Author Note: I'm ALIVE! :D sorta... I still have lots of school to do... :( sigh... but, I love writing too much to stop and, I figured Tom and Cat need a bit more added on to their story :D I honestly don't know how long this is going to be, but I have plans... just wondering if I'll ever reach them :D hahaha. Anyhoo, thank you for waiting, reading, reviewing, and faving it! :D I appreciate ya'll very much! Hope you have a fantastic day! :D and maybe by the end of next week I'll have something else up on one of the other stories! :D

Soli Deo Gloria

Disclaimer: Disney owns Tangled, its story, and its characters

"Someone's spending an unusual amount of time making herself pretty for Duke Montague's birthday ball." Elizabeth declared, walking into her bedroom and smirking at her sister.

Catherine glanced up from where she had been brushing her hair. She sighed and frowned at the mirror, "Maybe I am. But I still can't manage to get my hair looking nice. What did you do, Lizzie?"

Her sister patted the bun gathered up at the nape of her neck, replying, "I got Mother to do it. But really, Katie, you look ten times better with your hair down than with it up."

"That's impossible—we look too much alike for one of us to look better with her hair down than the other one does."

Elizabeth shrugged and came over to run her hands through her sister's hair. "I think it's the way you hold yourself, Katie dear. You've always had better posture. But I can try pulling your hair together in the back. You always look so adorable with a little bun while the rest hangs loose."

"I don't want to look adorable tonight, Lizzie." Catherine muttered as Elizabeth began to draw locks of her hair back.

Her sister nodded, "I know, I know. You just want to look beautiful enough that you render the prince speechless in awe."

"Not that either." Catherine retorted crossly. "I just want to look nice, Lizzie. Nice and proper, because we are going to a fancy party and the royal family will be there."

"Which, incidentally, includes the prince." She replied, rummaging through the small box on the vanity's counter and withdrawing a few pins.

"Oh be quiet, Lizzie—just fix my hair."

"Okay."

Elizabeth pursed her lips, considering how to make her sister 'drop-dead-gorgeous' without letting her know she was. Finally she said casually, sliding pins into the bundle of hair she had gathered up, "You know, I think you would look more 'proper' in that purple dress of yours."

Catherine frowned, "Which one? I have a lot of those."

"The one that really brings out the color of your eyes. Speaking of which—can I do your face paints?"

"Why?" She sounded suspicious. Rightfully so.

"Because in another month or so I won't be around to do this anymore and I think my little sister deserves some attention."

"Lizzie, what are you trying to do?"

Elizabeth shook her head, tightening Catherine's bun, "Nothing, Katie dear. Now hold still or I'll have to redo your hair all over again."

"Goliath, let me out of this confounded clothes closet!"

Thomas ignored the pounding and complaints issuing from his wardrobe, and continued to adjust his cravat.

"Goliath!"

The prince sighed and untied his cravat to start over. "Quiet, Freddy, or Mother will hear you."

"I'll have the whole stupid kingdom hearing me unless you let me out!" Frederick hollered through the keyhole.

"All right—all right. Just hold on for a second." Thomas slung his neck-cloth back onto his bed and, as an afterthought, cast off his waistcoat as well.

Then he went over to his wardrobe and addressed it: "If I let you out of there will you promise to not boss me around as I'm getting dressed?"

There was a slight silence as Frederick thought the proposal over. Thomas yawned.

A moment later, a rather rueful "Yes, Goliath" came from within the piece of furniture. Thomas grinned and unlocked the door, allowing his cousin to tumble out.

Frederick got to his feet and shot an angered glare at the other man. "You could have been a bit more sympathetic, cousin. Don't you know I'm afraid of the dark?"

Thomas snorted and shifted through the clothes in his wardrobe, remarking, "Freddy, if you were afraid of the dark, you would not have been hiding in the dressing room of 'Antonio's Showgirls' two summers ago."

"That was an honest mistake, and you know it." He rejoined heatedly.

"At least I found you before you got into too much trouble. Do you still have that burn mark from that actress's hair-iron?"

Frederick rubbed absently at his lower back, "Matter of fact, I do. Thank you so much for revisiting that painful memory."

Thomas rolled his eyes, "I was only joking, Freddy. Anyway, I thought you said it didn't hurt much?"

"The burning didn't. The shrieks of the actress did, however, leave me deaf for about a week afterward. Every time someone asked me to pass the salt, I'd pass the sugar on accident, and then I got into real trouble." Frederick watched as his cousin selected another waistcoat and pulled it on. He frowned.

