Chapter One
"Can somebody please turn on the air-conditioning?"
Emmaline asked peevishly, her voice muffled as two
seamstresses, aided by Tabitha, her longtime lady-in-
waiting, pulled the heavy silk gown over her head.
"I'm afraid the air-conditioning is on already, Your
Highness," one of the seamstresses informed her as the
dress settled around her with a deafening rustle.
"Well, can somebody turn it on full-blast?" Emmaline
asked, reaching up to wipe a trickle of sweat from her
hairline.
"It is on full-blast," came the maddening reply.
"I sincerely doubt that." Emmaline brandished her sweat-
streaked fingers.
Tabitha caught hold of Emmaline's hand. "Oh my goodness,
Your Highness, your makeup is running! Quickly, somebody,
please ... before it drips onto the dress!"
A mad bustle erupted in the designer's studio as both
seamstresses and both their assistants rushed for towels.
Emmaline stood motionless, captive hand in the air,
feeling additional beads of sweat popping out on her brow.
They must be lying about the air-conditioning. It was so
bloody hot in there, and it couldn't be blamed only on the
fact that she was swathed in layers of silk, wired
undergarments, and petticoats that were to give her
wedding gown its distinct lines.
Within moments, Emmaline's fingers had been swiftly
cleaned with a damp cloth and her face was well blotted
with a dry one, lest the beige foundation trickle down and
smear on the white confection she found herself wearing.
She certainly would have preferred to forgo her usual
heavy makeup on this hot and humid late summer morning,
but it would never do to have the photographers who now
followed her everywhere capture the bride-to-be looking
anything less than radiant.
She would also have preferred a much simpler wedding dress
than this frou-frou number -- complete with a twenty-five-
foot train -- that had been created for her by Porfirio,
one of the world's foremost fashion designers, who now
hovered fussily at her side, emitting troubled moans at
the prospect of tinted perspiration spurting forth from
the bride-to- be.
And Emmaline certainly would have preferred a far simpler
wedding day than the vast state affair that had been
painstakingly planned for her and Remi, and now loomed
less than a week away.
In fact -- and here was a novel concept -- she would have
preferred to chose her own groom.
But that, of course, was out of the --
"All right, ladies, now the buttons. The buttons,"
Porfirio ordered, clapping his hands in a brisk
staccato. "Quickly, please. We haven't got all day."
As the seamstresses and their assistants began fastening
the elaborate rows of buttons at her back, Emmaline's gaze
met Porfirio's in the mirror. He flashed her a synthetic
smile. She expertly returned it.
What a silly man, she thought, continuing to regard him as
he turned his attention back to the dress. That outfit he
had on seemed positively clownish. Were purple suede
gauchos worn with a lime green tank top and lime green
espadrilles really the height of Buironese fashion?
She had no idea whether Porfirio was his first name or his
last -- not that it mattered. It was the only one he used.
Here in Buiron, only the royals and Porfirio were known by
a single name, and the latter was far more regal and
eccentric, if that was possible, than most members of
Remi's family.
Emmaline had hoped to use one of her favorite designers in
Paris or Milan to create her wedding gown, but Queen
Cecile had insisted --
"Ouch!"
"I'm so sorry, Your Highness!" a seamstress said behind
her. "I was just trying to pull the seam together while
Giselle fastened the button, but it seems to be --"
"Ouch!" Emmaline squealed again, as the seamstress gave
another tug and the fabric dug into her waist.
Another profuse apology ensued, followed by the timid
suggestion that Emmaline hold her breath.
She inhaled, detecting the faint and unpleasant scent of
something deep-fried hovering in the air.
The tugging resumed.
She watched herself in the mirror, noting that her
alabaster skin appeared paler than usual beneath the mask
of makeup. What she wouldn't give for a healthy tan. But
those carefree days were long gone. For the past few
years, Mother -- backed by Dr. Estrow, the royal
dermatologist -- had insisted that Emmaline coat herself
in SPF 45 sunscreen and a brimmed hat every time she
ventured into the light of day.
"You must protect yourself," Mother had said. "Skin cancer
can kill you. And what about freckles?"
Freckles.
Yes, to the queen's way of thinking, freckles and cancer
were equally malignant.
Surveying her reflection, Emmaline noticed that as the
dress came down over her head, a few tendrils of long dark
hair must have escaped her updo and now dangled about her
face and shoulders. She rather liked the look, and for a
moment toyed with the idea of wearing her hair down on her
wedding day.
But that, of course, would never do. For one thing, she
hadn't appeared in public with her hair flowing in an
undignified manner since her mouth was full of baby teeth.
For another, her personal stylist had already concluded
that her customary topknot would best suit the diamond-
encrusted tiara head-piece and veil -- the icing on the
cake, as it were.
Herself being the cake.
After giving herself another head-to-toe once-over,
Emmaline scowled into her own wide-set green eyes in the
mirror.
This was simply too much dress, too much lace, too much --
everything -- for one petite princess. Barely over five
feet tall, even in these heeled satin pumps, she was awash
in a cloud of white, yet this getup was anything but light
and airy. It weighed a ton.
Help! she silently begged the diminutive woman in the
mirror ...
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