He stopped in the middle of the dirt floor of his hay barn and pulled a few short pieces of wood from a preset bucket of water, shaking some water droplets off and turning around to smile at Amelia, who had followed him with an interested look on her face. "Today, I thought I could start to teach you how to build a fire out of wet wood."

"Why would I need to know how to do that?" Amelia questioned, taking the small bundle of wet sticks he was handing her, "I don't plan on getting lost in the woods anytime soon."

With a smile, he pulled another hay bale over by the bucket and patted the top of it, "it will be easier to think about if you sit, mi bella."

Shrugging, Amelia sat down on the hay bale and felt it sink as he sat down next to her, holding out his own wet stick.

"Now what you must remember, mi bella," he began, running his fingers over the wood thoroughly, "is that nothing is ever truly wet. Unless you're sailing a ship through a storm trying to get to New Spain. Then you can safely call yourself fully wet," he said with a sassy wink.

Amelia laughed and tossed one of her four sticks into a patch of sunlight the filtered through the holey roof, "it'll dry faster in the sunlight."

He smiled, "that's a good start. Now, look at one of your sticks and try to think how you would light it on fire."

Amelia set two sticks next to her on the hay bale, and set about tossing the stick in the air and catching it with one hand while she pondered how to light a wet piece of wood on fire. "There has to be some way to do this," she muttered darkly.

"Very good, mi bella," the man said with another smile, "one of the most important things in a survival situation is telling yourself that you can do it, and nothing is impossible."

I take it then," Amelia said with a sideways glance, "you've done this before, Antonio?"

He nodded, "many a ties, mi bella."

"One of these days," Amelia told him as she went back to inspecting her piece of wood, "you're going to have to translate your Spanish language for me."

"Italian," Antonio muttered, "mi bella is Italian."

"Your Italian words then," Amelia corrected, "what if I peeled off the outer layer of bark? The wood couldn't possibly be soaked through all the way to the middle."

Antonio nodded again and handed Amelia a small pocket knife, "now that is what I call using your head, mi bella."

"One of these days," Amelia muttered again in a sing-song voice as she set to work scrapping the outside layer of the stick away until she managed to find some dry wood; or at the very least, wood that would be dry enough to burn.

Antonio settled back against a larger stack of hay bales as he pulled out another, larger, pocket knife and began to carve the outside of a larger stick away, much faster than Amelia was capable of doing.

Amelia glanced sideways at his knife, "Antonio?" she asked in an innocent voice.

"Yes, Amelia?" he replied in an innocently teasing voice, knowing a question was coming next."

"That knife you're using there was made in America, right?" she asked, scrapping more of her stick bark off.

There was no way that was Amelia's only question, Antonio thought in the back of his mind as he answered, "Yes, it is, how did you recognize it?"

She looked at him in surprise, "All American knives have that type of metal rivets in them to keep the handle closed. Didn't you know that?"

Antonio laughed briefly, amazed again that the simple things he took for granted while being in another country, "why no, Amelia, I hadn't noticed that. Does this perhaps lead us to your real question?"

"Where is this knife from?" she asked, holding up the small red pocket knife she was using, "I can't figure out where it's from. I don't recognize any of these markings, so I don't think it's an American blade."

"That is one of my possessions I brought over from Spain, he answered with a shrug, and "however, I believe it was originally purchased in Southern Italy or Germany."

She nodded thoughtfully before returning to her job of scrapping, giving no more thought to the origins of the strangely small pocketknife, "What's your favorite country in all of Europe?"

Antonio flashed a smile at her, "Spain of course. It is my life blood, and my most precious possession. Nothing could keep me from returning to Spain."

"You're awfully proud to be from Spain," remarked Amelia, "is that a European trait, or does it just come from being out of the country?"

"Mi bella," Antonio began with another toothy smile, "when you are as a part of the affairs of a country as I am with Spain's, one does tend to grow quite fond of their country."

"So you work in the government then?" she asked.

Antonio bobbed his head side to side as he considered the question and how he could answer, "I guess you could say that. I'm more of the go to person when it comes to the affairs of the country as a whole."

Amelia looked at him, "I'm assuming that is a rather high position to be in then?"

"Hardly anyone makes it that far within their countries, mi bella," he replied, "how is your stick coming?"

She held it up so he could see it, "most of the bark is off now."

He nodded and took it from her, "time to start on the next stick mi bella, otherwise we'll be here all night, and I'll have to teach you how to navigate by the stars."

"That's a losing battle," Amelia told him in a forlorn voice, "I can promise you it's worse than hopeless to teach e that."

"Nonsense," Antonio defended automatically, "nothing is completely hopeless in such a way. Name me one thing that is so utterly hopeless, no one will ever forget it because of just how hopeless it was!"

She cocked her head as she thought for a minute before answering with a wry smile, "The Spanish Armada."

Antonio fought the urge to curl up on the dirt floor and cry over the loss of his beauty armada, which had gone down as something utterly hopeless, "Point taken. Then just don't be as bad as the Spanish Armanda," he forced out through clenched teeth.

She smiled and laughed lightly, "I could be something worse," she teased and stuck her tongue out at him, reminding him again just how young she really was.

"Oh?" he said in a curious voice, "what could possibly be worse than the Spanish Armanda?"

"The American Revolution of course!" Amelia said in a bright voice, "The biggest, baddest, meanest empire since the Roman Empire managed to lose a war to a little clump of colonies on the other side of the ocean!
Antonio laughed.

"I'm sorry we weren't able to build a fire today," Amelia apologized by the gate to Antonio's farm, "I need to be home for supper."

Antonio waved it away with a small smile, "family is an important thing, mi bella, hold it close while you can."

She nodded, "One of these days I'm going to invite you to my house for supper, my mother would love you."

"That would be wonderful," he replied with a shrug, "perhaps I'll invite your family over for supper at my place as well. We can have some normal European food."

"No snails!" Amelia answered quickly and loudly, "no one wants to be French when it comes to eating."