"What?" Thomas asked, buttoning up the dark blue vest. "Remember you promised to not boss me around."

"I won't boss you around, just-," Frederick came over to him and tugged his vest down, straightening out the wrinkles. "You need to look smart, Goliath. You can't do that if you look like you just slept in your clothes."

"Oh. Thank you, Freddy."

He flashed him a grin, "You're welcome. Now, about that cravat-."

"Yes?" Thomas turned around from where he had been pulling a white neckerchief from the pile on his bed.

"Can I at least do that for you? I know how you are with those things—last time we went to a party, it took you about five minutes just to tie it correctly."

He nodded, "I suppose so. I'm just-," Thomas shrugged as his cousin pulled the cravat around his neck, "-agitated. And I'm worried. What if she doesn't come?"

"Then you keep chasing her."

"I'm not chasing her, Freddy. I just would like to talk to her once more."

Frederick nodded and finished tightening the knot of his cousin's cravat. He slapped him companionably on the chest, responding, "Either way, you've got to catch up to Kitty-cat if you are going to see her again. How long has it been?"

"Almost a full week."

"And you haven't gotten her out of your head yet?"

Thomas smiled slightly, "She's been the first thing I've thought of upon waking up every morning. That's never happened to me before—not about a girl."

Frederick grinned and retrieved a jacket from the wardrobe, commenting over his shoulder, "Evidently, then, she's special."

"More than I thought she was. And I barely know her yet." He allowed his cousin to help him into his jacket.

Frederick brushed off Thomas's shoulders and adjusted his collar, whispering, "Let's hope tonight provides a bit more reason to learn more then, eh, Goliath?"

"Let us hope—and pray—that it might be the case."

All of Corona's nobility converged upon the palace for the eighty-eighth birthday party of the honorable Duke Charles Montague. The duke was a well-respected member of the royal court, great half-cousin to the king himself, and one of the richest men in town with no children to follow after him. The more socially-inclined aristocrats paid attention to certain important things like birthday parties when they concerned a man of failing health who had lots of inheritance to give away.

Of course, he would probably bestow that wealth on one of his nephews. But people did not know that, and the party was well-attended.

The royal decorators had lavishly draped the banquet and dancing hall of the palace with buntings and curtains of gold and blue. There was a long buffet table set up alongside a fleet of circular dining tables. The royal chefs and Duke Montague's own cooks and waiters were catering the food. Entertainment consisted of talking with friends and family or dancing to pieces composed by the palace musicians.

The partygoers themselves were a form of entertainment, however. A person with a relatively long attention-span could possibly spend half an hour surveying the crowds of chattering people. There was a virtual rainbow of color provided by the gowns and bustled ball dresses of the ladies, while the men wore suits hued in rose-red, creamy-white, and violet-blue. Hairstyles of all kinds adorned the heads of women everywhere while the white-powdered wigs—though going out of style—still drifted in and out amidst the masses of people. Families were sitting and eating together; children capered among the table and chair legs; business partners discussed the latest entrepreneurship exploits; soldiers hung about in shady corners with young ladies; and the sons and daughters of the nobility wandered aimlessly around the floor, waiting for the music and dancing to start.

The party officially began when Duke Montague blew out his birthday cake candles.

Frederick, using an oversized, feathery tricorne hat to conceal his identity, leaned over to hiss into his cousin's ear.

"I say, did you see that old man's dentures fly out of his mouth when he bedecked that cake with about three gallons of saliva?"

"Yes, I did. But you might want to keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you. Honestly, Freddy, Mother's in hearing range."

"With this pancake of a hat and you think Auntie Caroline's going to spot me?"

Thomas raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

Frederick gave him a half-nod, "All right, Goliath, I'll be careful. Anyway, before I go off to woo twelve girls or so, have you seen Kitty-cat yet?"

"Nope." Thomas shook his head stiffly. "Not yet."

"Cheer up, Goliath. I'm sure she's here somewhere. Why don't you ask your mum about her?"

"Because I think my mother knows far too more than I'm really comfortable with her knowing."

"Very well, dear cousin. See you later." Frederick walked off into the midst of the party, accosting a group of young ladies on the way.

