Author's Disclaimer: I do not own Sofia the First, or any of its characters or places. They belong to Craig Gerber and Disney. The characters of Princess Emiliene, Princess Annalise, and Queen Rosabel, as well as the name of Roland's mother (Lucilla) belong to me.

Author's Note I: This was originally intended to be the first chapter in a lengthier story, but I decided it worked better as a one-shot. But that doesn't mean a sequel won't happen eventually.

Author's Note II: The name and character of Princess Emiliene is not to be confused with Queen Emmaline. It has been a long time since I've watched Season 1, so it completely slipped my mind that my OC shares a name with a canon character, despite the difference in the spellings. I chose the name "Emiliene" after coming across it in a book, because I felt that it is not only pretty, but that it suited my character.

Author's Note III: I wrote this story before discovering that Cordelia and Calista would be making their debuts. My apologies if Cordelia is at all out of character. xD

Dedicated to those who have ever felt different, excluded, or been afraid to share your feelings and/or needs with others. Remember you are not alone, and that you do matter!

-mel

xxxx oooo

THE SULLEN PRINCE

Prince Roland the Second of Enchancia was pouting.

Not just pouting, but downright seething. Seething like one of the dragons his sister had encountered on one of her many make-believe adventures. Tilly's tall tales were so vivid, it was not unusual for her otherwise literal brother to find himself believing completely in the fantasies she spun as naturally as thread on a spinning wheel. Tilly was Roland's older sister and he adored her. What he did not adore was how she'd gone behind his back to Miss Flora, and all but snitched on him! How Tilly had told their teacher of the important letter from Queen Lucilla that Roland was supposed to deliver, but that had somehow, mysteriously, ended up getting stuffed into the wastepaper basket in the king's study instead.

In exchange for her son's disobedience, the queen had forbade him from attending Saturday's Annual Student-Pet Picnic in the park—and it was all Tilly's fault!

There was a knock outside Roland's chambers just then. It better not be Tilly! Or, as he'd begun referring to her, 'Tattle Tilly'. "What do you want?" he asked sullenly.

"I beg your pardon, Your Highness." Oh. Not Tilly at all. Only Bailywick. "But I've brought your breakfast."

"I'm not hungry!"

"Are you certain?"

"Positive!"

"But it's all of your favorites."

"I don't care!"

"Perhaps if I leave the tray outside your room—"

"Do what you want! Just go away! Go away and…and leave me alone!"

"As you wish, Your Highness."

Roland waited until he was completely sure the steward had departed. Then he promptly threw himself across his rumpled bed, buried his face in his pillow, and sobbed like a four-year-old.

"It's not fair it's not fair it's not fair IT JUST ISN'T FAIR!" he shrieked, kicking blindly at the air behind him. His kicks were forceful, powerful enough to send his blue slippers with the golden monograms sailing across the room. They hit the wall and fell to the floor, forgotten. Meanwhile, Roland pummeled his small fists into the mattress, sobbing as though the world had reached an inevitable end.

In spite of his childish behavior, Prince Roland was neither stupid nor spoiled. He was very much in tune with his brattiness. Ten years old and throwing a tantrum. His parents would be horrified. His sister would say he was the very opposite of whiz-bang. And Emiliene—dear, sweet, pretty little Emiliene—what would she think? Probably wish she hadn't given him that paper heart for Valentine's Day. It was pink and decorated all over with lace and glitter and dried rose petals. Emiliene had presented it to him right before dissolving into shy giggles, and then rushing off to join a group of her equally tittering girlfriends. Roland had kept that heart, stashed it safely away inside a wooden box he kept underneath his bed. The box, whose lid was elaborately engraved with the image of the royal crest, held his most precious treasures; including a purple star stone he'd discovered high atop Swamp Rock Hill. Blue star stones were limitless—so long as you knew the proper places to look—but a purple star stone was rare, according to a book in the royal library. If he ever found another, he would be sure to give it to Emiliene.

Or maybe he'd give her the one he already had.

