the Courier got a sketch. She looks just like me."

"Louise's nose was bigger. And you outweigh her a bit."

"An even trade, I hope," she said with a little laugh he didn't understand, probably some female mystery. When she looked up, her eyes glimmered on the verge of tears. "You know I can't replace her."

"I know," he said through his tightened throat. "But meeting you, hoping we could eventually become a family, did take away a bit of the pain. I miss being able to confide in her, sharing the burden of living in strange surroundings. Louise was an extraordinarily trustworthy sibling. I imagine you'd say she was my best friend. I look at you, at your beautiful human eyes welling up, and I think maybe you can give her the tears I could never shed."

As his daughter pressed her lips together, a shining droplet rolled down her cheek.

Herrington stiffened. "I didn't mean you had to do it in front of me."

To his amazement, she laughed outright.

It wasn't fair of her to laugh at him for being alarmed by her emotion. Plenty of human men would have reacted the same. Knowing this, Roxie attempted to compose herself. As he waited, her father drew his hands around the edges of the heavy book that sat on his desk.

"Why do you have that?" she asked, noting that it was a Farmer's Almanac. "I didn't see fields on your estate."

"Cultural artifact," he replied, carefully layering his hands on top. "It's part of my job as envoy to investigate all facets of human society."

Roxie squinted at him. She wasn't skilled enough at reading Yama to be sure, but she could have sworn this wasn't the whole story.

"Since we're being forthright with each other," he went on, almost making her laugh again, "there's something you need to know."

"Yes?" She smoothed her skirt over her knees, feeling oddly armored in her feminine clothes.

Whatever had unsettled her father, he was shielded again as well. He pushed the almanac to one side. "I received a communique from the Prince of Narikerr, the administrator of my home city. He has become aware of the story in the Courier."

"Already?" Roxie exclaimed. "That only came out this morning."

"We havea private means of sending messages."

" 'Private' like that fancy car you used to rescue us?"

At her shot in the dark, Herrington gave the impression of wincing without a muscle of his face having moved. Then again, maybe she was picking up his discomfort through his energy. At once, she saw the usefulness of the skill. As if aware of her attention and wishing to avoid it, he turned his gaze to his well-kept nails.

"It would be better," he said, "if you didn't mention seeing that vehicle to the prince."

"Understood." She leaned forward. "Does this mean I'm going to meet the prince?"

"It would appear so. He has decided to pay me a visit tomorrow night, to 'a.s.sess conditions for himself.' Most likely, he's only bored, and the visit will be brief. His presence, however, will necessitate a small gathering, which youa"as the object of his interesta"will be expected to attend."

"Whether I want to or not, I take it."

Herrington inclined his head in a gesture she found peculiarly Yamish: a combination of respect and drollery. "Princes do not wait on others' convenience."

"Is he a good prince or a bad one?"

Herrington thought before he answered. "That's difficult to say. He's flighty and, as I mentioned, easily bored. When he speaks to you, as I'm certain he will, you'll need to be careful not to react."

Roxie's eyebrows rose. "Not react?"

"He's not the brightest of Yamish lights. Too much inbreeding, I suspect. But that doesn't mean his temper can't be dangerous. He has a history ofa"one presumesa"inadvertent rudeness. Since he doesn't have direct experience with humans, he's liable to put his foot in it with you. It's important that you not betray if he gives offense."

"Because that would make him angry."

Herrington spread his hands, palms up. "I know it isn't fair, but he doesn't like being embarra.s.sed. Whatever his private agenda, we don't need him as an enemy."

Roxie nodded, then rubbed her chin. "I don't think I can guarantee the boys' behavior."

"We can keep them out of the way. Young people aren't expected at these events."

"Good," she said. "Because I'm not sure I want Max anywhere near your prince."

"Perfectly understandable," Herrington a.s.sured her. "Even wise." He relaxed in his dark tufted-leather chair. She sensed the change of posture was an act of trust, that Yama didn't often let down their guards. "Thank you for agreeing to my request."

Roxie hid her mischief by gazing at the hands she'd laced modestly in her lap. "I can be extremely sensible when I understand the reasons why."

"Hm," was Herrington's dry response.