Thomas turned his view away from his cousin's movement and back to scanning the party for Catherine. He was not entirely sure if she was coming. After all, her parents had sent back the invitation with merely a polite 'we will be pleased to attend' and that could mean anything. It could just mean her parents—it could mean the Lord Brian, his wife, and Elizabeth. It could mean everyone in the family except for Catherine…

Perhaps he had been an idiot to put so much stock into this night. After all, Thomas thought grimly as he listened to a group of giggling girls trot past, he had only talked to her for a few hours.

For all he knew, she was already attached.

Not that he was interested in such a thing.

"Tommy dear, why don't you go out and look for her?" The queen came over to her son, patting his shoulder.

"I'm afraid I might not find her."

"Well, you'll never know if you don't go out and search for the girl. Go on-," she gently pushed him forward. "Go and see."

"Yes, Mother." Thomas replied obediently, striding into the crowd of people.

He saw several familiar faces during his search. Old school friends waved at him in greeting. Noblemen bowed to him or else respectfully nodded their heads. He saw the faces of young ladies and their mothers whom he had met at the 'pickings' as his cousin had termed the event. Most of the females were demurely fanning themselves, clearly waiting for him to ask for a dance.

Then, in the back of his mind, he realized that the music had started as a slew of violin notes spilled out into the crowded chamber. The soft puffing of piccolos, followed by the flippant notes of clarinets, began to accompany the strings. They seemed frantic in their noise, playing up to a frenzied whine as the dancers whirled faster and faster upon the floor. And then the trumpets began to roar out with loud brassy tones, shattering the strained song of the woodwinds while simultaneously announcing the reentrance of the violins.

Thomas winced at the sound. It was an uncomfortable hum to his ears, making his work more and more difficult to concentrate on. How was he supposed to think with all this blasted music?

Suddenly, a pair of small, determined hands had wrapped themselves around one of his arms and was jerking him to the dance floor. Thomas's eyes widened. He recognized that grip—and mental panic signals began to chime in with the encore of the instruments.

Patricia had discovered his existence, and he was pretty sure she would not let him get away so easily this time around.

Catherine examined herself in the mirror of the royal washroom. Her sister had committed the utmost atrocity. She looked stunning—nay, more than that—she was absolutely striking.

"I can't believe you did this, Lizzie!" She muttered, quite sure she had never worn so much eye shadow in her entire life.

Elizabeth powdered her nose at the sink beside her, responding: "Well, I'm so sorry that I wanted my little sister to look her best."

"But I'm so—so…"

"Beautiful?" Her sister suggested, smiling widely. "Rapturous? Enchanting?"

Catherine shook her head, mumbling, "Not myself… For goodness sake, I look like one of our old China dolls!"

"Katie, you look amazing. You know you do. Didn't you hear Daddy choke on his coffee when he saw you come down the stairs?"

"Yes, and come to think of it, he was grumbling all the way to the palace as well."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and came around, setting her hands on her sister's shoulders. "That's because he knows what kind of affect you'll have on all those handsome, eligible young men out there. You'll be knocking them down right and left."

"I don't want to knock anyone down."

"Except the prince." She smirked.

Catherine shot her a glare, which Elizabeth proceeded to ignore. She watched as her sister continued to make minute adjustments to her hair, humming softly. Elizabeth had always been good at cosmetics and hairstyling. She possessed that extra sense required to making what was nice into something that dazzled. Catherine, on the other hand, did not seek out that side of life. She knew how to be clean, how to be presentable, but her mind was focused on other matters.

She, as her sister Frieta often remarked, liked to read too much.

Catherine turned her face back to the mirror and frowned, noticing the purple dress she wore. It was an elegant gown her aunt had bought her last summer, but she had worn it only once due to its rather daring neckline.

"I'd forgotten why I never wore this dress." She whispered, touching the lacy lining of the collar—or lack thereof.

Elizabeth frowned, "Whatever do you mean?"

"It's cut far too low."

Her sister snorted, "Oh Katie—just because it's a little lower than you're used to wearing…"

"I feel half-naked." Catherine snapped, a faint blush rising to her face.

Elizabeth shook her head, "Don't be so dramatic—it's just an inch deeper and accentuates your curves quite nicely. You look like a real woman, Katie."

"It's not like I wasn't one before."

"Yes, but you've hardly ever let anyone else know."

She groaned, "No wonder you didn't allow me in front of a mirror until we arrived. And I left my shawl in the coach..." She looked at her sister, pleading, "Let me borrow yours."

Elizabeth shook her head and shifted her stole, "No way—I need something to tease George with."

"But I'm not comfortable, Lizzie. I don't think I can go out there."

