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For Kristin and Claudia, my beautiful daughters-in-law

Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men's blood.

—DANIEL BURNHAM, ARCHITECT AND URBAN DESIGNER, 1846–1912

We may know with certainty that nothing belongs to us except our vices and sins.

—ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI

1

“W
hen the old prince dies they're going to cut out his heart and bury it in a monastery in Hungary. They'll bury his body in the family vault in Austria.” The elderly woman who'd spoken helped herself to a glass of Grüner Veltliner from a silver tray held by a white-jacketed waiter.

She sipped her wine, the enormous diamond ring on her finger like a sparkling star in the light of a crystal chandelier that dominated the drawing room of the Austrian ambassador's residence. “It's a royal tradition, something to do with the Holy Roman Empire,” she said to the stooped man standing next to her.

He took a stein of pale gold beer from the same tray. “The Holy Roman Empire?”

She frowned. “That can't be right. I think the wine's going to my head. I meant the Austro-Hungarian Empire. That way he can be buried in the two countries his family used to rule. Ursula told me about it.”

“Ursula would know something like that. She said both of Victor's parents are still in Europe because his father isn't well.”
He leaned in closer to the woman, but his voice carried anyway. “What do you bet she's sticking pins in a doll, hoping the old man pops off before the wedding? Then her future son-in-law gets a bunch of new titles, plus an art collection and a library worth a fortune.”

The woman laughed. The string quartet that had been playing in the foyer all evening ended Mozart's
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
and, with perfect timing, slid into
The Merry Widow Waltz
by Franz Lehár. The elderly couple turned as if they were going to leave the room and froze when they saw me standing there holding a professional-looking camera with a large lens attached to it. She turned red, and he said, “You're not the photographer from the
Washington Post
, are you?”

If I hadn't been working, I would have told them I was the gossip columnist and asked them to spell their names. Instead I kept a poker face and said, “No, sir. I'm the wedding photographer.” I held up my camera. “May I?”

They posed stiff-necked with embarrassment and forced smiles, knowing I'd overheard their unkind remarks. Afterward, the man leaned in and squeezed my arm. “We're neighbors of the mother of the bride, honey. We've known Senator Gilberti and her daughter for years. And let me tell you, we love Ursula and Yasmin like they were our own family.”

I let “honey” go by and nodded. Sure they did. Across the room a dark-haired man caught my eye and gave me a long, slow wink. He was too far away to have overheard anything, especially over the buzz of voices and the music that floated above the din, but he was still smiling as though he'd figured out exactly what had just happened.

Tonight many of the men, including Archduke Victor Haupt-von Véssey, the future groom, and his host, the Austrian ambassador, were wearing loden jackets, the boiled wool collarless coats that were the traditional dress of their country. Among the sober-suited men who kissed women's hands with Old World
charm, this guy stood out, too flashy in a black suit, black shirt, black tie, and fashionably long wavy hair that brushed his collar. He was still staring.

The crowd between us shifted as if a curtain were closing, and he disappeared.

A waiter touched my arm. “Ms. Medina, Senator Gilberti would like to see you in the dining room.”

Ursula Gilberti had given me a list of the one hundred and twenty guests expected at tonight's engagement party, along with detailed instructions of the pictures she required me to take. In a previous job with an international news agency, I photographed world leaders, two popes, and peace talks where neither country trusted the other that hadn't required this much stage managing. I pulled Ursula's list out of the pocket of my black silk evening pants. Before I saw it, I hadn't realized how many exiled members of royal families—including kings and queens—lived in Washington. A few were here this evening, and everyone else was either friends of the engaged couple, coworkers from the Smithsonian where Yasmin worked, or from Global Shield, the international refugee relief nonprofit whose Washington office Victor ran, and Capitol Hill staff and colleagues of Ursula's.

I followed the waiter into the dining room. What did Ursula want now?