"So," she said, letting a hint of her grin show. "You're from Narikerr. You must have seen the famous DuBarry expedition."

"I was a young man and not yet involved in government, but, yes, I was residing there when humans first arrived." He hesitated, his pale, blunt hands slowly smoothing the edge of his desk. "Possibly, someday, I could tell you about those days."

When his all-silver eyes met hers, they seemed strangely vulnerable, as if he were braced for a blow.

Why, he's afraid I won't be interested, Roxie realized. The Great Herrington was feeling shy.

"I'd enjoy that very much," she said, "as would Max. For the moment, at least, he's fascinated with all things historical."

"Ah," said Herrington with an unusual twinkle in his eye. "Perhaps that explains his fascination with me."

Then, to her astonishment, her father smiled.

Chapter 26.

Once upon a time, when her baby's birth was mere weeks away, a queen of the far north land chanced to gaze into a mirror made of ice. Hearing news of this ill omen, her king requested that the child-to-come be slain. Alas, the queen was too tenderhearted. Thus was born the fabled Prince of Ice.

a"Tales of the Northland Roxie was a pa.s.sable seamstress, but the gown the maid hooked her into was a marvel: the st.i.tches invisible, the intricate cutting of the pattern calculated to perfect the fit. Roxie could well believe the race that had fashioned this creation was superior.

"Rohn-made" the maid informed her, noting her dazzled look.

Roxie stroked her hand down a skirt that flowed like water to the floor, the cloth a rich indigo velvet that made her want to purr. "This fabrica"

"That's rohn-made, too, miss." The maid adjusted the gathered straps on Roxie's upper arms until their height matched the low straight line of the neck. "Whatever else you might say about those demons, they do lovely work."

"It must have cost the moon!"

"If you'll pardon me for saying so, I don't think your father'd feel it even if it did."

The maid's saucy grin told Roxie something she hadn't known. The servants might be respectful of her father, but they weren't afraid. They seemed, in fact, to relish working for their foreign employer.

"Lord Herrington wants you to look nice," the woman went on, shaking the complicated train that waterfalled down the dress's back. "He wants you to do yourself and him proud."

A day ago, Roxie would have remarked on the chances of the latter greatly outweighing the former. Now she merely gazed in mute amazement at her image in the full-length mirror. Though she didn't often fuss over her looks, she thought she'd known how to bring out the best in them; thought she'd mastered those secrets at her mother's knee. The miracles the maid and this dress had wrought taught her differently.

Her skin was porcelain next to the purple cloth, almost as pale as a full demon. Cosmetics enhanced her features, making her eyes seem huge and her lips dewy. Her hair was caught into a complicated arrangement of braided loops, gleaming after a long brushing. With the corset cinched, her figure could have been a queen's.

She looked, for once, as arresting as La Belle Yvonne.

"You'll do," said the maid just as someone knocked.

When she opened the door, Adrian came in. "Lord Herrington sent me with a gift." He lifted a jewelry box. "He thought you might refuse it if he brought it himself."

"Don't kiss her," the maid ordered as she left. "You'll ruin my good work."

Adrian watched her go, blinking slightly at her impertinence. Then he stepped farther in.

"My Lord," he said, getting his first good look. "It's almost worth everything we went through to see you like this."

Roxie took a breath and felt her bosom swell over the bodice. "I think the maid laced me too tight."

Adrian circled her halfway round. "I think the maid is my new best friend. You look exquisite. A lady from head to foot." As if he'd been kicked in the gut, he pressed his hand to his white waistcoat. "No wonder she warned me not to kiss you. You make me want to peel you out of that bit by bit."

His awe was flattering, especially when he looked so elegant himself. His shirt was starched within an inch of its life, and his black trousers and tailcoat seemed tailor-made to show off his honed bodya"a body that was, in its way, a weapon. Perhaps it was childish, but ever since she'd seen him tossing demons over bridges and ripping doors off automobiles, she'd found him even s.e.xier than before. That being so, it was no wonder the sight of him in his dress clothes went to her head.

"You'd better stick close tonight," she teased giddily. "Given how devious my father is, he may be angling to find me a high-born spouse."

Adrian's gaze came up startled. "Yes, Ia"I wouldn't be surprised if he had ambitions along those lines."