Her sister sighed and set her hands upon her shoulders again. Elizabeth smiled at her reflection and said, "Katie dear, just be confident, know you look fantastic, and that you are the one thing no man can ever comprehend."

"And what's that?"

"An attractive young lady with a brain." She squeezed her shoulders comfortingly.

Just then, a group of girls came into the washroom. They were all talking animatedly about the party and especially about the young men at the party. Their fancy party dresses—many of them plunging much lower than Catherine's—rustled as they hurried over to the counter.

"Got to look pretty for Jackson."

"Ivan's my target tonight."

"I'm still after that waiter Barney."

"Did you see that Patty has taken hold of the prince again?"

"Poor man—he looked rather frightened."

"Don't know what Patty thinks she's doing. After all, you can't scare a man into marrying you."

"Says you—my aunt did with Uncle Foster."

"Joanna, do you have extra powder?"

"There's some on the counter here—I think it's complimentary."

"Complimentary powder! This place has everything."

Elizabeth smiled at her sister, "Come on, Katie. Let's get out and join the crowd."

Catherine sighed and looked again at her reflection. A small smile came to her face, and she remarked quietly, "You know, it's not that bad, actually."

"Of course it isn't. Do you really think I'd make my little sister look unsightly?"

"No—you would instead make me look like one of those actresses in 'Antonio's Showgirls.'"

Elizabeth laughed as she followed her to the door, "Well, maybe you can join them then if you can't catch the prince."

"Apparently Patricia has already caught him." Catherine muttered.

Elizabeth shook her head, "Oh, pooh on Patricia. The prince knows better than that."

"How do you know?"

"Well, he likes you, doesn't he?" She smiled, trotting out into the corridor and towards the banquet hall.

Thomas leaned against the punch table, breathing hard. He had just managed to escape Patricia by claiming that he had been dying of thirst. And, unlike some excuses he had thought about making, this one was actually true.

He poured himself a cup of punch and drank it, enjoying the refreshing coolness of the liquid as it slid down his throat. It had been stifling in that mob of dancers, whirling around with Patricia leading the way while he tripped over his own feet; getting kicked in the shin by the toe of a fancy boot; and generally having an absolutely miserable time. Not to mention that Patricia had a particular fondness for fast dances—even when they were not meant to be fast.

The determined female had actually knocked over seven pairs of dancers during one of the musicians' slowest ballads, and she had dragged him along for the ride. She had also insisted on dancing… what was it? Twelve dances with him. All of which were unfortunately long and provided ample time for flailing about and listening to Patricia jabber away. He could remember that, at one point, after forcing him through a line of people, Patricia immediately started asking him questions about the matchmaking. How had it been? Did he find anyone? He did remember her, didn't he? Didn't he think that short girls and tall gentlemen go well together? And so on and so forth with the utterly miserable nonsense.

Thomas downed his third glass of punch, wondering that if by drowning himself in the punch bowl he could avoid another dance with Patricia. Just then, a fellow with a floppy, feathery hat leaned up against him.

"Hello, Goliath," Frederick said cheerfully, slapping him affectionately on the back. "Did you see that crazy gal and her poor befuddled escort trampling over the dance floor?"

He nodded, muttering, "That was me."

"Wot?"

"And Patricia."

Frederick narrowed his eyes, "Isn't she daughter of that peaky vulture woman?"

"Yes." Thomas answered, dipping the ladle into the punch bowl again.

"Wot on earth are you doing mucking about on the dance floor with that scavenger of carrion? I thought you wanted to dance with a kitty?"

His cousin sighed, "I did. But Patricia had other plans and besides, I don't think Cat is here tonight."

"'Course she is. She's right over there, isn't she?"

Thomas's head snapped up, and he glanced around, demanding, "What? Where?"

Frederick nodded some ways off to the tables, "Right there—she's being asked to dance by that smarmy Prince Dalen of Salisbury."

"But I—I want to ask her." He mumbled, watching as the beautiful young lady took Dalen's hand and followed him into the milling crowd on the dance floor.

His cousin rolled his eyes, "Then get in there and fight for her!"

"How?"

"Just get Patty to knock 'em over for you. Then somehow knock her over and grab Kitty-cat and run."

Thomas frowned, "You can't knock over a girl."

"She's not a gal, she's a vulture. Dropkick her if you must." Frederick said flippantly.

"Freddy."

He shrugged, "Fine then—don't listen to me—just let Dally take the gal off on a romantic dance across the floor and into a blissful future of wedded happiness."

