Grace did not seem at all tired for having spent the night riding; rather she was as fresh as anything, her beautiful face flushed with the crisp night air. Her braids were barely loose, so all thoughts of potential gossip were crushed with that. She put the horse away and hid her boots back among the bushes. I watched her from the lawn, the only witness to whatever she had done. Whatever she did. Bernard had suggested more. But she did not look frightened, nervous, or bashful. Her face was firm and haughty. According to her face, nothing had changed but a dose of fresh country air. As casual as anything she tiptoed back into the house and up the stairs. I followed her.

Grace kept a room all to herself. It was smaller than Christine's space, but infinitely more luxurious. An ornate mirror, a fireplace, pillows and bedspreads to comfort a village. I was not a spy by nature, but I couldn't help but peak around as she hopped back into her bed for another hour of snoozing. Nothing.

Perhaps she only fancied late-night rides and I was desperate for something to do. Cursing to myself, I left the room.

Christine was already up and making breakfast, singing to herself about nothing in particular—amazing how lovely nonsense words could sound. I watched her from the doorway as she busied herself about the kitchen with a herbs and a steaming pot of oatmeal. She could cook, I had to give her that. Cooking had never been a talent of mine. I had never pursued it. It was servants' work and pointless to me. Though it did look fascinating. She looked happy as she cooked, one of the happiest moods she could possibly have in that house. It was almost the way she acted outside. She fascinated me. It was beyond me how anyone could go through the moods she did.

"Angel," Christine said with still a lilt of her song though she did not even glance at me. "Fawn. So glad to see you out and about. I missed you last night."

I smiled and stepped into the kitchen. The smell from the oatmeal was overwhelming. I would have to sample some. "As an angel I have duties that you cannot comprehend, duties that do not include you." It was a lie, but then again I could probably justify it into a semblance of the truth, truth that included Wyatt.

"So you're not just here to guard me, then." She sprinkled salt into the palm of her hand, peered at it, then tossed it into the oatmeal that she quickly began to stir.

"No."

"Mm." She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of the food. "Now this is something of which I am proud. Do angels eat food?"

"We don't need to do, but we can. And that stuff has been calling to me ever since I first smelt it. Would I be allowed a taste?"

She shrugged and winked at me. "I'm sure you would insist on your way even if I said no. Here. You can be my taster. Just be kind. I do not dare imagine the kind of food you must have experienced."

The food of the royal table and not much else of the elite. I took the spoon she offered and dug into the oatmeal. It was thick with a whirlwind of spices. "Mm." I licked the spoon generously. "Intense, but I like it."

"I like things intense. Is there anything else you think it needs?" She studied my face, expecting an honest answer. Like a heaven-sent angel would have that discernment and knowledge of cooking.

A small and senseless urge to panic did arise, but I found myself answering with a laugh. "I come here to help you and all you want is cooking advice? It's been years since…" I caught myself just in time. Christine did not need to know about my prior life of fine royal dining and the intricacies of cooking I had tasted—not that I had never much cared for them. I really did not have the tongue. "I don't know anything about food. Sorry."

Christine helped herself to the oatmeal. "What do you mean you don't know anything about food? You may not need to eat but you still must eat on occasion. All you have to know is what you like. Is there anything you think would make this stuff taste better?"

"I don't know anything about combining flavors." Back when I was alive, I had eaten whatever the cooks had set in front of me.

She rolled her eyes. "Angels. Fawn, it is very clear to me that you need to spend more time around mortals."

I smiled and took a finger-scoop of oatmeal that had dripped on the pot's outer edge. "That's all I do, Christine. And you happen to be my current mortal."

"Lucky me. Well, if you have no desire to help me make breakfast, then I shall set this to warming. Their Majesties won't be up for a short time anyway and I plan to use that to my advantage."

"Their Majesties?"

