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be home by luncheon tomorrow.” He flashed a smile, all gleaming white teeth and charming irresponsibility. “Go and find yourself some trouble—it’ll do you a world of good.”
    Once more Justin had to shake his head. “One of these dayswe’re going to finish a conversation without you riding off on some new lark.”
    “Anything’s possible, I suppose.” The engine sprang to life with a roar and a rattle, and Father gave him a jaunty wave before backing out into the street without even looking behind him.
    Justin pressed a hand to his temple. He ought to go fetch his hat . . . after he walked off his hope and frustration.

    Grand-père found her on the ramparts. Brook’s muscles were still warm and fluid from her ballet lesson, making her feel that if she stretched high enough, she could touch the clouds scuttling over the sky, or reach out and skim her hands through the warm waters. She grinned at him, but the prince’s returning smile was small and tight. In his hands he clutched a worn leather book.
    Her chest went tight, her relaxation vanished. Her fingers pressed into the warm white stone. “You’ve spoken to Justin.”
    “Before he found you.” Grand-père didn’t stop until he had pulled her tight to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. He smelled of security—ink and paper and a whiff of cologne. “I asked you to let it drop, ma fifille . To be content here, with me.”
    She squeezed her eyes shut against the familiar worsted wool of his favorite jacket. “Grand-père . . . if it were only us, I would. You know that. I love you more than anyone else in the world. But with the people rioting—”
    “That had nothing to do with you. They want a constitution—that’s all.”
    It wasn’t all. They all knew it wasn’t all. She held him tighter. “Prince Louis was right all along. I’m not his. Charlotte clearly is—she is where your hope lies. Adopt her to keep the Grimaldi line going. Get to know her. Love her.”
    Brook had never even met Charlotte—the illegitimate daughter with another performer, the daughter Prince Louis actually claimed as his own. But for a few years after the girl’s birth—before Collette’s deathbed confession—Brook had believed the child was her half sister.
    “You should never have taken me in after Maman—”
    “Hush.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “You are my petite-fille . Whatever your blood, that will not change. And I wish you would stay.”
    “Grand-père—”
    “ Je sais . I know you will go, you are too headstrong to listen to your old grandfather when you have made up your mind.” He pulled away, revealing a sad, proud smile. Touching a finger under her chin with one hand, he held up the book in his other. “You should have this, then. I promised Collette I would destroy it so you would never find it, but I couldn’t. I think I always knew you would not be happy here forever—not when there were questions out there in need of answers. It is her journal.”
    Brook’s brows knit. “Whose? Maman’s or . . . or my real mother’s?”
    “Collette’s.” Though he pressed the journal to her hands, he held it still, held it shut. “Whatever answers it has, she thought they would hurt you. There must be a reason for that. Don’t open this until you’re ready to know what that reason is.”
    Mutely, she nodded. Her fingers registered the worn leather, tried to feel what secrets might lie within. Part of her wanted to open it immediately, heedless of the warning, and learn what truth she could. But then she glanced up into Grand-père’s troubled dark eyes and lowered the book to her side. She couldn’t hurt him like that. It would be tantamount to shouting that all he’d given her, all he’d given up for her, meant nothing. “I will wait, Grand-père.”
    Relief softened his eyes, and he nodded. “Come inside, ma fifille . Dress for dinner and then play for me. Let me hear you sing again before you