His cousin stared at him, his mouth hanging slightly open as this horrible possibility came to light. Suddenly, however, a more horrible possibility actually occurred when Patricia ran up and seized his hand.

"Come on, Tom-Tom! The next dance is starting!"

"But-." Before he say much more than a yelp, Thomas was jerked away to the dancers weaving about in harmony to the music.

Catherine did not like Prince Dalen of Salisbury. Not only did he have cold hands and feet that seemed determined to smash hers to bits, but he also did not know when to stop talking about himself. Neither did he understand personal space or natural politeness. And, to top it all off, he smelled strongly of vinegar.

Catherine detested the smell of vinegar.

She turned her head away as the man began to elaborate on his recent hunting achievement, wincing when the heel of his boot stamped upon her toes. By the end of the night she would have to be carried out, her feet would be so damaged.

"My father said it was the finest stag any man had ever shot, Cathy. Absolutely brilliant, he called it. And I had the devil of a time trying to nail the old animal too—nearly lost my left arm in the excitement. Want to see the scar?" He jerked her towards himself, shoving his sleeve up to expose a pale arm for her inspection. "'Course, you can't really see it now because the blasted dim lights they have in this place—but I swear to you, it makes the Salisburian Trench look like a crack in the pavement."

"Really?" Catherine scooted away from him, avoiding being trampled by his feet again.

"Yes indeed. But tell me, Cathy, have you ever seen the Salisburian Trench before?"

"Um-," she felt herself suddenly being dipped backward, supported by the cold hand of Prince Dalen, "-no."

He stared at her seriously, murmuring in a voice far too gruff for her liking, "I could take you if you want."

Catherine was about to respond when she noticed his eyes roving south of her face. What was he-? Oh no…

Then, thank heavens, some flagrant dancer bumped into the odious man, causing him to drop her as he toppled onto the ground. She struck the floor painfully hard, though she was not as bad off as Prince Dalen, who landed face-first upon the marble and then proceeded to burst into tears about his squashed nose.

Nonetheless, the respective yelps and crashes were noticed by many of the surrounding dancers, among them the party guilty of causing the fall: Thomas and Patricia.

The prince glanced back, spotting the young lady on the floor along with her blubbering dance partner.

"Patricia—we need to help."

"What? Come on, Tom-Tom, they can take care of themselves." She scoffed, already leading him away.

He felt his irritation, which had already been rising throughout the night, reach boiling point. "Actually—here-," he released her hand and sent her twirling into the arms of Duke Montague. "I've got to go."

Thomas strode away, pushing through the crowd to reach the fallen couple. Ignoring the sobbing Prince Dalen, he hurried over to Catherine and held out his hand.

"Please, allow me-."

She had a hand gingerly pressed against the back of her head, but gave him the remaining one. Then, when he realized that jerking the poor girl upright would not be sufficient or courteous, Thomas set his other hand on her slender back and carefully lifted her to her feet.

"Are you all right?" He asked, watching as she hissed in pain.

"Not—not really." Catherine stared at the floor, trying to get her eyes to focus again. "I hit my head quite hard."

"Here—let's get you off the dance floor." He led her through the curious mass of dancers, leaving Dalen to be helped up by his schoolfellows.

There were groans and complaints from the prince of Salisbury, but the crowning remark came from one of his friends commenting: "Wow, Dally, you've got a conk the size of a tomato now!"

Thomas took Catherine over to a nearby table, growling at a young lad sitting in the only chair: "Out, Rupert."

"But-."

"Now, Rupert, before I fetch your mother."

With a resentful glare, the lad jumped off the chair and headed over to the dessert table.

Thomas set the girl down, watching her. After a moment he asked quietly, "Do you need me to get the court physician?"

"No—no. I'm fine." She was still holding her head, however.

He nodded, "Yeah, I'll go get him."

"No, I-." Catherine saw his tall form disappearing quickly off in search of the physician.

For a second, all she could do was listen to the whine in her throbbing head mingling with the murmurs of the crowd. She heard the ramblings of the dancers as they skated across the floor, with music playing dreadfully loud in the background. There were also several people still eating, scraping forks over china and commenting on the sogginess of the birthday cake. Gradually, however, all these noises melted into a low hum, and her head no longer hurt so much.

Catherine sighed, staring at her faint reflection in the curve of a nearly empty wine glass. She wondered how stupid she must have looked falling to the floor like that, in the arms of the leering Prince Dalen while being suffocated by his vinegar breath. Certainly not ladylike and certainly not confident nor fantastic.