He barked out a laugh, "I'll be sure to rely that to my French friend, mi bella."

"Send it along with a nose wiggle then," Amelia replied sassily as she wiggled her nose at Antonio, who laughed at her.

I was thinking more along the lines of cold tomato soup and paella, more Spanish foods," he mused, thinking about what he could easily expose the Americans too without hearing about weird food.

Amelia thought for a minute, "what about Italian; or would it all be pasta then?"

He nodded with a grin, "there would be plenty of pasta and tomato soup then, mi bella. Which actually," he mused suddenly, "doesn't sound like that bad of an idea."

"I'll talk to my parents tonight and see what they would rather do about it," Amelia promised as she climbed over the wooden fence surrounding the farm, "why do you even have a gate?" she asked, "everyone climbs the fence anyway."

"Because, mi bella," Antonio said with a smirk, "you can take the man out of Spain, but you cannot take the Spain out of the man! Now run along before you're late for supper! I'll see you tomorrow."

Antonio leaned back in his red comfy living room chair as he thought about the day's events, it had been nice to have somebody over that wasn't concerned with official matters. As much as he loved being home in Spain and enjoying Europe, he needed a break from all those annoying people. That was why Antonio had decided to come to America on an extended vacation in the first place. Hiding out in the middle of nowhere in America was the perfect way to keep the other countries from finding him when they realized he was missing. He would not, however, be neglecting his duties. When the time came, he would travel back to Spain to host the annual World Conference, and then he would come back to America to spend a relaxing winter in what he assumed was a blizzard zone. Right now though, Antonio had urgent matters he needed to attend to. He had left a certain Italian worrying for much too long.

Antonio leaned over and picked up his phone, waiting for the operators to establish the scratchy connection with a certain to be seething Italian on the other side of the planet.

"Who is it?" A gruff voice demanded as he answered the phone on his way to the kitchen; to make sure his brother and the stupid German weren't misbehaving.

"Lovi! Long time no see," Spain said cheerfully as he heard Romano's voice come across he wire, settled the advanced phone cradle in his lap and leaning back into the chair, "how are things going?"

"Where the hell are you!" Lovino screamed through the phone; Italy and Germany jumped apart from each other in the kitchen at the sound of the explosion, "I- we've been looking for you for over two months, Spain!"

"Ah, were you worried about me Lovi?" Spain teased as he smiled wider, "that's so cute Romano!"

Romano glared at the phone receiver as he gritted his teeth, "I am not cute!" he screeched, "and you are such a stupid bastard you bastard! Where are you, already?"

Italy poked his head out of the kitchen door, his red hair messy," I wonder what Romano is screaming about now Germany! Spain is missing, so we know that aren't doing anything in his room."

Germany bite back a smirk as he floured the counter where the cookie dough was going to be kneaded, "don't meddle, Italia, or else he won't leave us alone long enough to get even one batch of cookies done."

Spain teased Romano, "I meet a girl, Lovi! She's so sweet and mature for her age, and she really enjoys having me teach her new things. I can't wait for you to meet her someday, you'd love her!"

Romano stared at the phone in horror, his knuckles whitening on the receiver.

In his usual ignorant Spain way, Spain continued on in this vein for some time, "she's absolutely perfect, and reminds me so much of you when you were a little kid, Romano! Of course, she acts more like your brother, but you were a very one of a kind child Lovi."

"Germany..."Italy said in a worried voice, "big brother's going to break the phone if he grabs it any harder."

Germany, sensing the impending explosion that was going to be Romano's head, yanked Italy fully back into the kitchen, intending to distract him enough that Romano's phone conversation would be driven from Italy's mind."

"You ran away for over two months," Romano seethed in a low voice, "and you're calling me about some girl you met! And now you want me to meet her! What the hell are you doing you stupid jerk! Where are you, I need to kick your pathetic Spanish ass!"

By the end of his tirade, bother Germany and Italy had stuck their heads out of the kitchen door, and were looking at Romano's shaking back in horror.

"Mein Gott, he might really snap the phone in half," Germany whispered to Italy, who nodded sadly.

"I think big brother is talking to Spain!" Italy commented.

"Don't worry Romano, I'm just out in the world enjoying myself. In fact, that girl is going to be coming over tomorrow, and we're talking about sharing supper one of these days!" Spain said ecstatically, "Isn't that great Lovi?"

"You," Romano sputtered, "you and some random girl are going to be eating supper together! What the hell was the point of this trip of yours you bastard!" Where the hell are you!"

"Lovi," Spain said with a knowing smile on his face and a teasing tone, "I thought you'd figured out I'm on a vacation right now."

"I swear to your boring Spanish God you are going to go to your boring Spanish Hell when I get my hands on you!" screamed Romano, who was holding the phone at arms length as he screamed at it.

Germany and Italy traded a look with each other before returning their gazes to the furious Romano, who Italy was bettering was close to tears.

"Well, it was nice talking to you Lovi," Antonio said with a yawn, "but I'm going to go to bed now. I wouldn't want to fall asleep on Amelia tomorrow afternoon!"

"You what!?" Romano screamed so loudly his voice broke, "I swear to god when I find you I'm going to rip you a new one!"

Germany glared at Romano's back, "he's disrupting my cookie making," he muttered darkly, "Ich liebe mein cooking."

Italy smiled up at the man, "don't worry Germany, when Romano hangs up, we'll make an extra batch of cookies and comfort his sobbing form!"

Germany smiled before pulling Italy back into the kitchen by his waist, "I think we might be otherwise occupied, Italia."

"What the hell are you two bastards doing?" Romano yelled from the kitchen door, where his eyes were clearly bloodshot and he was itching for a fight, "I thought you were supposed to be making cookies, not making babies! And I know you guys can't make babies, but if you could, I bet you would have a lot of them! Now stop looking at me like that and make me some cookies before I rip your balls out your nostrils!"

''Misogynist,' Amelia decided as she listened to the dull sounds of her father talking, 'that's what people like him all called.'

