Hey everyone, thanks for the reviews! So glad you didn't mind chapter seven. I want to dedicate this chapter to my buddy Celestial Starlight, who's been amazingly attentive to my non-action-packed fic. Chapter eight's really choppy, so I'd love any tips you've got on making it flow better. Hope you enjoy!


Chapter Eight: Truth

"How are you feeling?"

I looked up from the tattered old book I was reading to see the prince standing in the doorway. "Better, I thank you, your highness," I said respectfully, but not kindly. "Please, come in."

He stepped inside and sat on the chair next to the bed.

"I have heard much of your kindness," I began after a moment, "and I owe you many thanks."

The prince flushed slightly. "It was nothing," he muttered.

There was a silence.

"How did you learn of my being ill in the first place, your highness?" I asked, annoyed that I would have to be the one to make conversation.

"How could I not notice when some ugly old woman brought me my tea instead of you?"

It was my turn to go red in the face. Of course. What a stupid question, Cécile, I scolded myself.

"Well, I am glad to hear you're feeling better," he said briskly, "but I have work to do."

"Of course, your highness," I said, reprimanding myself again for wasting his time. "And thank you again."

He nodded and left.

I exhaled slowly and loudly. That had been awkward indeed.


"Any better today?"

Not the prince again. I contained a sigh as I put my book down next to me. It was one I'd had since I was thirteen, so he wasn't really interrupting me, but hadn't our last meeting provided enough discomfort for awhile?

"About the same, your highness," I said. "Won't you sit down?" I asked politely, gesturing halfheartedly toward the chair next to my bed.

He took the seat. I studied him for a moment. He looked different. He was still pale and thin but there was something about him that was out of the ordinary. After a moment, I realized what it was. He seemed to have--yes, that was it--a new kind of determination about him, which surprised me. I had expected his usual weariness.

He ran a hand through his dark hair idly and then picked up my book. "Don Quixote," he said, nodding appreciatively. "I love this book. Is it the first time you've read it?"

"Oh no, sire," I replied. "I've probably read it a hundred times by now." I laughed lightly.

"Well, if you--I mean, you could always, well, borrow some from the royal library," he stammered. "I'd be happy to get you a few."

Like I needed any more of his charity! "Thank you, your highness, but I wouldn't dream of--"

"Nonsense, I'll bring you something tomorrow," he said with a slight awkwardness.

"I would like that very much, sire," I told him blandly, giving up.

He gave a slight frown and looked away from me.

Now I'd upset him. "I haven't read a new book in years, that would be lovely," I said as happily as I could manage.

He smiled. Not his usual arrogant smirk, just a friendly (if a little timid) smile. I didn't know if I'd ever seen the expression on his face, in all the years I had known him. "Good, I'll bring you something new tomorrow. But you are not well, I can tell that much, I shall leave you now."

Finally, I thought.


The prince kept his word; the next day he brought me a book just after lunchtime.

"I know you liked Don Quixote," he said, "so I think you'll like this. It's by Scarron, it's very funny." I thanked him and he went on. "How are you feeling?" he asked me, as was always his custom to ask, multiple times a day.

"Still not very well, I'm afraid, your highness," I replied quietly. "I still have a fever and Élisabeth says I must keep to my bed a week or two yet." And I suffer most of all during your visits, I thought.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," the prince said. "You must not get up until you are quite sure you are completely recovered."

"That is very generous of you, your highness," I said, embarrassed of my own disrespectfulness. He was being so kind to me, what right had I to question and scorn?

"It is my responsibility," he said, then added, with a pink tinge in his pale cheeks, "and my pleasure."

I was puzzled again. As he left the room, I thought about how repulsive a person I had always found him. He had been selfish and completely unfeeling. Now he was making such obvious efforts to act kindly and gentlemanly. What had happened to the childish prince in the drawing room, bickering over a servant girl's wages and arguing with a mere maid? What could have affected such a change in him?

And why? We were always arguing, and now suddenly he cared about what happened to me? He had, on numerous occasions, asserted quite clearly that I was nothing but another subject. Then why was he giving me this special treatment?

Over the next few weeks, I ravenously read the Scarron, and two or three others he brought me. We discussed them when he visited--I was surprised to find him a very thoughtful companion. He truly understood what was going on in the books, more than just the plot. I had never had anyone like that, except maybe Papa.

Not only was I was getting stronger, but the prince's health seemed to be improving as well. With each passing day I saw his dark circles lifting, the immature tone in his voice disappearing, and his dark eyes gaining some life. His face was still chiseled but not quite so gaunt; his skin retained its natural fairness but lost the sallow tinge. He smiled more and more, we laughed over the books and spoke gaily of times gone by.

And yet I could not quite forget the way he had been before, wondering whether the people of the kingdom were still starving. I wanted to be his friend, but was I betraying my family and fellow servants?


"Madamoiselle Pierpont," he said softly one day, "how did you become so ill in the first place?"

I hesitated. I knew, no matter how much I hated her, that I could not betray the fact that Madame Langlois had sent me into the rain. "I think," I began carefully, "that all the stresses of the past year were just building up, and then on the way home from town, I got caught in that horrible storm."

He nodded. "I know exactly what you mean. I, well, I was deeply affected by my father's death, and what with the debts, and the poor harvest, it all just…"

He looked up at me with dead, hopeless eyes. I smiled reassuringly at him. "It has been hard on all of us," I said.


"Your highness, I have a confession to make," I said the next day. No, stop, Cécile! I told myself urgently, but I still went on.

"A confession?"

I sighed, looking away from him. "I did not speak the truth about how I became ill. I did not get caught in the storm, I was in fact…sent out into it." I took a deep breath and told him the story of Margaux's and my punishment from Madame Langlois.

He shook his head stubbornly at the end of it. "I simply cannot believe that," he said. "Madame Langlois would do no such thing. She is far too prudent."

"Your highness, Madame Langlois may be a prudent housekeeper," I said, my voice sounding stronger than I felt, "but I cannot call her a kind woman. The servants are terrified of her, she gives out cruel punishments for minor infractions. We scarcely get two meals a day, we are paid even less than you think--"

He held up a hand, his face set. "Stop, Mademoiselle."

"No, sire, I will not," I said loudly. "Your servants are suffering, and you're too cowardly to do anything about it!"

He stood up. "Madame Langlois," he said, with a quiver in his voice, "is a faithful and sensible woman who knows better than to treat my servants this way."

I glared stubbornly at him as he left the room, vowing to prove that I was right.


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