But then the prince had come, easily helped her up to a table, and gone off to find the court physician. She had barely said two words to him. Not that she really knew what to say, having only spent a few hours with the man last week. And of course, there was the whole history of her returned poetry book standing in the way of conversation. It was a topic that could not be ignored. She had thrown it at him, after all, and he had sent it back. Yet she still did not know what had happened to it while still in his possession, and she wanted to know why she cared so much…

Just then, the prince came back, a wheezing, portly physician in his wake.

The doctor set his hand on the table, gasping, "What on earth did you make me run over here, Tom? I can't look-," he drew another breath, "-after someone if I have no oxygen in my body!"

Thomas, however, had his eyes trained on Catherine's. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." She replied quietly, put off by the seriousness of his gaze.

The physician shook his head, huffing, "I'll be the judge of that, young lady. Here-," he moved so that he stood in front of her, "-follow my finger."

She obeyed, watching as the man ran his digit directly within her eyesight. He nodded in satisfaction, asking, "Do I have your permission to check the back of your head, Miss?"

"Um-." She noticed the prince giving her a small nod. "If you feel it is necessary."

The physician smiled, "Don't know if it is, Miss, but it's best just to make sure."

He examined the back of her head, quite gently with warm, practiced hands sure of their purpose. It only took him a few seconds before he stepped away, nodding again. He then proceeded to ask her a few, common knowledge questions, what her name was, and if she was experiencing any forms of nausea. Upon her answering correctly, the physician seemed quite satisfied.

"You'll have a bump there, Miss, make no mistake about that. But a cold pack and a day or two should put you to rights. No concussion, and that's the important thing. Just be careful not to slip on the floors here. Marble, while pretty, can do significant damage to the skull."

"Thank you, sir."

"You are welcome, Miss." He bowed, and then turned to the prince. "Tom, you should take better care of your guests."

"No he-." Catherine started hurriedly—but was interrupted by the prince's smooth assurance of "I'll try to take better care of them in the future, sir."

"You'd better. What your mother would say…" Winking, the physician departed.

Thomas sighed, "Now Mother will scold me for letting you fall."

"No—no. It wasn't your fault."

"Actually-," the prince looked over at the next table. He ordered: "Rupert, out of the chair."

The lad glanced up, halfway through his chocolate éclair, "Goliath-."

"Now."

"'Get out of the chair, Rupert.' 'Go away, Rupert.' 'Stop nicking my éclairs, Rupert.' Bla bla bla…" Shaking his head and muttering, the lad obeyed and went off in search of another éclair—probably someone else's.

Thomas drew up the recently vacated seat and set his elbows on the table, "Do you need anything to drink?"

"No thank you."

"Are you sure? I can call Rupert back if you-."

She smiled, "Thank you, your Highness, but I don't think he'd come back even if you did call him."

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows, "You're probably right about that."

"You're not really going to get in trouble for what happened, are you?" Catherine did not want the young man to be scolded for her account. Especially since he had been so kind already.

"Well-," he sighed, "-it actually was my fault, sort-of. See, I was being steered by Patricia."

"Ah."

"And she bumped into Dalen, knocking him to the floor along with yourself."

Catherine nodded, replying, "It still wasn't your fault."

He shook his head, "I should have been able to hold my own against a girl less than half my size. I apologize for it."

"Though the apology is not necessary, I accept." She smiled, and he smiled back.

Then, for a moment, neither one of them knew quite what else to say. It was odd, sitting with the one person you have been thinking about for the past several days, and yet have nothing to say to them. Yet, even as Thomas gazed at her, he felt he could spend quite a lot of time doing just that. She looked beautiful tonight.

Eventually Catherine, unable stand another second of this uncomfortable silence, said, "Thank you for your assistance, your Highness, but I'm quite fine now. You probably have other guests to attend to."

"Other guests?" He frowned, and then realized that he was at a party. Thomas cleared his throat, responding, "Well, they're actually Mr. Montague's guests, not mine."

"Be that as it may, you are still the prince and you have duties to attend to." She reminded him, half-hoping he would leave and half-hoping he would stay.

"You sound like my mother."

Catherine smiled, "I like your mother. She was very kind to invite Lizzie and me along with our parents."

"So you did receive that invitation?" Thomas asked, cocking his head slightly.

"Well, I am here after all."

He shook his head, grinning, "Right. Um—and did your book arrive safely?"

"Yes, thank you for returning it." She smiled.