He stopped crying. His legs went limp, and his fists unclenched. He lay still, perfectly still, ignoring the raw, sandpapery feeling in his throat. His discomfort led him to speculate on whether or not his breakfast included any jiggly-wiggly pudding (Bailywick did say he'd brought all of the prince's favorites). Roland adored jiggly-wiggly pudding. Especially for breakfast. It was so much tastier than the icky, sticky, gloppy-looking porridge his mother insisted was so good for him.

Sliding slowly from the bed, he cautiously approached the doors. He paused for a moment, listening closely for any sign of approaching footsteps. Cordelia—the thirteen-year-old daughter of Goodwin the Great, the Royal's appointed sorcerer, and his wife, Winifred—had the distinct habit of eavesdropping, and frequently scoured the corridors unseen. According to Cordelia's younger brother, Cedric, the incipient conjurer was also quite fond of taking things that did not belong to her.

Roland wondered if those things included other people's puddings?

None too inclined on spending what was left of the morning in the company of his grumbling tummy, Roland yanked open the doors. Casting his eyes downward, he saw, to his great relief, a silver tray, whose lid did not appear to have been tampered with. Feeling really hungry now, he picked up the tray. He slipped back inside the confines of his bedchambers, shutting the doors after himself. He carried the tray over to the reading nook, a place comprised of a child-sized desk and two chairs, usually reserved for doing homework, or partaking in a game of cards. Setting the tray down on the desk, he removed the lid, his green eyes widening at the contents. Why, his was a breakfast fit not for a prince, but for a king! There, included in a wondrous spread, were all of his favorite things to eat: pancakes drowned in extra sweet maple syrup, topped with fresh, plump blueberries; apple slices sprinkled with pumpkin spice sugar; a croissant cut to resemble a dragon holding what looked like two knitting needles (Tilly's doing, perhaps?); a mug of hot cocoa topped with a generous portion of whipped cream; and, best of all, placed inside a small crystal bowl beneath a matching lid, was the most delicious food in not only Enchancia, but the entire Tri-Kingdom: JIGGLY-WIGGLY PUDDING!

The young prince's excitement was briefly lived, however. For it suddenly occurred to him just how rudely he'd spoken to Bailywick. Bailywick, his loyal steward and trusted friend, whose only crime had been in trying to soften what Roland considered an exceptionally hard blow. And what had the prince done to return such kindness? Told Bailywick to go away, that's what. Roland felt his ravenous appetite diminish almost as quickly as it had appeared. Returning the lid to the tray, he collapsed into one of the chairs, and stared down at his hands. He hated it, this guilty feeling. He wished it would go away. Like he'd made Bailywick go away. Roland felt like crying. But he was a boy, and boys didn't cry. Cordelia had told him that once. She'd said boys who cried were sissies. Cedric cried a lot. Probably because Cordelia was his sister. Roland was glad she wasn't his sister. He would much prefer a sister who was a tattle-tale than one who was a thief and a liar. At least Tilly didn't steal other people's belongings, and then lie when confronted about it. Tilly was clever and brave and had a great imagination and…and…

And she cares about me.

Roland understood now that sisterly concern had been the driving force behind Tilly's decision to go to Miss Flora. It didn't have anything to do with being honest or following the rules. The novice adventurer had simply not wanted to see her beloved brother put himself in danger.

Great. Now it seemed Roland had not one but two apologies to make. One to Bailywick, and the other to Tilly. But who to apologize to first? Probably Tilly, as she'd been first in line to sustain her brother's retribution. At nearly thirteen years old, she hadn't seemed to mind all that much being called 'Tattle Tilly'. Though something in Roland's heart told him that apologizing was still the right thing to do. Tilly would accept it, he knew, but the idea of going to her, and to Bailywick, too, and admitting to them both that he'd been wrong, was nerve-wracking.

Roland's ears suddenly perked to the sound of someone rapping at his door. "Bailywick? That you?"

"No," returned a voice the young prince recognized at once. "It's only me. Can I come in?"

"Yes!" His heart dancing in perfect rhythm with his unexpected delight, he rose clumsily from his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. "Yes! Yes, you can!"