Amelia was currently sitting on the couch in her family's living room, sunlight lightly filtering in through the dusty windows. She had been sitting here since her father got home from work and went through the mail, as per his usual routine. However, the problem started when her father came across an official looking envelope addressed to Amelia, with a matching one addressed to her parents.

It was times like that that Amelia really wished she was still living with her grandparents, because they would have opened the letter and been proud with the results, then handed Amelia the letter addressed to her unopened.

Amelia's father ripped open the letter address to him and read through it with a scowl, before repeating the process with Amelia's letter. He was, for lack of a better term, displeased that his daughter had entered a math contest without his permission, and also displeased with her performance in the contest.

Hence the reason Amelia was sitting properly on the couch while her father paced the wooden floor angrily, reading and reading both of the letters over and over again.

Her father had started out by asking why Amelia felt the need in the first place to enter a math contest in the first place, and had then proceeded to answer his own question with many sarcastic remarks and hand gestures. Amelia was still waiting for an opening to say anything, anything, at all in her defense. Her mother was standing awkwardly in the doorway, clearly divided in how she should be handling the situation.

"Darling," Amelia's mother finally interrupted, "don't you think you should let Amelia get a work in edgewise? After all, we haven't heard her reasons for doing this in the first place."

Edwin Earhart stopped and looked at his wife, "I suppose that could be a good idea," he conceded with an eye roll, "Amelia, why did you decide to enter a national math competition without asked for permission first?"

Amelia blinked, "I didn't think I had to ask permission to do anything that related to schoolwork, father. Forgive me, I appear to have been wrong in that assumption."

He held the letters out in his clutched fist for her to see, "this does not fall under the schoolwork category, as you well know, young lady. Now, I ask again, why did you do it. Was it for the prize money offered? Was it the desire to see your name printed in the paper? Was it the desire to meet a real trained pilot and have a private conversation with him? Well, answer me Amelia."

"I didn't know they were offering prizes for any of this," she replied in an even voice, trying to think of some way to diffuse the tense situation.

"Well," her father said with a sickly sweet smile, "I guess you'll be surprised to hear that you placed high enough to qualify for one of their unknown prizes."

Amelia concealed the feelings of joy she was having, she had desperately wanted to do well in this competition, "what did I win?"

Her father went back to pacing, yet again glaring angrily at the letter addressed to him, "it appears that the other contestants were lacking, Amelia. You managed to place quiet highly for someone of your type."

"Of my type?" Amelia burst out, hurriedly throwing a questioning tone to her statement, "what do you mean by off my type."

"I mean that you are female, of course," he said with a lazy shrug, "no one in their right mind would expect you to do half as well as you did."

Amelia's mother threw her daughter an apologetic look while her husband was not looking, but Amelia was having none of it.

Amelia snapped, "Why wouldn't I do as well as the other people?"

Her father glanced at her, "you are female, Amelia, you are not meant to do as well is this kind of thing. That's just how life is."

Sensing that her daughter was about to enter into an amazingly ugly situation if she didn't intervene, Amelia's mother spoke up, "why don't you tell us what Amelia managed to win, darling."

"I suppose that would lead us to the next issue we gotta go over," her father said with a sigh, "because the sorry little ingrate did manage to win something."

"Well, what did she win?" her mother finally asked, trying to end the current situation as quickly as she possibly could.

He looked at the letter again and spoke, "Mr. and Mrs. Earhart, we are writing to inform you that your daughter, Amelia, has acquired one of the top spots in our annual national mathematics and physics contest. As a reward for your daughter's achievement, we have arranged for her to have to unique opportunity to have an in-depth personal conversation with an airplane pilot at the Iowa State Fair, near where you live."

Amelia's mother smiled, "that's wonderful news to hear! Amelia, you did a very good job."

"Thank you mother," Amelia replied politely, "It's a good thing you were already going to be taking us to the state fair, isn't it, father?"

Her father shook his head, "I guess that is one way to look at it. However, I will have to teach you how to impress this pilot when we get the chance to meet him."

"Now, now dear," her mother spoke up, "let's not get bogged down in the details of how Amelia should present herself. Why don't we try to think of how this is going to help Amelia instead?"

"But if I don't start coaching her immediately in the way of how to impress the right people, we'll have to work on damage control if she messes up," her father retorted, "and I firmly believe that while I'm there, I will try to secure that college prize for her."

Her mother shifted, uneasy, "just remember that this is Amelia's big day, not yours dear."

"It will be an equally big day for all of us, I helped get her to this point after all," her father bragged.

"Darling, don't forget we wouldn't be in this situation if Amelia hadn't of done so well in the first place without any of our help," reminded her mother in a rather strict voice for her.

"I gave her plenty of help," her father argued, "She just doesn't realize it yet."

Amelia held her tongue as she noticed her father forcibly inserting himself into her prize. It would do no good to rattle him up over such trivial things now. When the time came, Amelia would find a way to please her father, and be able to speak to that pilot alone. So while Amelia's mother and father talked to each other, and talked at Amelia, Amelia leaned back against the couch with a smirk, and began to plan her means of escape.

The next morning, Amelia was out the door the second her mother granted her permission, and was flying down the simple Iowa street until she reached a wooden fence she jumped over with grace and ease.

Antonio looked up from the cow he was milking and smiled at the girl, "I see you're eager to be here, mi bella."

"My contest results came in yesterday," Amelia began to explain, knowing that out of the two people who cared about them, Antonio cared about them even more than she did, "unfortunately, there was also a letter addressed to my parents, so their intercepted the results before I could get to them."

Antonio grimaced, Amelia had shared with him some stories about the going ons at her house, "how bad was it?"

Amelia shook her head, "not good, that's for sure. Father was most displeased with me."

"Why, because he couldn't understand most of the problems, or because you outdid him in it?" Antonio demanded, picking up his milk pail and leading the way into this house. He didn't particularly care for most of the men he'd encountered in America, and he didn't even need to meet Edwin Earhart in person to know he would not get along with him.