"And-," his grin broadened, "-I hope there weren't too many dents in it from hitting my head?"

A pink tinge appeared on her cheeks, and Catherine averted her gaze, murmuring, "Yes—you should watch out for books being thrown out of windows. I'm so sorry. I didn't even realize it struck you in the head."

"It's quite all right. Obviously you were just upset that I didn't show you the tennis courts."

She looked quickly at him, laughing hesitantly, "No, I can do quite well without seeing the tennis courts. I'm not much of an athlete by any sense of the word."

"Then what are you?" Thomas asked good-humoredly.

"A—a milk lord's daughter?" The girl answered, not sure what kind of a response he wanted.

He stood up, declaring, "Very well, Miss Catherine, daughter of a milk lord, I have a question for you."

Catherine gazed at him uncertainly, "Yes?"

"I know that you probably think I'm rather rude to ask this given your recent experience with princes but—would you care to dance with me?"

"I would." The words had come out of her mouth before she could stop them, but the expression on the prince's face somehow made it worthwhile. Catherine rose to her feet, glancing to the dance floor.

"Do you promise not to drop me?" She asked suddenly, turning to look at him.

Thomas smiled and held out his arm, "I promise."

Catherine lightly laid her hand upon his offered arm and walked out with the prince of Corona to join in the next dance.

Over where the royal musicians were gathered, the director shifted through his music. They had been playing all sorts of pieces tonight, ranging from long, quiet waltzes, springy jigs, short interludes of relaxing harmonies, and deep ponderous melodies. He hummed thoughtfully, turning the pages upon his podium. Then his eyes brightened and, snapping his fingers at the servant boy lounging by one of the bass players, he hissed: "Roger."

Roger came over, "Yes sir?"

"Get Ian's fiddle from the music hall."

"But sir-."

"Quick, Roger. And stop feeding my bass player all those marshmallows, you know they make his fingers sticky."

Roger shrugged and hurried off to the music hall as instructed. Ian, who had heard his name called, glanced over at his director.

"What do I need my fiddle for, Leo?" He indicated the mandolin in his arms. "I thought you just wanted me to play this tonight."

"Change of plans. We're going to perform 'St. Anthony's Walk' and 'Carrick By The River's End'. We'll do 'Carrick' first."

Ian frowned, "But those songs are so old no one will remember them. Besides, Carrick's a Midlander's name, is it not?"

"It's an old folk song of the Midlands—beautiful music. It slows and speeds up at just the right moments." Leo sighed happily. "That is what those people need to hear. Music that lives, not just lingers, within a person's heart."

"If you insist, Leo." The strummer shook his head, setting aside his mandolin.

Meanwhile, upon the dance floor, people were waiting for the next song to start. Thomas craned his neck over the multitude, trying to discover what was happening with the musicians. Beside him, Catherine asked, "What are they doing?"

He shook his head, "I don't know. I think the conductor is waiting for something."

"Hopefully not another request—that last one was far too fast."

Thomas glanced down at her, "I agree. But it is Mr. Montague's party and if he wants fast dances, he can have them."

She frowned, "I thought you said it was Patricia who made the request."

"It was, but you know how she can't say no to an old man on his birthday. Anyway," he smiled, "now you have time to explain to me how you became interested in Leon of Pharx."

"My father gave me the book when I was sixteen. I've been reading it ever since."

He nodded, responding, "Well, yes—but that's not what you would normally find a young lady reading."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, but I like Leon of Pharx." She replied smoothly.

Thomas smirked, "And I'm assuming you understood everything you read?"

"Not everything—but I certainly tried to understand it."

"I noticed you made a few notes."

Her eyes narrowed, and Catherine looked up at him sharply, "You read it?"

He shrugged, "I scanned a few pages. But I only read one part very deeply and I agree with what you say. We should strive for a better future."

Catherine turned her face away, muttering, "That was just commentary… and you really shouldn't go about reading other people's books."

"Well, other people shouldn't go about tossing their books at the crown prince."

"You didn't show me the tennis courts." She retorted, glaring at him.

Thomas grinned and leaned down slightly, whispering, "And you said that you didn't care."

She held his gaze, green eyes locked daringly on his blue ones. Generally, it would be considered rude to stare a member of the royal family straight in the eyes. But he had read her book—and, although she had thrown it at him—Catherine still felt his wrong had been the greater of the two. Besides, he had that little cocky smirk on his face…

Just then, the music started up. A fiddle was singing out into the banquet hall, cutting through the mutterings of the crowd. It was a serene, sweet thread of music, weaving its way in and out of the corners of the room to seemingly disappear up into the high ceiling of the chamber. There was a wildness to its piercing fleet of notes, and suddenly another, lower hum began to reverberate underneath the fiddle's song. The bass player was joining in.