Roland stood straight and perfectly still. It was all he could do, not to race over and fling open the doors of his own accord. His Royal Majesty, King Roland the First, was a born believer in the importance of something he referred to as 'royal standing'. Roland, always so keen to follow in his father's footsteps, despite the king's infrequent presence in the lives of his wife and two children, had resolved to maintain that standing.

His heart was pounding fiercely as the doors pushed open. Garbed in a silk gown the color of apricots, one that had been exquisitely trimmed in white lace, and accessorized by a delicate silver tiara embedded with tiny amber jewels resting atop a head of golden hair, was Princess Emiliene. Her wide, hazel eyes peered sympathetically from beneath dark, feathery lashes, her rose-colored mouth turned down in a conspicuous frown. When she spoke, the words came out sounding meek and uncertain. "I'm terribly sorry for the intrusion," she began, "but my uncle said for me to come straight in. He said you wouldn't mind if he didn't announce me first. I hope he was right. If he wasn't, then I can go ask him to—"

"No," Roland protested. "You don't need to do that. Please, I…I want you to stay."

"Oh." Emilien's worried face brightened. "All right, then."

Lifting her skirts in proper princess fashion, she scurried with all the swiftness of a tiny squirrel over to Roland. Although friendly smiles were exchanged, no words were spoken, while the prince led his guest over to his bed. The two tiny royals sat down, their feet hovering several inches above the floor, the silence between them resembling the protective stone wall that surrounded the castle.

After a time, Emiliene said softly, "Tilly told me what happened at school yesterday."

As Emiliene swung her small feet, which were sheathed in yellow satin flats, back and forth, Roland returned his attention to his hands. His nerves had taken on the sensation of angry butterflies, whose wings seemed to beat forcefully against the sensitive inner lining of his stomach. He wanted so badly to look Emiliene in the eye, and tell her everything that had happened, over the course of the last fourteen hours. But he couldn't. Not when the truth meant dredging up details of something that brought him so much shame.

Sensing Roland's resistance to speak of his own volition, Emiliene tried again. "I was sad when I heard you wouldn't be coming to the picnic today."

"Me, too." He still couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.

"If you'd just given Miss Flora the letter—"

"I couldn't."

"How come?"

He could feel those probing hazel eyes on him, stronger than ever. "I just couldn't."

She reached for his hand. "It's okay, Roland. You can tell me."

He smiled, liking the sensation of her warm hand in his, of how her hair always smelled so sweetly of daffodils. Most of all, he liked the soothing feeling that her presence radiated. He felt at ease with her, the way he did in the company of his books, or during a leisurely stroll through the castle gardens. He could be himself with her, something he did not always find so easy to do—even in the company of those who knew and liked him best. As prince of Enchancia, Roland felt a continuous urge to concern himself with his appearance, always questioning whether or not he was doing or saying the right things. It was only when he found himself on his own, doing the things he liked best, and that he knew he could not possibly fail at—like reading—that his worries scattered like leaves to the wind.

For the first time since inviting her into his chambers, Roland slowly raised his gaze to that of Emiliene. She was smiling sweetly, the dimples at the corners of her mouth prominent, as though she'd known all along that he would come around.

"Go on," she urged patiently.

Roland could not say why confiding in this girl something that so many others all already knew was so hard. It just was. He took a deep breath, let it out. Gathering up every ounce of courage and willpower contained within his small body, the prince of Enchancia prepared to confess the secret behind his self-proclaimed weakness.

"I…I have an…an affliction. To…to…to cats."

There. He'd said it. After going about the bothersome task of disposing of that stupid letter, so that his teachers and friends never discovered the truth conveyed in his mother's long, elegant scrawl, he had, at long last, told of his association with a club that nobody wanted to belong to. For Roland, it was more than just a matter of feeling excluded that got to him. It was the fear of having those around him discover that he wasn't perfect. And if he wasn't perfect, then how could he ever expect to be as good a king as his father one day?

"Is that it?" Emiliene laughed, as though his revelation was, ironically, not anything to sneeze at. "You went to all that trouble? Just to hide the fact you're allergic to cats?"

"Is that stupid?"

"Not stupid. Just kind of silly. What did you think? That you could just go to the picnic, and nobody would ever know?"