"He is upset because I only placed second overall," Amelia told him with an impish grin and eye roll.

Antonio smiled, "no wonder he is displeased, someone managed to place ahead of you. Clearly you didn't try hard enough!" Antonio teased with a wry grin as he entered the kitchen and looked around with his free hand firmly planted on his hip, "I think we shall spend this afternoon making churros, Amelia."

"Churros?" Amelia asked with a head tilt as she came up behind him, "I've never had a churro before. Are they Italian?"

"They are Spanish, and muy delicious," he answered, setting the milk pail in the sink before dashing around his kitchen gathering various ingredients and mixing bowls.

Amelia watched him with minor fascination, "I've brought along my thinking notebook, to go over with you between churro makings," she offered lightly, knowing that Antonio had been bugging her for days about it.

Antonio turned around from the counter where he was measuring out flour and sugar and offered the girl a small smile, "why don't you sit on the counter and read me your ideas while I make churro dough?"

"Sure, I guess," Amelia replied as she walked over to the counter and discovered a problem she didn't have in her own house. The counters were too high for her to climb on.

Amelia looked around the flawless kitchen for something to climb on when strong yet gentle hands gripped around her waist and lifted her up onto the stone counter. She raised an eyebrow at Antonio.

"Kitchens in Spain are designed to have high counters," he explained flippantly as he stirred the bowl of goo that would soon be dough, "I refused to come to America and not have a kitchen I was used to."

"You sound like a housewife," Amelia muttered as she looked around the kitchen, not willing to admit that she was impressed by the open design and clever use of stone and glass throughout the kitchen. Cabinets with glass windows for door lined the far wall of the kitchen above the stove and half the stone counter space. The other wall that truly made up the kitchen was mostly just counter space, and window space, because Antonio had installed a large long window that stretched from one end of the counter to the corner where the walls met up; various small plants grew in tiny pots lining the sill. In the center of the room, a wooden table with chairs around it is where most of the eating took place, and a formal dining room was behind on of the doors leading out of the kitchen.

"Knowing how to enjoy the things you like in life to the fullest isn't being weak, mi bella," Antonio admonished gently, putting the bowls of sticky dough into the sun to rise, "I enjoy cooking when I feel like it, and I prefer to do it in a place that reminds me of home."

Antonio walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a glass, "now then," he said as he leaned against the counter, "tell me all about your wonderful ideas."

"Now then, you pinch off a bit of the dough like this," Antonio explained as he pulled off a small hunk of dough from the large lump sitting in the bowl, "then you mold it into any shape you like and set it on the plate over here to set."

He looked down at Amelia, who was standing on her tip-toes to see what he was doing. "Mi bella," he said quickly, grabbing a stool from his pantry, "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting that Spanish counters are taller than you are used to."

Amelia stepped up on the stool with a grateful smile, "it's alright. I just pretend I'm actually in Spain, considering I'm pretty much in a real Spanish kitchen."

"That's a good way to look at it," he replied, pushing one of the large bowls of raw churro dough over to her, "now, let's make some churros, mi bella."

"Will you please tell me what 'mi bella' stands for," Amelia asked again as she floured her hands and started pulling pieces of dough from the bowl, determined to make her churros look amazing.

"Mi bella," Antonio began with a slight sigh and a smile, "means 'my beautiful'," he translated, taking Amelia's first flower shaped churro from her and laying it on the plate on his left, "happy now?"

She glanced at him briefly before returning to her churro dough bowl, "Yes. Thank you."

Antonio looked down at her in surprise, and was happily reminded of when he and Romano used to do this, "would you perhaps like to hear some more about Europe? You told me all about your life and ideas, the least I can do is tell you about mine."

Amelia handed him an airplane shaped churro and smiled at him, her eyes glittering, "I'd enjoy that very much. Have you ever been to France? What about England? Or Germany? What about Russia?"

With a laugh, Antonio set the churro on the plate and held up a hand to ward off Amelia's flood of questions, "Mi bella, mi bella, please! One at a time, I can't talk that fast."

"Fine," Amelia said with a smirk, "then start explaining from the top of that list!"

"I happen to have visited France quite a lot in my younger days," Antonio began, automatically putting his hand out for Amelia's next churro, "it is a very beautiful country, very focused on food, and fine wine."

Amelia looked back up at him, her cheek smudged with flour, "Do they really eat snails and frogs?"

With wry smile, Antonio nodded, "and they do so while drinking the finest wine they can find, mi bella."

"That," Amelia started with a shake of her head, "I don't even know what to say to that, Antonio."

"When you aren't sure what to say, mi bella," Spain said gently, his tone sounding very fatherly, "it is better to say nothing at all."

Amelia rolled her gray eyes and tossed a bit a flour at Antonio, shocking him, "Yes dad."

He snorted, and blow the flour on his hands in her face, "Two can play that game Amelia."

With a loud laugh, Amelia returned to making churros, "how is your friend from France, you haven't spoken much of him lately."

"He is doing just fine," Antonio told her, "he is doing much better recently then he has been."

"What happened to him," asked Amelia in an innocently curious voice.

Antonio bit his tongue, "he is still trying to recover from the loss of his beloved; that takes quite a bit of time, mi bella."

"Oh," Amelia said in a small voice, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"It is fine," he told her sternly, but with a large smile, "there is nothing wrong with asking innocent questions. His smile fell, "it has been hard to get him back to the person he used to be."

Amelia looked up at him, face still covered in flour, "were they married very long? They couldn't be, if he's around your age."

Antonio gave her a sad smile and patted her head, "Oh Amelia," he started, "you are so young, and so innocent in the ways of love."

She glared at him, wrinkling her nose and waiting for a response.

"When he met her," Antonio began, very slowly, and thinking very quickly, "it was so obvious that they were meant for each other. She truly was his other half, and he was hers. Everything they did with each other was more beautiful they if they had done it alone. When they walked into the room together, it was filled with love, warmth, and happiness. They," Antonio's voice broke, "they simply radiated the intense feelings they had for each other."

