Dinner was a dizzying affair.

It was rare for visitors to come to Vrana, thus the royal chefs took great pains in creating lovely dishes for their "exotic" Italian guest.

Lukanka. Shopska Salad. Tarator. Moussaka. The table was a festive affair for two. Winter was a solitary time in the palace—so Elena lacked the pleasure of having additional guests to distract her from the Count. The dishes were placed on the finest bone china, brought over from the Royal Palace. Elena was severely displeased and would have preferred that this interloper receive ill treatment on his stay. But standard royal decorum took precedence over anarchy.

She stared boldly at Damon throughout dinner, her hand clutched to her wine glass. Every now and again she rung a small bell and a servant with a decorated wine decanter refilled her glass.

"So," her voice boomed through the quiet, "How does life fair in Italy? Last word I happened upon was that there were all sorts of banditry and uprisings with the poverty stricken."

Damon had his elbow propped on the table, his chin settled in his open palm. Quite rude, in fact. He hadn't touched his dinner. Instead he was languidly nursing his glass of spirits.

"I don't bore myself with the misfortune of others," he said, uninterested. "But I have heard that they are embarking for America in droves."

Elena tapped her fork against the side of her plate. She took an irritable sip of her wine and gave Damon a side long glance. As time progressed, her tapping became louder and her sips became deeper. It became so loud that her servant, thinking she heard the bell asking for wine, entered the dining hall several times before quickly exiting with quiet apologies. Damon, however, seemed unaffected as he was now walking about the dining hall, inspecting the art work along the walls. Elena finally slammed down her fork and turned in her chair.

"Does our cuisine not please you, Count Salvatore?"

Damon bent towards a painting, examining it closer.

"Oh no, it's pleases me just fine," he drawled, distracted.

"Then, pray-tell, why have you not touched a bite? I commissioned my personal chefs to go to great lengths to impress our…guest."

Damon turned towards Elena, visibly sizing her up.

Elena's corset was tied severely, her waist seemingly tiny. She wore a white high collared bodice with ruffled capping at her shoulders. The sleeves were tight, long, and snugly fit at her wrists. Her gored skirt was a dusky rose color, fitted at her hips and flared out beginning at her knees to the floor.

Damon leaned into the wall, crossing his arms carelessly.

"Great lengths," he asked.

"Quite," she said shortly, turning her attention to her wine.

Damon gave a half chuckle and looked about the room.

"Let us not have any illusions, your majesty. Wouldn't you rather go through great lengths to rid me from your sight?"

Elena, although inebriated, lifted her head sharply and stood. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped short. She turned towards her chaperones and guards.

"Leave us," she commanded.

As soon as the door was shut, she turned back to Damon.

"Sir, I am not sure what you intention was for coming to my court. If it was to taunt my family and my good name, you have made a severe miscalculation. And I assure you, when my husband returns-"

"When your husband returns, you will be thrilled, no doubt," Damon said silkily.

Elena hesitated.

"While it is none of your concern, of course, I will be. I welcome my loving—"

"Please," he raised his hands, smirking, "that's quite enough. All of Europe is well aware of the great…affection you and the Prince share."

Elena felt suddenly foolish, as if this man could see right through her. She felt rather naked and it was disconcerting.

He moved towards her with the stealth of a stalking cat. His eyes were wicked, mocking, sapphire jewels set aflame. Elena took a step back, pressing her chair back with her. She was suddenly afraid and considered screaming out for her guards. But pride was a stubborn emotion and she stood fast. He couldn't have been less than a foot in front of her. She hadn't been this close to a man since…

"You're heart is beating as fast as a little bird," he purred.

"You," she breathed uncomfortably, "can't possibly hear my heart."

"Oh, but I can."

Elena's lips parted but she said nothing. She felt herself become very warm and she was sure that her face was reddening with embarrassment.

"You're exceedingly inappropriate, Count," she said softly, blinking rapidly.

"Indeed?"

"Yes…" Elena looked about the room, hazily deciding where to move to create distance between her and this man. Before she had a chance to form her thoughts into action, he leaned in, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You remind me of a lovely garden violet," he whispered, "A lovely drunk little garden violet. Now tell me, little flower, when was the last time your petals were caressed?"

Elena had never slapped a man before. Elena had never slapped anyone before. But her hand connected with Damon's face with a stern crack of a whip. The contact didn't move him an inch. And even though Elena was drunk, her hand strung acutely.

Damon's face was frozen for a second. And for an instant, Elena's eyes deceived her so that Damon's eyes looked bloodshot and his veins prominent. When she blinked, it was gone. A slow smile began to spread upon his lips.