Several people among the dancers smiled in recognition, including Catherine. But the majority of the throng frowned in confusion. Thomas was one of them.

"I don't know this song." He muttered, listening as the flutes took up a soft harmony.

Catherine glanced at him, replying, "I do. My mother used to sing it to me all the time when I was younger. It—it's not normally heard in Corona."

Thomas nodded, "I should say so. I know everything our musicians perform and this… this is like nothing I've ever heard."

By this time, people who knew the song had started to dance. Others were hesitatingly following suit. Catherine turned expectantly to the prince.

"Ready, your Highness?"

A faint line of worry crossed his forehead, and he said, "I don't know how to dance to this song."

"Well, lucky for you then, I do. It really isn't that much different from a normal waltz, just-," she took his left hand, "-give me your hand and-," she grabbed his wrist, moving his right hand to the point just below her shoulder, "-set the other here."

"I know how to do that much." Thomas murmured, slightly annoyed.

"Then why didn't you?" Catherine asked, her smile turning into one of mischievousness as she began to lead him in a few, uncomplicated steps.

"Because I didn't—wait." He noticed what she was doing. "Why are you leading?"

"You said you didn't know how to dance to this song."

Thomas shook his head, pointing out: "The man's always supposed to lead."

"Not if he doesn't know where he's going." Catherine argued, waiting for the woodwinds to switch into the second section of the song's opening.

"Well, I'm just saying that it's traditional for-."

"Switch hands." Catherine ordered, dropping his left hand and taking up his right.

Thomas hastily placed his left hand onto her back, remarking, "This is very strange."

"It's how the song goes."

"I don't like it." He decided stubbornly.

"Shame," Catherine sighed. "It's one of my favorite songs." She then looked at him archly, "Do you know how to twirl a girl?"

"Of course I know how to twirl a girl!" Thomas replied, slightly annoyed as he tried to keep his feet in the short, steady tread. "I've been twirling and have been twirled by Patricia all night, if she counts."

"That was mean." She said, smiling despite her words.

The prince grinned, "That was honest."

Catherine rolled her eyes, informing him, "Well in this song-," the fiddle took up its original melody, "-you have to twirl counter-clockwise first."

He groaned, "I think I'm going to get a headache from all this."

"You're not the one being spun, so I highly doubt that. Now-," the fiddle player started into a new deviation of music, "-twirl me."

He twirled her. She made quite a pretty twirl, smooth, graceful, and rather tidy. He actually felt excited upon catching her, and, for the first time that night, his dance partner did not knock the wind out of him upon being caught.

Catherine smiled and complimented, "Well done, your Highness."

"I have an excellent teacher." He replied, as, with a swift action and no warning, she made him switch hands again. However, Thomas was ready to adjust. Then, with a firm but clear stride of his fancy dress boot, he began to lead.

Catherine allowed him to do so, curious if he could handle the unfamiliar music. She quickly, and quite happily, received her answer throughout the rest of the dance.

The young man was powerful in his movements, but not domineering. He danced with a certain kind of respectful dignity, evidence of all the dancing lessons he had been taking since he had turned eight. He was confident, he was reassuringly composed, and his hands were gentle and warm. And, best of all, his eyes were focused directly on her face and not a centimeter below.

She was somewhat disappointed when the dance ended.

Thomas, on the other hand, had a wide grin on his face. He asked jokingly: "Did I pass my examination, Miss Catherine?"

"Yes. You proved yourself very capable." Catherine remarked, hearing the fiddle as it picked up again, this time in a faster air with the shrill whistles of a fife as an accompaniment.

"So does that mean you wouldn't mind to join me for the next one? I think it's another one of those songs I don't know."

"I'm not sure I've heard this one before." Catherine admitted.

"Then I suppose we can learn together. But-," he took her hand again, "-should a mishap occur, feel completely free to blame it on me."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because no one will make fun of the prince. Being royalty does have its perks."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that no one would make fun of the prince." Catherine said, smirking slightly.

He shrugged, "I suppose that is a bit too optimistic. After all, a few days ago I would have said that no one would throw books at me, and that's changed."

"Ha ha, very funny." She replied sarcastically.

Thomas grinned.