Amelia looked at the floor, "I'm sorry, Antonio. What happened, if I may ask?"

Antonio's hand slipped off the top of Amelia's head, leaving a white streak of flour behind, "she died. Much too young, and in a way much too horrible for me to even consider explaining it to you, mi bella. I refuse to be the one to take away your innocent veil of childhood in such a horrid way."

"Was is expected or," she asked with morbid curiosity, "I'm sorry," she said suddenly, catching the look of torment that crossed Antonio's face, "I shouldn't be asking any of this, it's horribly ill-mannered of me."

"Being able to talk about it," Antonio began as he pulled Amelia into a friendly hug, "helps people to get over it, mi bella." He planted a kiss on the top of her floured head, "do not feel bad, Amelia. You are young, and inexperienced. It is alright." He pulled away and sunk both his hands into the bowl of churro dough he had been working with.

Amelia looked at him, not sure what she should say, or if she should say anything at all.

"My friend," Antonio began, looking at the churro dough, "had warned her that joining the military and fighting was a dangerous thing to do, especially for a woman. She would hear none of it, and her arguments were very persuasive. One day, she went off to battle with the army, and they failed her." He looked out the window, his eyes becoming wet with tears, "she was captured by the enemy soldiers, and her own military commanders would do nothing to try and rescue her."

Amelia covered her mouth with her hand, "Did they kill her?"

Antonio barked out a harsh laugh; Amelia hated the sound of it, "No. Her own soldiers accidently killed her. They didn't realize it was her until it was far too late. She was killed by friendly fire."

"That's horrible!" Amelia said loudly, "how could they not know! What on earth did they tell your friend?"

"We found out," he began again, trying to prevent his mind from going back to the day when Francis had begun to lose his mind, "at the most inconvenient time, because my friend was showing us the ring he just gotten for her when the army showed up and gave us what they took off of her body before they buried it."

"They weren't married yet?" Amelia asked in horror, "and they were already that in love with each other?"

Antonio smiled through his tears, remembering that this was Amelia he was talking to. Sweet little ten year old Amelia, not Francis or Gilbert. He laughed, "Oh mi bella," he snorted and messed Amelia's hair up as he rubbed the top of her head, "you always remind me at the perfect time just how young you really are."

Amelia stuck her tongue out at him and went back to handed him her completed churro shapes, "can I ask what you told him to calm him down?"

He set her churros on the plate and looked at her, "mi bella, there is no calming someone down who has lost their other half. It was all we could do to keep from doing out and searching for idiots who let her be killed."

"Nothing you said could comfort him?" Amelia asked, raising an eyebrow, "I find that hard to believe. There's always something you can say to calm someone down if you try hard enough to find it."

Antonio gave her a wry smile, and took her last oddly shaped churro from her, "Let us not talk about such depressing things any longer, mi bella. It's time to fry some churros."

Amelia jumped off the stool with a smile and looked at the pot of heating oil on the stove, "How long do the churros need to be fried for?"

"Until they are done," he answered with a shrug, taking the two heaping plates of churros closer to the stove, "Now," he said in a business like voice, placing his hands firmly on his hips, "I want you to wait out in the living room until I know how the oil is going to react. We wouldn't want to have to explain to your parents that you got hot oil on you trying to make churros."

With a laugh, Amelia obligingly walked out of the kitchen and into Antonio's living room, filled with books and smells Amelia could only guess were native to Spain. She walked to the wall with several full bookcases and scanned the bindings of the books she could see. Most of the titles were in a language she didn't understand, and Amelia guessed that they were either in Spanish or Italian. Antonio had made it clear that he was fluent in both by now. However, Amelia stopped when she got to a section of books that were in a language she did understand to a point; French. She pulled on of the thin, hard leather bound books off the shelve and ran her fingers delicately over the gilded surface, marveling in how smooth the cover felt compared to the books that had lived at her grandparent's house. She let the book fall open, and found herself smiling in glee when she realized that the book had beautifully done color pictures in it. From the few French words she was able to make out, Amelia realized that she was reading a book of French fairy tales, and sat down on the floor to try to figure out which fairy tale she was reading. After all, she figured, if she knew the fairy tales in English, how hard could it be to figure out what the fairy tale was saying in French?

Antonio's phone rang, and Amelia looked up and through the kitchen door, where she could see Antonio busily stirring the frying churros, singing an old Spanish marigold she reconized from school. As the phone continued to ring, Amelia decided that it would be the adult thing for her to answer the phone, and take a message for Antonio. After all, he was making a whole bunch of churros for her. Standing up and carefully marking her page with the blue ribbon bookmark, Amelia walked over to the strange looking phone and picked it up.

"Hello?" she answered in the most adult voice she could muster.

Romano looked at the receiver in his hand in confusion, "I thought I called the bastard's house."

"Excuse me?" Amelia asked loudly in confusion, hoping that her voice would signal to Antonio that she needed some help, "I'm not sure if you have the right number."

"I know I have the write number, I think you have the wrong house!" Romano said bluntly, checking the number he had figured out to be sure he had actually dialed it. He had. "What are you doing there in the first place? Put the bastard on the phone."

"The bastard you are referring to," Amelia said loudly, causing Antonio to look at her from the kitchen in horror, "is currently unavailable. Would you like to leave a message, and he'll call you back at his earliest convenience?"

"Amelia! What on earth are you doing in there?" Antonio asked loudly, not able to leave the stove for fear the house would burn down, or worse, the churros would burn, "watch your language young lady!"

Romano nodded, an evil grin on his face. He had figured out the number for Spain's now. Now he just needed to figure out what country he was in, "I hear him. Now put him on the phone like a good little girl," Romano demanded in a slightly less incensed voice, trying to be persuasive. He failed. Horribly.

Amelia looked at Spain and looked back at the phone, "I just informed you that the man you wish to talk to is busy. Leave a message, or hang up please."

"Excuse me?" Romano cried into the receiver, "You put Spain on the phone right now you little witch, or so help me I'll throw a tomato at you!"