She held her hand in shock. Did she just hit this man? Lord, she had too much to drink. But he was lecherous and improper. Wasn't he? The room began to spin slowly. And Elena was very sure that she was going to be sick. She grabbed her wine glass, swaying lightly, as she walked towards the door.

"My most gracious apologies should be made, surely, Count," she heard herself babble.

"Apology accepted," his smile deepened sinfully.

Elena frowned, reaching out towards the door for balance. Oh, if he would only stop making her feel so foolish, the lout!

"Do join me for breakfast tomorrow—consider it an olive apology," she heard herself say.

"It would be my pleasure."

She shoved open the door, falling into the arms of her guard. She held onto her wine glass, spilling its remnants down her chin and onto the arm of the guard.

"Oh!"

She pointed at Damon as she departed, carried like a child.

"Tomorrow then," she slurred, taking an imaginary sip from her glass.

He roared with laughter, his hands laced behind his back, as he made his exit from Vrana.

This sun rose with a severe headache for Elena the following morning. Propped on her pillows wearing only her chemise, Elena groaned audibly when her maids pulled open the curtains to sunshine. Elena shielded her eyes for a long moment. After several moments, she drifted her fingers to her temples and massaged them methodically. Oh, what she wouldn't do for her opium now…

"I'll receive my breakfast in here," she stretched.

Her four maids looked at each other quizzically though said nothing.

Elena lifted her head off of the pillow.

"What is it," she asked, suddenly feeling very alarmed.

"The Count, Your Majesty. You invited him to breakfast with you this morning…"

Elena swore an oath as the previous night came stumbling clumsily back into her memory. Though hazy, she remembered her half hearted invitation to the Count. And like a slow ember that was fanned into a flame, she remembered his questionable conduct. She remembered his eyes. Then, she remembered his mouth as he spoke his improprieties. She felt herself beginning to turn a shade of pink with the memory. The boorish man. And here she had foolishly committed to another meal with him! She turned to her maids, sighing audibly.

"Dress me," she instructed, annoyed.

Damon was already seated in the Solarium, reading a liberal newspaper—the Nezavisimos—when Elena made her entrance. When Damon saw her, he tossed the newspaper carelessly onto the table and stood.

Elena wore a jade green gown with a flowered train. The neckline was modest yet her collarbones were exposed, her sleeves were ruffled and off the shoulder. Her hair was rolled into curls, divided into three strands, knotted in the back and held in place with shell combs. Although she would never admit it, this was the most that Elena had dressed up in months. She looked heavenward towards the glass ceiling, wondering if it would be bad form to use a parasol indoors.

Damon bowed low, his arm bent horizontally across his chest.

"Your majesty," he said smoothly.

Elena's handlers carefully handled her gown as she settled herself into her seat.

"Count Salvatore," she greeted.

"Please," he said, "Call me Damon."

"Damon," she corrected herself.

It was slightly foreign to call a man by his Christian name, especially when living amongst men with titles. She took a small pleasure in this—like when she used to sneak chocolates from her dinner table as a child.

"Damon," she began again, "I must explain my conduct-"

Damon raised his hand.

"Please," he smirked, "I already have created such a colorful version for myself. I'm not so sure that I'd like my illusion shattered."

Elena quieted, reaching for her mimosa and drank it thoroughly. After she settled the glass down, she appraised Damon. With a lift of her hand, she excused everyone else from the room. After they left, she spoke.

"You're very strange," she boldly mused.

"Thank you."

"I'm not so sure that was a compliment…"

"I'm not so sure that I would mind if it wasn't," he retorted.

His eyes flickered mysteriously and Elena relaxed into her chair, looking at him, and her mind wandered thoughtfully.

"How long do you plan to stay in Sofia," she asked.

"As long as it pleases me," he said cryptically.

"I see."

"How long are we going to play this game," he asked suddenly, eyeing her strangely.

Elena perked up, tilting her head.

"Game? How do you mean?"

"How did you do it, Katherine," he asked curtly.

Elena furrowed her brow.

"Katherine? Are you unwell?"

Damon's hands shot out, gripping her wrists painfully. His eyes were alive and he looked at her in a way that she hadn't seen before. A lock of his hair fell carelessly over his forehead and his jaw was set strong.

"After everything I did for you!"

Elena gasped, pulling her arms back into her lap.

"I don't know what you mean, Damon, but you're clearly confused."

The light suddenly went out in his eyes and after a beat, he settled into his seat again. His fists clenched and unclenched. He pushed his hair from his forehead and slouched slightly in his chair. Elena's chest rose and fell heavily, her heart hammering in her chest. What had just happened?

Neither said another word. Both turned and stared out the window and into the garden. A swallow sung happily in the distance, coaxing Springtime like a snake charmer.