Roland hadn't thought that far ahead. He'd been so adamant to keep his allergy—or, as he referred to it, his 'affliction'—a secret from everyone, that he'd failed to consider the consequences. There were at least two children in his class he knew of who had cats. Only Miss Flora, Miss Fauna, and Miss Merryweather could tell him for sure the precise number of students there were with cats who attended Royal Prep. Roland shivered at the thought. Cats were cute and all—from a distance—but when all they did was make him sneeze and sneeze and sneeze, until it felt like his head was going to detach itself from his body, and float away like a balloon, it was difficult not to harbor an incredible resentment for the furry creatures that roamed many castles. As well as the kings and queens who dubbed them expert mouse catchers.

Roland would much prefer a castle inhabited by a gillian mice, than be forced to share his home with just one loathsome cat!

"You aren't the only one to ever feel like an outsider," Emiliene said, "because of something you can't help."

"What do you mean?" Roland asked.

"I've got allergies, too."

"You do?" It was certainly the last thing he'd expected her to say. She was perfect, after all. "What are you allergic to?"

Emiliene smiled shyly, as though the truth was equal to if not more embarrassing than an allergy to cat fur. "Jiggly-wiggly pudding."

Roland's green eyes widened in what could only be defined as horror. "Jiggly-wiggly pudding?!" The mere thought was too awful a thing to comprehend! Being allergic to cats was bad enough, but to be allergic to the most wonderful, delicious, fantastical food in the whole wide world was an even worse tragedy than a Wassailia without presents!

"The way I found out was scary," Emiliene elucidated. "My sister and I were with our friend, Cecily. It was Cecily's birthday. Her parents had thrown her a huge party, in the courtyard at their castle. Every kid we knew was there. There were even a few we didn't know. All of them were running around and making lots of noise. A big table with every kind of food you could possibly imagine had been set up. That was when Annalise and I saw the pudding. Vanilla was always my favorite. That's what this one looked like, except—"

"Except it jiggled," Roland finished.

"And wiggled. Right. Anyway, Annalise and I both had some. It tasted good. More like white chocolate than vanilla, but still good. When we'd finished, Cecily asked us to join her and some of the others in a game of Dazzleball. So we did. We'd just finished choosing teams, when I started to feel kind of strange. My stomach hurt, and I had this itchy feeling in the back of my throat. I was also having trouble breathing. Annalise was the first to notice something wasn't right. 'Oh, my gosh, Emy, your face!' she cried. 'It's all puffy!' I reached up and felt my face. Sure enough, she was right."

"What happened next?" Roland pressed.

"I was just getting to that. By now, most of the other kids were staring at me. Some looked confused, but most looked just about as scared as I was. Especially Annalise and Cecily. 'I'm gonna go find my mom,' Cecily said, and hurried off. One or two other kids went with her. Annalise stayed with me. I don't remember at all what happened after that. Only that my throat had went from being itchy to almost completely closed up. The only way I could breathe at all was to suck in air through my nose. I guess I must have fainted. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground. Annalise, Cecily, and Cecily's mother were kneeling beside me. Several other kids had circled around, every one of them looking on in alarm and wonder. Annalise and Cecily were both crying, while Cecily's mother gently patted my hand. 'It's all right, dear,' Cecily's mother was saying. Even though I had to fight to stay conscious, the fear in her face and voice were obvious. Cecily's mother told me to hang on, and that Cecily's father had gone to fetch the doctor.

"It wasn't long before they returned. The doctor gave me a shot, and I was able to breathe again. Then he asked what foods I'd eaten that day. When I told him about the jiggly-wiggly pudding, and that I'd started feeling sick not long after, he asked if I'd ever had it before. When I told him this had been the first time, he said that proved I was allergic."

"Wow." Roland's voice was full of sympathy. "I'm really sorry you had to go through that. You must have been so scared."

"It was the most frightening thing I ever lived through," Emiliene confirmed. "But I lived through it."

