Author Note: ... :D I'm ALIVE! :D haha sorry about the wait ya'll :D but how about 'em Tigers, eh? :D haha anyhoo, just sticking this up real fast before watching a Psych episode with da sista :D thank you all so much for your patience, favs, reviews and for reading the story... next chapter is bound to take some time, so be patient, but not not as though I'll never post again patient :D God bless you all! hope you enjoy it! Oh, and there are a few references, see if you can dig 'em out :D literary references (hint, think Wodehouse and Stevenson)

Soli Deo Gloria

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

It was a fine day in the city. Gloriously warm, with the great sun shedding its glowing rays upon the earth. The wind was strong, and the air smelled of the sea and life as it wove through the crowded alleyways and streets. Occasionally this breeze would pick up other scents along its journey. Passing by a bakery, it carried the aroma of fresh, cinnamon bread over to the lower marketplace. There, the fragrance of pastries was exchanged for the more odorous stench belonging to the cattle and sheep that had been driven down from Corona's pasturelands. Depositing this perfume somewhere in the passage between the timber warehouse and the moneychanger's, the wind continued its way down to the wharf. Upon its arrival, Captain Dansk's pudgy nose wrinkled above his expansive mustache. Dansk, usually posted in the guardhouse, was acting as supervising officer for the week's army training exercises.

Snorting loudly, Captain Dansk raised his head and glared at one of his recruits as he floundered miserably out in the stretch of water beyond the docks.

"Get a move on, Hartman! Your team has already made it halfway to the opposite side of the channel!"

There was some feeble wailing in response. Evidently, Hartman could not swim very well.

"If you don't get over to that shore within ten minutes, I'll have you strapped to the roof of the bell tower! Now swim, you blasted squab!" Dansk bellowed, jabbing his finger to the opposite beach.

"Having trouble, Captain?" A young, visiting sailor from the Torren Peninsula asked, grinning impertinently.

"Shut up, you!" Dansk snarled, turning away to avoid the man's grin. Ever since those Torren sailors had come into port on the spice ships, they had been nothing but trouble. Lounging in the sunlight, laughing at the reverends, whistling and calling admiring remarks to passing ladies… he really doubted they actually got any work done. And their superiors—the men who were in charge of them—did not care if they were disrupting the order and tranquility of Corona's capital. All they were here for was to make a fortune off the city's loyal citizens and be general nuisances for everyone. He wondered why the king put up with it.

In the midst of his fuming, Dansk heard the cheeky sailor's lilting voice again.

"You might want to send someone out to keep that man afloat or he'll be feeding the fishes." The sailor stood up and flexed his biceps, smirking, "Might I offer my own swimming prowess for your disposal?"

"No, you may not! I don't need the likes of you to save my men. They can do it on their own, or they'll die trying."

The Torren man's eyes widened, and he commented mildly, "That's rather harsh, Captain. By the way, Master Hartman seems to be going under."

Dansk jerked his head around, watching as his soldier's hands disappeared beneath the waves. "Hartman!" He roared, his voice echoing about the docks. "Hartman! You get back here now you lily-livered, good for nothing, pansy half-wit!"

His squire, who had been keeping records that morning, frowned. "Um, sir, he's underwater. He can't hear you anymore." He paused, watching as Hartman's life bubbles started to pop out of existence. "Should we send someone to get him?"

The captain shook his head, "Nah, Tom will take care of it. He's already gone after him—on his return trip back, no less."

"He's reached the other side already?"

"Yep. Don't you know he's the best one out there? Pity he's royalty. I could've used him in the northern legions."

Thomas cut through the water, keeping his eyes fixed on Hartman's thrashing form. He stretched out with his long arms and propelled himself deeper into the depths. The recruit was sinking like a stone. Soon he would be resting on the floor of the harbor.

Ears filled with the drumming of water, the prince of Corona continued his descent, increasing speed so as to reach the man before he went too low. He easily caught Hartman up, sliding his hands under the man's arms and kicking for the surface.

They both broke the water coughing, and immediately Hartman began to struggle again.

"Hart—stop." Thomas dodged a flailing fist. "Stop—just relax and I'll get you to shore."

"I don't-," Hartman coughed miserably, "-want to go to shore! I want to drown so Dansk can't strap me to the bell tower roof."

Thomas grunted as the young man caught him a punch upon the chin. Wincing, the prince vowed, "If he straps you to the roof, I will personally climb the tower and cut the ropes. Now stop wriggling or I really will drop you."

Hartman, already exhausted and stricken with fear, heard the sternness in his prince's voice. He went limp, and Thomas had to forcibly shift the man around to his back.

"Arms about my neck, Hartman. And whatever you do, don't choke me. Ready?"

The recruit merely let out a whimper and clasped his arms all the tighter.

"Right. Let's go."

