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"Let's make a pact," Anastasia piped up suddenly. "Whenever we're together and one of us gets in trouble—the kind of trouble that would go away if people believed I was you or you were me—let's switch places like we did tonight. Okay?"
After a brief instant of consideration, Breanna arched a brow. "Good for me, but what about you? When could you ever be in enough trouble to need to be me?"
"You never know."
"I suppose not." Breanna sounded decidedly unconvinced.
"So? Is it a pact?" Anastasia pressed, bouncing up and down on the sofa.
Apparently her enthusiasm was contagious, because abruptly Breanna grinned. "It's a pact."
With proper formality they shook hands.
A knock interrupted their private moment together.
"Girls?" Their grandfather entered the salon, closing the door behind him. "May I speak with you both for a moment?"
"Of course, Grandfather." Anastasia eased over and patted the space between her and Breanna, a curious glint in her eye. "Come sit with Brea—with Stacie and me," she hastily rectified.
"Thank you—Anastasia." With a whisper of a smile, the viscount lowered himself between the girls, chuckling as he saw surprise, then disappointment, flash across Anastasia's face.
"You knew?" she demanded.
"Of course, my headstrong Stacie. I knew," he clarified, leaning over and patting each of their hands. "But no one else did. Especially not your father," he assured Breanna. "A brilliant tactic on both your parts. I do, however, suggest you swap frocks right after our chat, in case your visit is cut short. I'll do my best to keep peace in the library, but I'm not sure how long your fathers will stay in the same room together."
"Good idea," Anastasia agreed at once.
"Not good," Breanna amended with utter resignation. "just wise."
Both girls fell silent.
A shadow crossed the viscount's face, and he gazed sadly from Anastasia to Breanna and back. "You're both extraordinarily special. I only wish your fathers could share the bond you do. But I'm afraid that's impossible."
"Why do they fight, Grandfather?" Breanna asked. "And why does Papa dislike Aunt Anne so much?"
The viscount sighed, feeling far older than his sixty years. What could he say? How could he tell them the truth when they were far too young to understand?
He couldn't.
But what he could do was to ensure their futures. Their futures and that of the Colby family.
"Tell me, girls," he asked, "which would you value more, gold or silver?"
Anastasia shrugged. "That depends on which of us you ask. I love gold—it's the color of the sun when it rises and the stars when they glow in the sky. Breanna loves silver—it's the color of the trim on her favorite porcelain horse, and the color of the necklace and earrings her mama left her."
"It's also the color of the pond here at nighttime," Breanna pointed out. "When the moon hits it, it looks all silvery and magical."
Their grandfather's smile was gentle. "I'm glad you feel so much at home at Medford Manor," he said, moved by the irony that neither of his granddaughters had equated value with actual monetary worth. "You do know that gold is worth more than silver, like a sovereign is worth more than a crown?"
Breanna frowned. "Of course. Father says things like that all the time. But that's not what you asked."
"No," the viscount agreed in an odd tone. "It's not, is it?" With that, he dug into his pocket, extracted two shiny objects, one silver, one gold. "Do you see what I have here?"
Both girls leaned closer, studying the objects. "They're coins," Anastasia announced.
"Indeed they are. Identical coins, other than the fact that one is silver, the other gold." He held them closer. "They're also very special. Can you see what's engraved on them?"
"That's Medford Manor!" Anastasia exclaimed, pointing. "On both coins."