Amelia's forehead wrinkled in confusion, "you're trying to call someone who lives in Spain?"

"No, I'm trying to call Spain!" Romano said, "Now stop stalling and hand him the phone."

"He's up to his elbows in grease right now," Amelia explained, rolling with whatever the crazy man was saying, "Leave a message at the tone. Beep."

Romano rolled his eyes, this girl was a smartass, "what is he doing with Greece!"

"Cooking with it," Amelia replied, deciding that whomever was on the other end of the phone didn't have all his marbles, "what else do you do with grease?"

"That's not important," Romano said with a wave of his hand, "give him the phone."

Amelia sighed and put her other hand on her hip, "I already told you, the man you're trying to reach is busy. Furthermore, you tried to call someone in Spain. You didn't even call the right country. Now, please tell me who you're calling, or I will be forced to hang up on you."

"I already told you," Romano said loudly, "I'm trying to call Spain, now hand over the phone."

With a mighty eye roll Amelia answered, "Well, I'm sorry to inform you sir, but you called America, not Spain. So please, go bother somebody else." She dropped the phone on its stand and looked at Antonio's questioning face from the kitchen, "just someone who called the wrong country," she explained.

Antonio looked at her in confusion, "what do you mean they called the wrong country, mi bella?"

Amelia walked over and stood by the kitchen door, keeping well away from the hot oil and Antonio, "he said he was trying to talk to someone in Spain, but instead he called here."

Antonio's face paled, but he brushed it off by pulling the last of the fried churros out of the oil setting them on the plate of crispy churros, "are you ready to put the final touches on them?"

Amelia smiled, and pushed her stool back over to where they were working on the counter, "yes!"

After several minutes of powdered cinnamon flying through the air, Antonio and Amelia could finally look at the plate of cinnamon covered goodness they had spent all afternoon making. Antonio grabbed them both glasses of milk, and for several minutes, nothing was heard but the sound of churros being dunked in milk, and sneezing from all the extra cinnamon still floating in the air. Amelia stirred her milk thoughtfully with one of Antonio's traditionally shaped churros.

"Yes, mi bella," Antonio prompted with a sly grin, "What are you thinking about now."

"Your friend," she admitted before taking a bite of her milk drenched churro, "what did you tell him that finally calmed him down?"

Antonio looked at her, then took a large bite of one of her strangle shaped churros to buy some time, "well," he said slowly, I just told him an old Spanish story I'd grown up hearing, and it sort of just shocked him out of his pain for a bit."

Amelia looked at him, "so you really didn't find any way to make him feel better?"

He shook his head sadly, "When you lose something that special to you, mi bella, there truly is no way to overcome the loose."

"What was the story," Amelia asked in a small voice, curiosity tinting her tone. She gripped her glass of milk in both her hands and looked at Antonio, waiting for him to reply.

Antonio looked at her, trying to figure out how something so small could have so many big questions, with a resigned sigh, he leaned back in his chair and began to tell her the story.

"It has been told in my country," he began, "for as long as we have been able to tell, that once, all the countries of the world were actually personified by actually people.

"They walked around liked normal humans, had dreams like normal humans, even interacted with normal humans, but they were immortal beings, who had no true earthly needs. One thing they discovered though, was that all of them had some aspect of humanity within them, giving them the ability to connect to the people they represented. Every year, they would get to together in a different country and discuss ways to make the world a better place for the people they cared for. Within the organization of the countries, there was a select few countries, those that had been around longer, or had shown themselves to demonstrate a unique trait that was useful to keeping the other personification in control with each other. This group of countries came up with a set of rules that all personifications had to follow. Now, unlike most rule books, these rules were not designed to prevent the countries from doing anything fun. The rules were actually designed to protect humans from the countries. The most important rule, was that no country call fall in love with a mortal, unless they wish the mortal to suffer a horrible death."

Amelia stopped him, "what kind of horrible death?"

Antonio looked at her, he was beginning to get used to the strange sort of questions Amelia had no problem asking him, "the kind of death that people refuse to talk about. Death so horrible, that only completely evil people should be forced to suffer it." He watched Amelia's face whited and grow a bit tighter, still, he continued on with his story.

"Now, as time went on, it became harder for some of the countries to keep from growing close to some of their subjects, and a few of the countries did break the rule about love. When it was discovered that they did, the proceedings of the next world meeting were changed. All the countries except the guilty one were told to arrive a day early, and were filled in on the situation. Countries that were suspected to be in league with the guilty country were told to start preparing a defense, because they could be in just as much trouble as the guilty country. However," Antonio began with a strained smile, "the country that had informed the board of the broken rule was not announced yet."

"Why not," Amelia couldn't help but ask, fascinated by the story. "Was is to protect them or?"

He nodded, "to hand over a fellow country to the board was seen as a very stooly thing to do. It tended to ruin friendships between the countries."

Amelia frowned, "then why would they bother to rat them out in the first place?"

"The humans always died, Amelia," Antonio explained patiently, "the countries always thought they were doing the rest of the human race a favor by making an example out of their friend if they had too.

"Now, when the guilty country arrived at the meeting, he would be escorted to the meeting immediately, and told of his charges. At that time, the country that raised the allegations in the first place would be relieved, and if he was one of the board members, he would step down, and someone else would take his place. Most of the time, the allegations went nowhere, and it was a case of a simple misunderstanding. Countries being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and trying too hard to protect their citizens. But when it would found that a country did break the rule, they were banned from the meeting whatever length of time was deemed necessary." Antonio paused, waiting for Amelia to ask more questions.

"So most of the time, none of the countries got in any trouble?" Amelia asked, trying to keep the story straight in her head.

Antonio nodded, and picked up another churro, "it was a very rare thing for a country to fall in love with mortal, Amelia. You understand why, don't you?"

She looked at him and raised an eyebrow, something Antonio was deciding she did only when she thought the question was stupid, "if the countries were immortal, they'd have to watch all the humans around them die."