She grinned and made a show of fixing her hair, probably with much more gusto than Grace or Amelia would ever think. "My name for them. Cruel, isn't it? But I hate them so I figure they deserve it. If they want to think they are royal, I will let them and I will make fun of them behind their ugly little backs."

"You are the cruel one." But it was funny. "Actions like that won't get you into heaven."

This time the hair shake was pure Christine. "I don't care about heaven right now. If God knows me he will make up his mind and I won't argue either way. Once again, they deserve it."
I laughed again. And it hit me. For so much of my life I had admired a few types of people. Christine fit one of those types, someone brazen and bold enough to speak her mind while I was cowering behind a book. Outgoing. Fire and light. The type of person it would have been fun to be.

"What?" she demanded. "If you think this is all funny you are not the kind of angel I would have imagined."

"And who would you have imagined?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know." She made her way to the cupboard for bowls. "Someone who was more of a stick in the mud."

Fortunately that was a term that had never been given to me. Quite the opposite in my later years. "I guess we're a good match, then."

She froze, one hand on a bowl. Then she smiled at me. "Yes, I guess you're right. I don't mind that at all. Fawn, I know you are a very strange angel who has come to offer me your assistance, but it's been very rare lately that I get to speak my mind to someone. And since you're an angel I'm not going to care about being bashful. I never had many friends besides my father when I was a girl, and then I was saddled with Grace and Amelia as stepsisters and I think you can guess how much I despise them. If we are going to be a good match I am thrilled for it. I have decided that you are going to be my friend."

For a moment that shy little girl returned, and she wasn't used to that. "Really?"

"Uhhuh. But you will also be doing things for me. So I'm sorry to say that it may be a somewhat one-sided friendship."

"A friendship is a friendship," I replied, "And I already told you that I am here to serve you with whatever you need."

The bowls, cups, and silverware were stacked in arms like a precarious statue that she was probably going to drop if she wasn't careful. But she beamed at me over the disaster. "I appreciate that." The words were kind, but darn it all if I didn't sense a hidden motive. Apparently Christine already had a task for me. "Come help me set the table." And I was sure it was more than that.

"All right," I said. "But I'm not going to use my magic."

"Magic," she echoed. "I like that word."

I had never used it before. It had just slipped out.

"And I don't care if you don't use it," she continued as she skillfully slid bowls to their proper seats. "Just make the table look nice."

It was amazing how simple was something like setting a table.

"No one is up yet," I replied when we were through. "Though Grace barely came in." Had I been right to say that? If Christine and I were now friends a little gossip between us would be all right—if Grace had done something more interesting than take off with a horse. I could not think of anyway anyone would be hurt by this.

"Grace came in from where?" Christine was heading back into the kitchen.

"I was hoping you knew. You're around this house enough."

"Don't remind me."

I quickly explained what I had seen, and Christine listened like it was the greatest story every told. "What do you think?" I asked.

"I think she has a lover," she replied without hesitation. "Though I can't imagine what idiot would be able to put up with her. Whoever he is, he should shoot himself for doing something so stupid."

"A lover?" I supposed it was as good an answer as any.

"Why not?" She settled down and took out a book. It was different from the one she had read the other night. "It's exciting and almost romantic for her. The only thing that would be more exciting would be if Grace was a mercenary for hire and I highly doubt that."

I sat down next to her. It was fun, sitting on the floor with my knees bent in front of me. "So you've already decided her entire situation."

"After the initial novelty I really could care less. Now I don't mean to be rude but I would love to get past a few pages before they all awake."

"What are you reading?"

She showed me the cover. "A History of Tamenrook. My father brought it back on one of his travels. He liked the history of other countries."

I closed my eyes. I felt sick.

Christine noticed and shut the book with a thud. "Fawn? Are you all right?"

I nodded and forced my eyes open. "I'm fine. I… Memories. All sorts of memories." I was tempted to say more, but it wasn't her business. I was supposed to be here for her. I was not to weigh her down with my problems and my life.

