Count Wartooth had made several close friends in the past months, but none so close as Yolande, Duchess of Polignac. She was a small woman, with deep brown eyes and a tender expression. Her cloud of rich brown hair was lightly powdered, and she dressed with perfect neatness. She had been married at seventeen, but at a court as free as Versailles, there was nothing amiss in his friendship with her.

She was passionately devoted to the electric guitar, and Toki gave her as many pointers as he could. But she was also flighty and without much natural aptitude, so she usually sat outside, her parasol shading her face, while he played song after song for her.

He wanted desperately to tell her of his fear, his fear that the Swede would come and take his life from him. But it seemed so foolish: Count Wartooth was after all a nobleman, while Skwigelf was a mere musician.

They took a stroll in the gardens. Yolande's fingers were small and tapered and he was tempted to take them in his own. They found a grassy knoll hidden by long boughs and took part in a secret ritual, innocent but not entirely appropriate. Toki would lay his head in Yolande's lap and babble on. She would laugh at his strange turns of phrase and childlike thoughts and play with his hair. She would run her fingers delicately through his powdered hair, careful not to damage the curls.

"Oh, Yolande," he said. He had no evil intentions toward her. He believed in her innocence and simply enjoyed their hours together. In spite of all his new friends, he knew on some level they could easily lose their respect for him. He had seen it before- those who lost their fortunes were pitied, and though not cast off immediately, were ignored when it came to expensive pursuits like gambling or hunting that formed the heart of life at Versailles. They would be forced to retreat to their own estates, and be forgotten.

After a neglected childhood, and the humiliation of his first months at court, he ached for warmth and intimacy. Yolande, with her sweetness and simplicity, seemed capable of being a true friend to him. And now, as he gazed up at the sky, and felt her hands on his head, he felt a strong urge to confide in her.

"Ams you," he paused. "Ams you excited to see Skwigelf?"

"Yes," she answered. "Everyone is! Aren't you? Imagine, seeing such a great guitarist in person."

Toki pursed his lips together.

" Aren't you?" she asked, stoking his cheek.

"I suppose I ams," he said hesitantly. "But who ams he anway? Who ams his father? Why do we needs such lows people at our court?"

Yolande looked down in surprise. She had never heard Toki express such snobbery before; he was always the first to have a friendly word for the various valets and maids at Versailles.

"Well," she said carefully. "Talent is its own kind nobility, don't you think?"

Toki hopped out of her lap. "No! I don't thinks!" His face burnt red, heightening his rouge. "He ams a nobody and everyone act likes he ams some gods!"

Yolande wanted to laugh at the expression on his face, so like a petulant child. She didn't remind him that he too had been called a nobody, a provincial that couldn't speak properly. She divined the source of his rage, and thought it best to comfort him.

"Yes, he may be able to play guitar, but your skill, combined with your blood, is worth much more."

Toki nodded. He allowed himself to be placated by her words, though he knew in his gut it wasn't quite true. Monsieur Skwigelf was just a glorified craftsman- he, Toki, had a title, and no master of guitar could take it from him.

Yolande and Toki were walking quietly back from the gardens, arm in arm, when Marie Antoinette hurried towards them, her skirts trailing behind her. "Have you heard the news?" she cried, her voice trembling with excitement.

Yolande and Toki looked at one another. "What is it?" asked Yolande.

"Monsieur Skwigelf has been granted a title!"

Toki dropped Yolande's arm and his lips trembled.

"Friedrich Wilhelm has granted him the title of Baron in Prussia for his extraordinary performance there!"

"Can he do that?" asked Yolande, holding her hand to her mouth and gasping.

"He's the king!" Marie waved her hand. She had a belief in absolute monarchy. "He can do whatever he pleases!"

Yolande took Toki's arm again, and realized that it was trembling. "Are you alright, my friend?" she whispered.

"I. Ams. Fine." He said through gritted teeth.

"And that's not all!" Marie's face glowed.

"There's more?" asked Yolande, trying, for Toki's sake to hide the excitement in her voice and failing.

"In Poland he received the Order of the White Eagle, making him a knight."

"Impossible!" But Yolande was smiling. It made his visit that much more exciting.

"Of course, these are all new titles, and aren't worth a great deal." said Marie, in her excitement not noticing the beet red color of Toki's face. "They say he's a bastard, but with accounts of such elegance I can't hardly believe it."

Yolande tilted her head. "Love children are supposed to be beautiful."

"Nonsense!" said Marie. Her enemy Madame du Barry had been illegitimate, but she wasn't that pretty, in spite of what they said. Pure blood would shine through. "But imagine, a baron and a knight, and so handsome and talented."

"If you ams excusing me ladies, I haves an important engagement."

"But surely-" Marie asked. People did not usually just leave her.

"My sincerest apoglogies." Toki bowed and stormed off.

"Is he well?" asked Marie Antoinette, irritated.