She stood in the middle of a small knot of people that included the ambassador and his wife, gesturing expansively with her glass of wine as she recounted a story. She had probably chosen her floor-length gown, which was the color of amethysts, not only because it looked so perfect against her fair skin and auburn hair but also because it was the color of royalty. Ursula was attractive, but with no softness or girly femininity, and in the Senate she was known as a tough, competent deal maker, which was why her party had chosen her as their whip. Tonight she seemed to be running this engagement celebration with the same capable efficiency she used to deliver votes.

Across the room, her animated, chattering daughter was also the center of attention, provoking eruptions of laughter like little explosions from the mostly male group surrounding her. Yasmin Gilberti looked stunning in a vivid green satin halter dress that matched her emerald-and-diamond engagement ring. She was tall and athletically built, and with her flaming red hair done up in a mass of curls that framed her face, alabaster skin, and enormous green eyes, she had already become the subject of European media interest, the fairy tale wedding of the beautiful American who had captivated the plain, solid-looking archduke.

This evening she and Victor hadn't spent much time together, apparently deciding to circulate separately among their guests. I had seen Victor in the drawing room just now, looking happy and animated as he clapped an arm around the shoulders of the men and, in his courtly way, kissed the women's hands with a small click of his heels. A few times he'd caught my eye as I moved around taking pictures and flashed his warm, charming smile. Royal titles had been banned in Austria when the monarchy was abolished, but other countries didn't respect that edict and there were enough old royalists and members of the aristocracy here tonight that I'd overheard him referred to as Archduke Victor or, if someone spoke to him directly, Your Royal Highness.

Ursula finished delivering the punch line of her story and excused herself to join me. “Yasmin and Victor are going to cut the cake after the champagne toast. I suspect people will start leaving after that. Did you get everyone's photo?” Her eyes roved over the crowded room as if she were looking for someone.

“Except those who aren't here, of course,” I said.

“Who's not here?”

“Among the people you wanted to be photographed, only Edward Jaine and the king and queen of Ethiopia. Also, Brother Kevin Boyle hasn't arrived yet.”

She turned her gaze on me. “Their Majesties were always iffy, but Brother Kevin ought to be here by now. And I know
about Edward. He said he might just drop by, but he promised to come.”

She could have told me about the iffy king and queen, but that was Ursula. And I was curious about her relationship with Edward Jaine, though I figured she was probably courting him as a political donor. I'd never met him, but he was in the press so often I knew plenty about him—that he'd dropped out of ­Harvard after developing what became the gold standard in Internet firewalls, a system so secure it was now used on all U.S. government computers and had made him a multibillionaire. Lately he was better known for his flamboyant and sometimes outrageous lifestyle. Less publicized was his habit of stopping by a soup kitchen or a shelter for battered women or another small charity and writing a large check. But in the past few weeks, unflattering stories had surfaced about a series of disastrous investments he'd made in companies that manufactured computer components. Jaine's Jinx, it was called.

“Pardon me, Senator.” Father Jack O'Hara, the man indirectly responsible for my presence at this party, stood behind Ursula and me. “I overheard you mentioning Brother Kevin Boyle. He told me this afternoon that there was a chance he might be late to the party.”

Ursula's smile was pinched. “Well, he is.”

“I'm sure he'll be here any minute.”

“Victor wants him to say a blessing before the toast, and the waiters are about to start passing out the champagne.” She gave Jack a pointed look. “Perhaps you could call him?”

I avoided eye contact with Jack because I knew what he was going to say. “Unfortunately Kevin doesn't carry a mobile, or I would have already done that.”

It was said about Ursula that she was chosen as her party's whip because she made the trains run on time. Kevin's train wasn't on time. “Then I think you should say the blessing yourself, Father O'Hara. We don't want to keep our guests waiting.”
Her smile broadened but it didn't do much to soften what had been an order, not a request.

Jack and I had known each other since we were teenagers, and he was as close to me as a brother. We'd even dated briefly in high school in the days before he realized he had a vocation and left for Rome to study with the Jesuits. Now he taught ethics at Georgetown Law School and had introduced me to Victor, one of his former students, after Victor saw photographs I'd taken a few years ago at a refugee camp in Somalia. Six weeks ago, on Valentine's Day, he asked Yasmin to marry him. Shortly afterward he wrote me a charming letter asking if I would take the pictures at their June wedding at the Franciscan Monastery in Washington. Though I'd never professionally photographed a wedding, let alone a royal wedding, I said yes. Later I discovered I would be dealing almost exclusively with Ursula, who was paying my fee.