"Have you ever visited this place? According to this the kingdom has the most atrocious weather." She looked wistful. "Which isn't a bad thing. There are times when I would kill for a good storm. There is nothing more exciting than a thunderstorm."

That was true. I remembered hiding under the windows during storms, counting the flashes that lit up the glass as I trembled in excitement. "I've been there. I get to go anywhere I want."

She gave a tiny, sad laugh and reopened her book. "I wish I had that."

"Why don't you just leave?" I asked.

"And do what? I'm cute, I'm charming, and no one was ever asked me marry me. There is only one occupation that would suit that situation and my father would rise from his grave and haunt me if I ever chose it."

I caught her meaning immediately and doubled over in a fit of giggles.

"A laughing angel," Christine said dryly. "I did not think I would ever see such a sight."

"Sorry." I fought for my composure and succeeded, for the most part. "But it's a fact that every woman, seriously or nonseriously, has at some point considered the career of a whore."

"Every interesting woman," she corrected.

"True," I admitted. "The boring ones would never."

"You are a very unlikely angel."

"Thank-you." I still was not sure how an angel was supposed to act.

She slammed the book shut once more.

I pulled it from her and flipped it open. "You are clearly not interested in reading that thing, are you?"

"No," she replied. "I have another idea. You're not the pathetic angel of so many beliefs, so I'm going to put you to work on something else."

"I can hardly wait." I skimmed the book's pages, unsure for what I was looking. It was a fairly basic history, things I had been taught all my life. It was old. My family's life was not included. No murder cases of princesses.

From the same little hiding place she had pulled out parchment, ink, and a quill. It was like a mouse's horde. I could hear her scribbling while I let more dusty memories of tutors and schooling and books wash over me. And finally her writing was done. I could hear the blowing and the dusting of the ink.

"There." She pushed the parchment a few inches from her and gazed at it in fond admiration. "My first letter in years. Isn't it lovely?"

Her handwriting was atrocious and ink was blotted everywhere, but I smiled and nodded. "Who is it for?"

A slight blush ran over her cheeks. "I feel really silly saying this, but since you are to be my guardian angel as well as my friend, but this is a letter to the prince."

I dropped the book. "Prince Wyatt."

"Of course Prince Wyatt. I don't know of any other princes. Except maybe those in that book you just dropped into the floor ick. It's as shamelessly flirtatious as any letter to a strange prince from a commoner could be."

Why had I agreed to be her friend? I stared down at the letter, silently reading its words.

Your Majesty Prince Wyatt,

Having thought it over, I would like to apologize for my clumsiness yesterday. If you're having trouble remembering, I am the girl that threw herself in front of your horse in a blatant attempt to end her life—were I suicidal. Even so, I very much appreciate your kind demeanor and assistance during this unfortunate incident. However, if you would spend less time among the people and more time playing pointless games like a true prince should, this would not have happened. So it is all your fault, I guess, and I take back my first sentence. If you would like to respond, I am a servant in the house of Lady Melissa.

Your humble servant,

Christine

I had, of course, written much more flirtatious to Wyatt, but that had been nothing but me. It had been my right. I had known him before I would write such things. But this… little girl… had no power to write such a thing.

And yet… I could not help but be amused. "What in the world?"

She grinned and shrugged. "I'm feeling spontaneous. Let me have my fun."

"But why?"

Another shrug and a slight shrinking of her smile. "I felt like it."

"No one ever feels like writing something like this to a member of the royal family."

A third shrug. "It's not like he'll read it and respond, Fawn."

I sighed. "You have to be kidding me. You want me to take this to him?"

"No one will see you," she urged.

"I can pick who sees me," I said. "If I wanted it so, everyone would be able to see me."

"But no one around here knows you. You would have such fun."

This was unbelievable. My tongue was in a knot over everything I should have been saying. "Why did you write this? And please don't shrug."

"Maybe I want something exciting to happen in my life?"

Well, taking the letter would be an excuse to once again see Wyatt.