"Oh, I believe so," said Yolande. She wanted to keep her friend's secret. "I think he's very excited."

"Of course!" said Marie, taking out her fan. "I do hope they will play together!"

Toki sat in his dark, gloomy chamber with a grimace on his face. He was holding his toy soldier closely.

He had had only had two real friends in his home in Norway- his old nurse Alva, and her husband, a groundskeeper named Hjalmar. They were talkative and earthy where his parents were silent and oppressively pious.

It been Toki's seventh birthday, and he had received nothing as usual. He had not expected anything, but he was in the kitchen with Alva and she, out of pity of the child, was serving him a tart and milk. The boy loved sweets, and that was a blessing, because at least that was something she could make for him. She never could have afforded anything out of the meager salary she received from Count Wartooth, but she was tricky in her way and knew how to filch honey and fruit from the store in the kitchen. It was something for the child- too often she was unable to protect him from the senseless cruelty of his parents, and it was a perpetual burden to her. Hjalmar, a large hulking man who seemed to have turned white from his life in the snow, dusted off his feet off at the door.

"Don't you let the cold in, you old fool!" said Alva. Her words were harsh, but her tone was surprisingly sweet. She a clear pretty voice though her body was worn from toil, and she clearly loved her husband.

"Hjalmar!" cried Toki, throwing himself against the man's rough clothes. He loved the feel of Hjalmar's bristly beard and even the melting snow on his body. Alva smiled on Toki as he set up a chair for her husband by the fire. He was such a kind- hearted boy. She didn't know how it was possible with parents like his.

Hjalmar slumped into the chair and frowned at Toki. "The barn elf has been bothering me again, boy." He should have called him 'young master,' but he had a keen sense that such titles would alienate the boy further. There was time enough for that.

"Fjosnisse?" asked Toki eagerly.

"Is that is name? Well, he's a pain in the neck I'll tell you. He wouldn't leave me alone until I promised to give you something." Hjalmar winked.

"He gave you something for me?" asked Toki, his jaw dropping in surprise. He sometimes left out snacks for the barn elf, but he could barely believe it.

"Oh, yes." Hjalmar beamed at his wife. He placed his leather sack on the floor, and pulled out a carved wooden figure. Alva giggled. Her husband loved to whittle, but he wasn't very good at it, and the soldier was an awkward figure with a big round nose. Her husband had carved the limbs and the head and painted them, and she had sewed it a soft cloth body and a suit of clothes. Toki needed something to hold onto at night.

Toki was afraid to touch it. He could barely believe it was for him.

"Take it, child," said Hjalmar and Toki carefully reached out his hands.

But Hjalmar pulled it back with an impish grin. Alva shook her head. The boy was so sensitive- it was cruel to play with him like that.

"Fjosnisse told me that he isn't really a soldier."

"He isn't?" asked Toki. The figure looked very much like one with his regimental uniform.

Hjalmar knelt down beside the boy and whispered. "He is- but he's a rock and roll soldier." He pulled out a tiny wooden electric guitar with a strap and put it around the soldier's neck. He had found a guitar in the barn the year before. It wasn't an electric guitar, but what they called a 'grampa's guitar.' With the help of his friend Laurits, a carpenter, he had restored it and given it to the boy, who had shown surprising talent.

Toki gasped, and in an act uncharacteristic to him, he snatched the soldier and held it to him.

Hjalmar and Alva chuckled. "What will you call him, boy?" asked Hjalmar.

"R-r-rockso," said the boy, beaming and cuddling the toy. "Rockso the rock and roll soldier."

Now that he was a grand courtier, Toki was a little embarrassed by Rockso, but he simply couldn't drop the habit. It felt so good to hold the soldier and remember the few good days of his youth. The clothes had gone ragged but Toki had stitched them up again by hand.

Cradling Rockso, he thought with bitterness on Skwigelf. Or Baron Skwigelf. Sir Skwigelf. These were honorary titles, without nearly the prestige of his own, but now he felt he had nothing on the Swede.

Toki eyebrows lifted as he formed a plan. He wasn't crafty by nature, and tried not to hurt people, but the envy was eating him alive. It wasn't fair that after all he had been though that he would have to risk losing everything. Skwigelf would have his countless ladies and his Order of the White Eagle to fall back on, but Toki would be left with nothing.

The Swede was arriving on the evening of the next day, and they were installing the Amp de Triomph in concert hall that night. It was the finest amp in France, and possibly in the world. Besides being a work of art in itself, with its intricately carved edges and gilding, it had a way of making any song sound explosive. Toki had used it in several of his concerts, and it had blown the audience out of the water.

But it was an amp after all, and Toki, without an official Roadie among his servants, had always done his own repairs. He knew how to alter it, to change it to the point where Skwisgaar would be sure to humiliate himself. The unwanted guest would pack up, and go home to Sweden, and Toki would remain the finest guitarist at Versailles.