A silence fell over the children then. Not an uncomfortable silence, but a silence in which each pondered and empathized what the other had endured. Allergies were an inequitable and sometimes dangerous thing. They did not favor or discriminate. They chose their victims the same way Cedric's difficulty to learn at the same speed as his peers had chosen him. But while there was hope for the junior sorcerer, the same could not be said of the prince and princess.

"The worst was Annalise's and my ninth birthday," Emiliene proceeded. "Our cook had made us the most beautiful cake. It stood almost six feet high, and was decorated all over in purple icing and pink roses. But no one had thought to tell him about my allergies. When he brought out the cake, and we saw the amusing way it had of bouncing around on the platter like a ball, we asked him what kind it was. 'Very well then, princesses,' he agreed. 'If you insist on knowing what extraordinary edibles await you, then I shall reveal all: your cake, trimmed with vanilla icing and candied florals, is made of a most delectable double dutch chocolate…and contains a most tempting filling.'"

"'What sort of filling is it?' Annalise asked.

"Cook smiled and said, 'Jiggly-wiggly pudding.'"

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Roland, pressing his hands to the sides of his face in dismay.

"Oh, yes!" Emiliene corrected. "My birthday, and I couldn't even eat my own cake. It was too late to make another, so I was forced to wish upon a single birthday candle stuck inside a vanilla cupcake instead."

"How dreadful!"

"It was especially dreadful watching my sister and friends enjoying cake without me. My mother tried to comfort me. She told me what a good thing it was that Annalise and I had made Cook tell us what kind of cake he'd be serving. But all I could think of was how much I felt like a cat in a goldfish bowl. Sorry," she added.

"It's okay," Roland assured. "If it helps, I know just how you felt."

"A lot like how you must feel, not being able to go to the picnic. But I don't understand, Roland. If Miss Flora knows now that you're allergic to cats, why hasn't she asked the kids who have cats to leave them at home?"

"She was all set to. Then my mother told her not to bother. She said it wouldn't be fair to the other kids. That since I didn't give Miss Flora the letter when I should have, then I would have to accept the consequences, and miss the picnic."

"Really? That's kind of a harsh punishment."

"Mom says she hopes it will teach me not to be so afraid of telling people what I need. How it isn't my job to accommodate them, but for them to accommodate me." He shrugged. "I don't even know what that word means. Accommodate."

"It means to be thoughtful of others. To put people's needs before your own."

"So…I should tell people it's all right to bring their cats around me?"

"What? No!" Emiliene laughed. "You should tell them it isn't all right. Tell them it isn't healthy for you. Tell them whatever you have to so they won't do it."

"But what if it hurts their feelings or makes them mad? What if…what if it makes them not like me?"

"Who cares!" Emiliene threw her hands up in exasperation. "If anyone gets their feelings hurt because of something you have no control over, or they make you feel bad about it, then it's their problem, Roland, not yours! If anyone so much as dares say your allergies are your fault, and I hear about it, then I'll bet you my favorite tiara they'll get a lot more than just their feelings hurt!"

Roland's reaction to seeing this side of the princess was evident in his shocked expression. A consistently mannerly and soft spoken young lady, Emiliene was not proficient in the practices of temper-losing. As though waking from a one-hundred years' sleep, she recovered herself quickly, the scarlet flush fading from her pallid cheeks as she said kindly, "I'm sorry you're going to miss the picnic."

"And I'm sorry you didn't get to eat any of your birthday cake," Roland replied.

Emiliene smiled. "It's okay. I'm getting another when Annalise and I turn ten next month. Your cook promises he's going to make an even bigger cake, to make up for last year's. He says it's going to be yellow with ganache icing and raspberry mousse filling. Annalise and I are going to do a fairy theme—with real fairies! It's going to be grand. You can come if you want to. Please say you'll come. I promise there won't be any cats there. Only people."

"Are you kidding? Of course I'll come!"

"Do you really mean it? Oh, Roland, I'm so glad!" Emiliene proved this by throwing her arms around him, laughing as she knocked him full against his back into a pile of ginormous pillows.