His tone was odd enough to make her regret her words. "I didn't meana""

"Hush," he said, touching one finger very lightly to her painted lips. "You can mean what you choose. I believe that's a woman's prerogative. As for your father, if he thinks you're too good for me, he could be right."

She wanted to protest, but every way she thought of doing so seemed awkward, either a suggestion that his pride needed coddling, or that she, at least, had marriage on her mind.

"Where's my gift?" she asked instead.

Adrian didn't hand it over immediately. "Your father warned me you'd cast dishonor on his family by appearing in any less."

"You're quoting, I a.s.sume."

"I am. He also said to tell you this wasn't Louise's. He thought you wouldn't be comfortable wearing her jewels. Do you know what he meant?"

Roxanne nodded but was unable to explain because he'd opened the flat, hinged box and stolen her breath. An extravagant necklace lay inside, structured like a chandelier but made of diamonds and sapphires rather than gla.s.s. No stone was smaller than her fingernail, and quite a few were larger.

"Good Lord," she said as Adrian shifted behind her to do the clasp. His breath stirred the tiny hairs on her nape. As if wriggling might break the bauble, she felt quite afraid to move.

"Naturally," he said, "I'd be enjoying this more if I were remotely capable of buying it for you myself."

Roxie barely registered what he said. The longest sapphire brushed her cleavage, glowing mysteriously in the muted light. "My father was involved in having you dismissed," she said dazedly.

Adrian dipped his head to kiss her shoulder. "Is there a purpose in bringing that up?"

Her fingers disobeyed her will to stroke a glittering diamond drop. "I'm reminding myself to stay on my guard with him."

Adrian laughed and straightened, his face beside hers in the mirror, his hands warm on her shoulders. "I have a feeling we'll have to be on our guard with everyone we meet tonight."

Roxie shook herself from her jewel-induced haze. "Are the boys safe?"

"They're spending the evening in the butler's pantry with a strapping young man named Keane. He has strict orders not to let them out of his sight. Charles will probably be more use for keeping Max from running off, but Keane had some practical-looking brawn."

"Good." She frowned at herself in the gla.s.s. "G.o.d, I hate this."

"Dressing up?"

"Playing demon games."

"Your father's been at this for thirty years. I expect he knows what he's doing."

Roxie drew and released as deep a breath as she could, considering the snugness of her corset. Oddly enough, Adrian gave the impression of being energized by the challenge. Perhaps it seemed a return to his lost duties.

"Yes," she said, "we ought to be able to trust my father to be the most devious demon around. And if he's not, well, G.o.d help us."

"G.o.d help us anyway," Adrian said with a smile. "It never hurts to have influential friends."

Roxie and Adrian were separated almost immediately by the crowda"a large one, she thought, for a supposedly small gathering. Perhaps one couldn't throw a modest party for a prince.

The attendance was split between human dignitaries and daimyo. She a.s.sumed they were daimyo, at any rate. They were extremely opulent of dress: human styles, for the most part, but richer in fabric and decoration. Evidently, there was no reason to sew a bit of beading onto a sleeve when a line of emeralds would do. By comparison, Roxie's outfit looked sedate. All the female daimyo were slender, haughty, and beautifula"enough to make the humans who pa.s.sed them occasionally catch their breath. Almost without exception, and regardless of the hue of their gowns, the lady daimyo wore long red leather gloves extending up their arms. They did not remove them even to pluck hors d'oeuvres from the plates her father's army of footmen were circling with.

Feeling lost in the milling ballroom, Roxie tugged her own cream kidskin gloves above her elbow. The color difference must mean something. She wished her father had explained before he sent them as accessories.

"Quite a crush," said a cheerful human voice at her side. "And what a glittering picture those Yama make!"

Roxie turned to find a bookish young man in the bright green uniform of the Jeruvian emba.s.sy. He was inches shorter than her but comfortingly cheerful. Once he'd brushed pastry crumbs from his palm, he bent in gentlemanly fashion over her wrist.

"Rinaldo Nazaire, from the emba.s.sy." He waved at his chest ribbons to demonstrate. "Naturally, I know who you are, though that engraving in the Courier didn't do you justice."

"Er, thank you," Roxie said as he snagged a flute of champagne and presented it to her.