"Very good," he praised, "some people would not have been able to answer that," he smiled at Amelia's amazed face, "some people truly lack common sense and basic logic, mi bella."

"Antonio," she asked suddenly, as if a thought had suddenly come to her, "what countries did actually get in trouble?"

"The first country to get in trouble was England," he told her, "it shocked most of the other countries, and caused a bit of a problem when they realized that the board really didn't have a way to punish the rule breakers. However, England was such a young country at the time, it wasn't very safe for him to be banned from meetings very long. The story tells us that England was banned from the meetings for three years, and was forced to live with his brothers until he learned some responsibility, or his monarchy claimed him back."

"How long did it take for England to leave his brothers' house?"

"Queen Elizabeth demanded him back before she even became queen, and I'm truly not very certain how long England was forced to stay away from his rulers. I don't think it was very long. He was quite the explorer after all, and they didn't want to lose any naval battles with Spain or France," he recited to Amelia, "now, the next country to break the rule was France. It really was quite a shock to everyone, because while France is rumored to be the country of love, it seems that the personification did not believe is giving his love to just anybody. He saved his love for the one person who could complete him, and when he finally found that person, he saw the world in a whole different light. Suddenly life wasn't so bad. He knew that they would one day be separated, but as long as it was after a long and happy life on the human's part, he was content with that, as was his love."

Amelia looked at him, a strange look on her face, "how was this story supposed to comfort your friend again?"

Patiently, Antonio began with a sigh, "by telling him that his true love was to loyal to her country. It is a wonderful thing to be loyal to your country, but at some point, it is going to kill you. I told it to him in an effort to make him see that this truly wasn't just a random death. Death then saved her from a more terrible death later."

"Antonio," Amelia began, nodding her head gently, "that is possibly the worst way to comfort someone in the history of worst ways to comfort someone."

With a laugh, Antonio pointed to his nose, "he punched me right here for telling him the story, so I think he might have agreed with you mi bella."

She drew on the table top with her finger, "so no other country has fallen in love with a mortal since France?"

"No," he replied with a shake of his head, his gaze suddenly becoming riveted to the window. "Amelia, when you do need to be home."

"5 o'clock for supper," she answered, "same as always."

Antonio looked at her, a stressed and thin smile on his face, "it is dark outside."

Amelia looked at him for a moment before reluctantly forcing herself to turn her head to look out the black window, "my father is going to kill me."

"Nonsense," Antonio replied, standing up and picking up a plate of churros, "I will walk you home, and I will explain to your father why you are late."

She watched him pour the plate of churros into a brown paper bag, trying to think of some reason in her head why Antonio couldn't come home with her. She didn't want her father to meet him. Amelia wanted to keep Antonio and his wonderful listening ears all to herself. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," she protested weakly.

Antonio looked at her and rolled his green eyes, "Amelia, it is dark. It would be absolutely English of me to force you to walk home in the dark, to a father who is going to be livid at you. I must insist upon walking you home."

Amelia couldn't prevent the smile that spread on her face, "my father might like it if you acted more English," she informed him, "he's very proud that one of our ancestors is cited with starting the American Revolution because he came up with the idea to tax tea in the first place."

"Oh really," Antonio said in a distracted voice, "I'll have to tell that to a friend of mine, he's an American historian, and I'm not sure if he knew that. Now, mi bella, let us walk to your home, where we shall placate your father with our delicious churros!"

"Give it your best shot Spaniard," Amelia joked, "and don't let my father sink your armada."

When Antonio and Amelia reached the formers house, the lights in the front of the house were blazing, and Amelia grabbed Antonio's hand for comfort. He squeezed it, and led them up to the door, where he knocked firmly and waited for the door to be opened. Amelia's father opened the door, a frown etched deep on his face.

Antonio smiled disarmingly at him, slipped his hands away from Amelia's, and held it out to her father, "Antonio Carriedo."

Amelia's father obviously looked him up and down before holding out his own hand stiffly, "Edwin Earhart. I assume you are here to explain why my daughter was not present at supper this evening, and perhaps, why she was with you at all."

"Of course, Mr. Earhart," Antonio replied smoothly, gently pushing Amelia inside the house, "why don't we sit down and talk this over with some churros."

"Churros?" Edwin demanded, pulling Amelia farther inside the house by her shoulder.

Antonio held up the brown paper bag, "your daughter and I made them this afternoon, would you like some?"

After Antonio had left after explaining the situation to Amelia's tight lipped father, Amelia sat in on of the straight backed chairs as her father sat behind his wood desk, her mother sitting next to her, a grave look on her face.

"Have you any idea what kind of impression you've left me with this evening," her father asked gravely, turning on his heel and planted his wide hands on his desk, "do you have any idea what kind of impression you've given the neighbors?"

"No father," Amelia answered softly, not sure what her father was getting at.

He pushed himself away from his desk and went to his large glass doored cabinet, where various bottles of different colored liquid were stored, he opened the one side up, and looked through the bottles for something special, "you have given off the impression that you are not a lady, Amelia. A lady does not stay out all hours of the day at a strange man's house and turn up after dark at her parents' house. A lady does not allow herself to become so distracted, she forgets where she is supposed to be. A lady-" he stopped, and grabbed a random square bottle from the shelf, and a glass from the bottom, "a lady," he began in a softer voice, "does not allow herself to become so fascinated by a man that she forgets her duty to her family."

Edwin poured the small glass half full, and sat down at his desk heavily, looking at Amelia intently, "have you begun to prepare at all for the fair?"

"YEs, father," Amelia answered truthfully, thankful that Antonio had insisted on listening to all her ideas early that day, "I was practicing with Antonio this afternoon."

Her father frowned as he took a sip of his liquor, "I see. Well, I suppose that he has enough brain cells to be able to tell you when an idea is horrid." He looked deeply into his drink before asking, "And what have you come up with. The fair is in two weeks, and I don't believe that you are truly preparing for it at all if all you've done is talk it over with Mr. Carriedo."