The prince was utterly touched. He'd only just recently become acquainted with Princess Emiliene, along with her twin sister, Princess Annalise, at the start of the school year. The sisters' mother, Queen Rosabel, was their sole guardian. After being called away on official royal business, the queen had entrusted the care of her two daughters to her late husband's closest childhood friend. Although he was not blood kin, Bailywick had been as near and dear to Emiliene and Annalise's father as any brother, so that the sisters always considered the steward nothing less than family.

"Be sure to tell Tilly and Cedric and Cordelia they're all invited, too," Emiliene reminded Roland, once her giggles had faded.

Roland doubted very much that Cordelia would have any interest in attending the birthday party of two ten-year-old princesses. Cordelia had the habit of looking down her nose at those who were royal, if only because she presumed all royals were guilty of the crime known as 'judgment without cause'. "And why shouldn't I think you and your smart-alecy sister no better than any other villager?" Cordelia had flared at Roland, the time he'd referred to her as a commoner, after coming across her taunting her brother for failing yet another exam at Hexley Hall, "'when it's your parents who force my family to live in a stinky old dungeon?'"

The Prince of Enchancia was old enough and smart enough to know that nothing Cordelia said was true. And so was Cedric, for that matter, even though he was too afraid of his sister, and what she might do to him, to ever contradict her. King Roland the First and his wife, Queen Lucilla, were beloved all over Enchancia. They would never do anything to put their subjects—whether it be the villagers, or the royal sorcerer and his family—in harm's way. Just as they would never put their young son in harm's way, by letting him do something that would gravely impact his health.

"I've got an idea," Roland said to Emiliene presently. "Why don't we go fetch Tilly and the others? That way, you can ask them to your birthday party yourself."

"Do you know where they are?" asked Emiliene.

"Not exactly. But I do know the places they like to hang out. We'll just have to check each one until we find them."

Emiliene agreed that this was indeed a splendid idea, and together she and Roland proceeded to the doors. He was readying to push them open, when Emiliene—who was standing right behind him—inquired with cordial curiosity, "What's that?"

"What's what?" Twisting his chestnut head around, Roland saw what the princess was referring to. "Oh. That's just my breakfast." Owing to all he had taken part in that morning—being told by his mother that he would not be allowed to attend the Student-Pet Picnic; his tempestuous temper tantrum that followed; and, most eventful of all, Emiliene's unexpected arrival at his chambers—Roland had lost complete track of time. It was only now, as he watched Emiliene eyeing the tray with interest, that his misplaced appetite returned…in the form of an assertive growl.

Emiliene was unable to help herself, and snickered unabashedly. "I take it you haven't had any yet."

Roland, his cheeks as red as the rubies in the Jewel Room, shook his head. "Nope."

"My uncle says breakfast is the most important meal of the day. If you'd rather to eat first, and find Tilly and the others afterward, I wouldn't mind."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Have you eaten breakfast yet?"

"Actually, no. When I heard about what happened at school, all I could think of was you, and how you were faring. Food was the last thing on my mind."

Though he did not answer, appreciation lit up Roland's green eyes like emeralds. It felt nice, having someone who was not family or even someone he knew particularly well, express such an outpouring of concern for him. "Would you…would you like to have breakfast with me?" he offered. "There's so much food, I can't possibly eat all of it myself." He shook his head. "I think Bailywick thought it would make me feel better."

Emiliene rolled her eyes in mock ridicule. "That's my uncle for you. Always thinking of others."

"After breakfast, the first thing I have to do is go and find him. I'm afraid I wasn't very nice to him earlier. I think I hurt his feelings."

"You did? Why? What could you have possibly done to make him feel that way?" Sliding into the extra chair across from Roland, Emiliene sounded genuinely shocked. It was the same chair periodically inhabited by Tilly, Queen Lucilla, as well as Bailywick and occasionally Cedric, each time they came to visit Roland, but which was ill-suited to the matching desk and chair set.

"I was angry with my mother for not letting me go to the picnic," the prince explained. "So I took it out on Bailywick. I yelled at him, and told him to go away."

"Oh, dear. What did he say?"

"He said 'As you wish, Your Highness', and left."

"Well, I'm sure he knows you didn't mean it. Annalise and I have known him our whole lives. He's a very understanding and forgiving person."