I nudged Jack. Through the wide arched doorway we could see a butler greeting Kevin in the foyer. “I don't think that will be necessary, Senator,” Jack said. “Brother Kevin just arrived.”

Heads swiveled as Kevin entered the dining room dressed in the plain brown tunic of a Franciscan, a knotted rope cincture tied around his waist, and sandals with thick socks on his feet. His salt-and-pepper hair was windblown, and his glasses, as usual, were halfway down his nose.

“Why isn't he wearing a Roman collar and a suit?” Ursula said under her breath. “This is a dressy affair.”

“Franciscans always wear their habits,” Jack said. “Even to dressy affairs.”

Kevin came directly to the three of us and held out his hand to Ursula. “I apologize for being late, Senator. I was unavoidably detained or I would have been here sooner.”

She took his hand but didn't shake it. “May I ask why? We've been waiting for you so we could begin the toast. The party's almost over.”

Kevin cleared his throat, and I knew this wasn't going to go well. Ursula already didn't get along with him and she'd been hoping for a European wedding at the magnificent Cathedral of St. Stephen in Vienna, with all the pomp and pageantry that would have accompanied it. But over the years Victor's family, who had been exiled from their homeland when the Austro-Hungarian Empire was dissolved in 1918, had developed a close relationship with the Franciscans, as the guardians of the Holy Land, the protectors of Catholic sacred sites. Eventually, after Victor's grandfather renounced any claim to the Austro-­Hungarian throne, the family had returned to Austria, where Victor grew up. But the bond between the Franciscans and the Haupt-von Véssey family was still important to Victor, and it was the reason the wedding was going to take place at the monastery in Washington.

“The majority leader called this afternoon and asked if I could drop by his office to go over talking points for your party's all-night floor session tonight on climate change,” Kevin said. “By the time I left the Hill, it was later than I expected.”

Ursula looked as if she'd just been slapped. “Obviously I'm aware of what's going on in the Senate,” she said in a chilly voice. “Yasmin and Victor's party was planned long before that session came up, and I can't be in two places at the same time. My constituents know I'm a single parent and this is the marriage of my only child. Family always comes first with me.” Her glare took in all three of us. “If you'll excuse me, I need to find the head waiter and ask him to give us a moment before they serve the champagne.”

After she strode off, Kevin said, “That went well, don't you think?”

Jack grinned. “She was too defensive. You really got under her skin.”

“I think she's still ticked off about Alaska,” I said.

Two years ago, Kevin, an internationally known environ
mentalist with a PhD in botany, wrote
Reaping What We Have Sown: The Catastrophic Consequences of Plundering Sister Earth
, a controversial manifesto that was still on the
New York Times
bestseller list. When the book came out, he had been invited to testify before a Senate environmental subcommittee, where Ursula Gilberti made an unfortunate comment about the states that bordered Alaska.

“I think you mean Canada, Senator,” Kevin had said. “No states border Alaska.”

The geographic faux pas had been fodder for late-night talk shows, and Ursula had never lived it down. Now Kevin looked pained. “Don't remind me about Alaska. Look, she had no intention of attending that session tonight, party or no party. She's from a coal-mining state and her primary is right before the wedding. She might not win this time, so there's no way she's going to be part of a conversation about how humans are responsible for global warming and the need for clean energy. It's political suicide for her.”

Across the room, a white-haired woman in a teal suit was threading her way through the crowd toward the three of us. She was looking right at Kevin. “There's an attractive woman making a beeline for you,” I said to him. “Probably one of your many admirers.”

“Or someone else I ticked off with my politics.”

“Nope. She's smiling. Definitely a female admirer,” Jack said. “You know the old saying, Soph? ‘Never trust your wife with a Franciscan or a Dominican.'”