Amelia squirmed in her seat, knowing that she really couldn't tell her father everything she and Antonio had talked about. He wouldn't approve of the nation story Antonio had told her, and he certainly would not approve of the way Amelia had asked nonstop questions all day. "I mostly talking some of my ideas over with him," she answered vaguely, "about what kinds of questions to ask the pilot, and what ideas I could tell him."

"Excuse me?" her father interrupted loudly, "you want to tell the pilot some of your ideas? Is that really what I just heard you say?"

"I'm certain," Amelia's mother answered quickly, not giving Amelia any time to get snippy with her father, "that Amelia simply misspoke, and was trying to say that she and Mr. Carriedo were simply talking over ideas of what type of question Amelia should be asking the pilot."

Amelia reconized that tone of voice, it was the 'agree with me if you want to get out of this situation' voice, and Amelia knew she really had no choice but to go along with it. "Of course, mother."

Her father nodded approving, and set his drink down on his desk, "I thought for a second there that you were actually intending to badger the busy pilot with some of your own silly ideas. I'm pleased to discover that I am wrong in that assumption. I will not tolerate any of your usual childish ideas or behaviors during such an important adult situation you've managed to get yourself messed up in, Amelia."

Out of sight of her husband, Amelia's mother placed carefully her hand on her daughter's knee and squeezed, the only comforting gesture she could give her daughter, who looked torn between the desire to stand up for herself or cry.

Amelia looked at the floor, refusing to meet the eyes of someone who was

So blind to the outside world, yet who totally ruled her world. "I understand, father."

"No Amelia," he retorted in a cold, low voice, "I don't think you do understand. It is time for you to remember your place in the world, young lady. You have done well thus far, I admit, placing second in that contest. You really blew the typical gender role out of the water by placing at all."

"Thank you," replied Amelia automatically, knowing that her father was only saying any of this too her because he was practicing in his head how he was going to twist the situation to suit his own selfish needs.

Her father sighed and stared down his nose at her before turning on her mother, "Amy, will you please get involved in this situation. Why do I have to do everything around, and be the one that lectures the children on what they're doing wrong? You're the mother, act like it!"

Amy glared at her husband before looking at Amelia, "Amelia, what your father is trying to say it that when you go to the fair, you are going to be judge while you're there. As of right now, your father doesn't believe that you will give everyone the right impression of you, which of course is that you are a proper young lady with an extraordinary amount of intelligence that many of our gender do not possess, or are unwilling to use it."

Amelia struggled to keep from rolling her eyes, "Why would they judge me for anything, mother? I have done nothing wrong, nor do I intend to do anything to give them reason to judge me."

"You're the young woman who managed to secure the second highest score in a combination of three countries during a math contest," her mother reminded her gently, referring to the infamous letter that had been received in the mail not even 24 hours ago and was already causing so much grief in their lives, "many people would not agree with the decision to allow you to compete, much less reward you for your achievement. You must understand that just because you have been given more freedom then most women, does not prevent you from being bound by the restrictions places upon all women."

"Mother, it is 1908, when are people going to understand that woman aren't mindless sheep who do whatever they're told!" Amelia argued hotly, not willing to hear that she shouldn't have been allowed to even try in something that her parents were supposed to be proud of, "There's nothing wrong with me going to the fair and acting like myself, and there was nothing wrong with me participating in the contest either! Why on earth does anything think that I shouldn't have be allowed to receive the prize that I earned? Would it have been better for me to not enter at all, and sit here wondering what I could have done if I'd given myself the chance?" Amelia screeched, the hold on her emotions slipping away as she got more and more worked up. It just wasn't fair that she was being punished for something she had done right!

"Amelia!" her father snapped sharply smacking his hand on his desk, "you forget yourself. You are an Earhart. You are a lady. You will act like a proper lady when you go to this fair, or so help me I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

Amelia glared at her father, not caring that it caused him to puff up and turn red as he began to form the nasty words in his mouth.

Amy spoke up hurriedly, trying to prevent the yelling, "I think it's time Amelia was getting to bed, Edwin. She does need her beauty sleep after all, to get her looking like a lady for the fair."

Her father waved off the suggestion, but Amy had succeeded in getting Edwin to calm down long enough to no longer look like a snake ready to bite his own daughter, "Are you aware that you will be the only winning contest at the fair Amelia.

"Yes, father," Amelia replied in a low voice, knowing that she had lost the battle before it even started. Although, she was grateful for her mother's quick thinking, even if it circled back to her acting like a proper lady all over again.

"I will be doing everything I can to make sure that you are placed in a position that makes you look like that unknown top contestant," her father informed in his lawyer voice, "you will be receiving that free schooling at a college of my choice, I don't care what that letter said."

Amelia couldn't help herself from answering him back, "I believe that letter said I got to pick the college, not you, father. I might be wrong though, please correct me if I am."

Amy tightened her grasp on Amelia's knee, knowing that while Amelia was trying to keep from poking at her father's buttons, she was doing a very good job of jumping up and down on his last nerve.

Edwin poked his finger at Amelia's face, "if you ever contradict me like that again," he stopped and breathed deeply, "that is the kind of childish behavior that needs to stop before you go and talk with the pilot, young lady. And I swear on everything that is holy, if I see even a glimmer of this kind of behavior ever again, especially at the fair, you're going to wish that you were back at your grandparents with what I'm going to do to you."

"Stop," Amelia's mother demanded loudly, "Edwin, that was uncalled for. How dare you try to use your lawyer tactics on your own daughter. She achieved something great, and all you've done is berate her for it and made her feel guilty. Knock it off. Amelia, go to bed."

Amelia looked at her mother in awe before her father barked at her, "well, you heard your mother! Go to bed, right now!"

Jumping up from her chair, Amelia managed to give her mother a grateful look before heading up the stairs, trying desperately to get to the top before her parent's arguing voices floated up behind her. In a vain effort to keep the voices out of her room, Amelia locked her door behind her and made sure it was firmly closed. Unfortunately, she couldn't keep the voices out of her head.