"Still, I should apologize."

"Yes." Emiliene looked thoughtful. "You should. If it would make you feel better, I'll go with you."

"Thanks." Roland smiled. "I'd like that." He reached across the table for the silver lid, removing it from the tray. In doing so, he watched Emiliene's pretty face light up at the sight of the delicious contents beneath.

"Oh, wow! My uncle really went all out, didn't he?"

"Eat as much as you want. Whatever's left over, we'll take to Cedric and Cordelia."

"I don't even know where to start. Everything looks so good!"

"How about some hot cocoa?"

"Sure."

Roland slid the mug of cocoa, which was still steaming, across the table to Emiliene.

"Aren't you going to have any?"

"But there's only one cup."

"Well, we'll just have to do something about that, won't we? Do you have any spare cups?"

"I do." Roland excused himself, strode across the room to the wash area. He snatched the plastic cup he used to brush his teeth—a ritual he took very seriously, and one he made sure to carry out after every meal—from the edge of the sink, then returned to the table. Before Emiliene could ask which one of them should drink from what cup, Roland volunteered to use the 'tooth-brushing' cup. Partly because his mouth was periodically on it, but mostly because Emiliene was his guest, and so it was only proper etiquette to give her the better cup. To keep the cocoa from spilling, Roland scooped out what he felt was a fair spoonful of whipped cream for himself, while leaving a significant portion for Emiliene, who carefully poured no more and no less than half the cocoa into the little plastic cup. With both children now satisfied, they sat down, prepared to enjoy the tasty result of their teamwork.

Emiliene smiled, lifting the mug to her lips. Taking a slow, careful sip, she murmured, "Mm."

"It's good, isn't it?" Roland lowered his cup, revealing a spot of cream sticking to his nose. Emiliene laughed. "What's so funny?"

"Look in the mirror."

He hurried over to the sink, over which hung a large mirror attached to the wall. He grinned at the comical sight staring back at him. "Oh."

"I wish I'd thought to take along my sketchpad and colored pencils. I'd love to draw your face right now."

"Next time. I'll make sure to tell Bailywick to bring us two mugs of hot cocoa. And plenty of whipped cream, too."

Back at the table, Roland stabbed a fork through three of the six blueberry pancakes. He was in the process of lifting them to his mouth, when he noticed Emiliene reaching for a small crystal bowl. Its contents, though presently concealed by a lid, was no mystery to Roland. "No!" he cried out. "Don't!" In his distress, he dropped the pancakes, which toppled with an unappetizing squish to the floor. Ignoring his inadvertent error, he jumped up from the table, and in the act of doing so, bashed his knee painfully against it. He grimaced in pain, while Emiliene, whose hand remained frozen above the crystal bowl, stared at him in wonder.

"Roland! What in all of the Tri-Kingdoms has gotten into you?"

"That bowl!" He pointed a shaking finger at the object of his anxiety "Don't touch it!"

"Why? I only want to see what—"

"You don't understand! What's inside that bowl…you can't…if you…it's jiggly-wiggly pudding!"

"So?"

"So you're allergic to it! If you take off the lid, then…then something very bad will happen!"

"No it won't. Something bad only happens if I eat it. Looking at it, or even just touching it, won't do me any harm. I just have to remember to wash my hands afterward."

"But I thought…I thought you and jiggly-wiggly pudding was the same as me and cats."

"With some people it is," Emiliene said, "but I'm different. With me, it's the eating part I have to watch out for."

"Are you absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent certain about that?"

"I'm certain. Now, quit being such a worry-wart and sit down. It's awkward having a conversation while one person is standing, and the other is sitting down. Besides, looking up at you hurts my neck. If you want to talk to me, then I insist you do so from a chair."

"All right. But wait just one more second."

"Where're you going?"

"I have something for you."

"You do?" Emiliene set down her cocoa. "What is it?"

"You'll see." Roland smiled secretively. "It's a surprise."

Leaving Emiliene alone at the table, Roland made his way back across the room to his bed. He maintained a leisurely pace, being mindful of his knee, which had begun to throb something awful.

