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Small mercies, he told himself.

He could see the cabinet members who he’d dealt with earlier taking their places in the pews. There were royal envoys from other kingdoms, heads of state, and all the attendant pomp and circumstance that the wedding of a monarch entailed.

When it was over, Saviero thought that he would likely find it amusing that they’d gone ahead and switched couples on all of these people, overnight. Putting the purveyors of Royal Couple Swag into a tailspin, no doubt. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t think anything about this was at all entertaining in hindsight. Maybe he would read about this day in the history books and sigh when they inevitably got it all wrong.

Just so long as it happens, we’ll be fine, he found himself thinking.

When the organ began playing, he strode out confidently to take his place on the altar. And he found himself keenly aware that it was where Vesuvius would have stood to marry a woman he detested—and who loathed him in return—all in the name of what was good for the kingdom. Because tradition and honor would have demanded it.

And as dutiful as Saviero had always been, he could not find it in himself to be sorry that marriage was not to be. He scanned the faces in the pews, half expecting that Vesuvius’s spurned betrothed would be there, hoping against hope that she could make her dream of becoming Queen happen after all.

He wouldn’t put that—or really anything—past Lady Sintia.

Saviero had taken great pleasure in disabusing her of any notion that she could claim a crown yesterday. It had been one of his first tasks after Vesuvius had taken off in that plane.

Accordingly, Saviero had summoned Sintia to the palace and had let her spit her bile at him for a good five minutes when she’d arrived in his office, trailing courtiers and entitlement behind her as she swept in without knocking.

You will be first on the chopping block, she had told him confidently. I don’t like your influence over the King and you might as well know now, I’ll be cleaning house.

Will you? he had asked, mildly.

But Sintia had not sensed her danger. On and on she had gone, listing off her grievances with everyone in the palace and anyone who was a friend to Vesuvius. And Saviero had always maintained a neutrality where she was concerned, because, after all, everything had pointed to the inevitability of this woman becoming Queen.

That neutrality faded with every poisoned word she uttered.

When there was a pause in her tirade, he had smiled. I’m afraid that it is more of a pleasure than it ought to be, under the circumstances, to inform you that King Vesuvius has abdicated his throne and quit the country, he had told her.

Lady Sintia had only stared back at him, as if she could not process his words, and Saviero had allowed his smile to deepen. As you know, Lady Sintia, the betrothal that your father entered into was with the King. He had shrugged. There is no longer a King, and, therefore, you are no longer betrothed. Given your dislike of Vesuvius, I can only imagine this will come as a pleasant surprise to you.

He had enjoyed her stunned silence immensely. But he’d taken even greater pleasure in the torrent of abuse she had hurled at him afterward, screaming like a banshee until he’d had to summon the palace guard to remove her from the grounds.

Something he would share with Vesuvius one day, when everything was settled. When they could talk of such things over a drink, and toast his friend’s good fortune to escape that particular dire fate.

He felt lucky that whatever the situation was between him and the new Queen, it was not that.

And he congratulated himself on that as his own fate arrived outside at precisely the appointed moment. Like everyone else inside the Cathedral, he could tell from the upswell of roaring cheers from the crowds outside.

Saviero could not possibly predict what marriage to Cesca might be like, but he knew it wouldn’t be an exercise in spite and viciousness, the way Vesuvius’s would have been with the eternally embittered Sintia.

He was feeling grateful for small favors as the music swelled, the congregation stood, and Queen Francesca herself appeared at the end of the long aisle.

And Saviero promptly forgot his own name.

He had seen her many times this morning, but this was the first time he had seen her in her bridal gown.

Madam Durand had worked a miracle. Cesca was dressed to perfection. The dress she wore managed to be perfectly bridal, and yet conveyed power and command with every step she took.

She had told him that Vesuvius regretted not being there to walk his sister down the aisle, but it was instantly apparent to Saviero that as far as statements went, the Queen walking herself down the aisle to claim her husband did far more to rehabilitate Cesca’s frivolous image than anything else could have.

The dress whispered its stateliness, its regality, as it whispered over her perfect figure.

He was certain that no one could possibly have imagined the party princess like this. She looked as if she had always been destined to be Queen and fate had simply caught up with her magnificence. The dress swept over her, cutting a glorious silhouette as she glided along the flagstones. She did not carry flowers. Rather, she held the royal scepter before her as if it weighed nothing at all. Her hair was done up in a different series of braids than those she’d worn last night. These wrapped around her head and supported the crown that she wore.

It was known as the Queen’s Crown. It was an ancient relic of the realm, and he had been there when it had been placed on her head by the Archbishop, there in the private chapel in the palace.

Her official coronation had happened in private, as was customary.

But instead of the procession through the streets the coronation normally called for, there was this wedding instead. There was this walk down the aisle as the perfect Queen, the consummate bride, the future of the kingdom.