"Are you all right?" the princess asked.

He glanced back at her reassuringly. "I'm fine! No worries."

"You'd better be! I'm counting on you to dance with me at my party."

By the time Roland made it to his bed, a smile the length of the Tri-Kingdoms had stretched across his face. Even as he lowered himself to the floor, and felt a wave of fresh pain tear through his knee, he held firmly to his smile, as though it were a lifeline. He made a mental note to visit the dungeons before the day was out, and ask Goodwin if he knew of any spells to heal hurt knees.

Roland lifted up the dust skirt, revealing his wooden box of secret treasures. He pulled the box out from underneath the bed, and unhooked the brass latch. Raising the lid, he sifted through the contents until he found what he was looking for. Closing the box back up, he returned it to its hiding place, and went to rejoin Emiliene.

She was sitting patiently at the table, the slim fingers of her delicate hands laced together over her now empty mug of hot cocoa. She was smiling, but her smile was quelled by the pain that flashed across Roland's face, as he lowered himself into the chair across from her. "Oh, Roland!" Emiliene unlaced her fingers, gripping the edge of the table as she rose. "You are hurt!"

"It's nothing. Really."

"Don't be foolish. I can tell by your expression that something's wrong."

Too distracted by his discomfort, he barely noticed how busy Emiliene had been during his absence. Having recovered the ruined pancakes from the floor, she had wrapped them tightly in the cloth napkin provided by her uncle, and set them in a far corner of the table, out of the way. The only evidence was a noticeable blue stain, along with a few drops of maple syrup, though nothing that a sponge and plenty of soapy water wouldn't take care of. But Roland would worry about that later. Right now, he had more important things to reflect upon than the state of his bedroom carpet.

Holding out his cupped hand to Emiliene, he slowly uncurled his fingers, revealing the purple star-shaped jewel that shone so brilliantly in the late morning sunshine splashing through the full-scale windows. The prince took particular notice of his sweetheart's eyes, and their resemblance to the glittering ambers of which she was so fond.

"Is that…is that a star stone?" she asked, astounded.

"I found it when Mom took Tilly and me on a hike up to Swamp Rock Hill last summer," Roland replied. "The stone may not be one of a kind, but it's super rare. I thought you'd like to have it."

"Are you sure?" Emiliene's face clearly illustrated her disbelief, as the jewel was dropped with unmitigated zeal into her cupped hands. "If it's so rare, then maybe you should hold on to it."

"But I want you to have it."

Emiliene's pale cheeks flushed a light pink that made Roland want to reach out and hug her. He determined he would have, had the Good Fairies blessed him with the gift of courage, instead of kindness, on the day of his birth. But suppose Emiliene did not favor brave boys the same way she did nice ones? If she'd wanted a brave boy, then surely it would have been Prince Garrick to whom she'd have taken an instant shine. It would be Garrick she'd smile at each time she passed him in the hallway at school, surrounded by a group of her giggling girlfriends. And would it not be Garrick whose jokes she would laugh at, even when they weren't in the least bit funny? But it was not Garrick who held such a special place in Emiliene's heart. It was Roland Emiliene adored, plain and simple—though there was nothing about Enchancia's future king that anyone would consider plain or simple. Even without his good looks and kindness, Roland knew that the princess, whom he fancied the way he did a ride in a coach pulled by flying horses, would have felt exactly the same way about him.

"I've never seen a star stone before," Emiliene confessed, holding the precious jewel-like stone between her thumb and forefinger, rotating it so that it captured the light just perfectly. "I mean, I've seen pictures, but I've never actually held one before."

"Well, now you have one all your own," Roland said. "One you can hold whenever you want."

"It's the most precious gift anyone has ever given me. I promise to keep it with me always, and to never, ever lose it."

Despite the pain still surging through his knee, Roland held firmly to the belief that, no matter what happened, either now or years from now, that he would always have someone with whom he could share his frustrations and his fears, his grievances and his joys. As long as Emiliene was by his side, he thought, as the pair linked hands, and stepped out into the silent, deserted corridor, either as his companion or as his queen, then he could do anything.

THE END