Not wasting any more time treading water, Thomas struck off to the distant line of the docks. Even now he could hear his captain's voice growling out threats to Hartman. A few of them also seemed to be directed to the Torren sailors that had taken to hanging around during the training exercises. As prince, Thomas appreciated the foreign imports and exports. As a soldier in training, however, he had grown tired of their disrespect for his officer and for the men that were to be part of the kingdom's military.

Eventually, he reached the docks.

Dansk nodded approvingly, "Good job, Tom. Need help with Hartman?"

"If you please-," Thomas groaned, "-sir."

The captain gave another curt nod and turned to bellow at the other team he was to be training that morning. "Hadrian!"

Frederick glanced up from the card game he was playing with his comrades. "Are you talking to me?"

Dansk rolled his eyes, "Yes, I'm talking to you, you lazy buffoon! Get over here and help Tom out!"

"Buffo-?"

"NOW!"

"Righto, Cappers!" Frederick hastily sprang up and ran over to where his cousin was attempting to heave an unconscious Hartman onto the pier.

"Really, Goliath, a great lug like you can't lift up tiny Hartman?" Frederick asked, slipping his hands beneath Hartman's arms. He frowned, "Is the lad sleeping?"

"He passed out on the way back." Thomas panted.

"You've been towing dead weight nearly halfway across the channel?" He gazed at his cousin, seemingly thunderstruck.

Thomas clambered onto the dock, shrugging, "No one else was going to."

"I suppose not. But honestly, Goliath-," Frederick peeled back one of Hartman's eyelids, "-you're far too good for your good."

He rubbed some of the water from his eyes, "Can't help it. Is he all right?"

"Hold on. Need to slap him a bit."

"Freddy, I don't think that's the best-."

Ignoring him, Frederick smacked Hartman about the face, calling industriously: "Harty! Harty, my lad! Wake up, man, or Dansk will have you shipped off to the Midlands!"

"I'm already considering that, Hadrian. And if you slap my recruit anymore, you might be joining him!" Dansk had evidently heard his name called, and was now staring angrily at his least-favorite soldier.

"Sorry Harty—got to scoot." Frederick made himself scarce by joining the card game again.

Thomas leaned over to examine the, as of yet, motionless Hartman. "Captain, I don't think he'll be waking up anytime soon."

"Better off that way. I'll have Rudy and Edge carry him to the barracks."

"Another lap, then?"

"Hold, Master Tom." It was the Torren sailor. He had seen the events that day and was impressed by the prince's skills. A sly grin had curved across his handsome, exotic features, and his dark eyes were sparkling. "I'd like to issue a challenge."

"Challenge revoked." Dansk retorted, his voice a low growl. "Leave my recruits alone or I'll-." He set his hand threateningly on the handle of his sabre.

The Torren sailor held up his arms in defense. "Captain, I was only trying to ask your best soldier to a friendly contest. He doesn't have to comply if he does not want to."

"Contest?" Thomas smiled slightly, a competitive rise surging up in his heart. "What sort of contest?"

"Tom, you don't have to-." Dansk tried to say, only to be interrupted by the Torren man again.

"Just a swim across the channel. Ten laps—two teams of nine men—leader goes at the beginning and at the end. First team done wins the match."

"And the contenders?"

"My men against yours, Master Tom. Choose wisely, or the great kingdom of Corona will bow to her betters." The Torren sailor trotted over to his comrades, speaking softly to them in the quick language of the peninsula.

Thomas glanced over to his captain, "Captain, what do you-?"

"'Betters'?" Dansk fumed, his enraged face turning steadily pinker. "A tiny spit of land is Corona's better?"

"Cap-."

"Beat them, Tom. I don't care how you do it—wipe the smirks off their faces!"

Several minutes earlier, Catherine and a group of her friends were walking onto the overpass crossing one of the main thoroughfares in the city. It had been a fantastic morning so far—one that was full of shopping, chatting, and sightseeing in the beautiful freedom of the day. Currently, all of the girls were talking animatedly about the foremost upcoming event in their lives: the wedding in Dean.

"And it's the first time Katie's managed to escape the house in—what was it, Katie dear?" Isobel asked, smirking as the other girls tittered.

Catherine smiled, admitting, "About a week."

Her friends laughed uproariously, scaring a passing farmer.

She patiently waited for the giggling to die down, saying calmly, "Now come on—it hasn't been that bad. After all, Lizzie's getting married and there's a lot to do before the wedding."

"Didn't you say dear Lizzie's going frantic?" Her friend Henrietta asked impishly.

"She is."

Isobel nodded to Catherine, "And didn't you say you'd rather they eloped and get the whole thing over with?"

"That was on one of the worse days, Isobel." Catherine replied, shrugging. "And you all know I'm going to miss her terribly once she's married."

"Yes, we know that. But at least you have some distractions to keep yourself moderately happy." One of the other girls said as she trotted over to the overpass railing.

Catherine frowned and came over to join her. "Whatever do you mean, Eira?"

Eira, her arms resting on the railing, replied bluntly, "Isobel's told us how you've been getting rather friendly with a certain prince."

"Oh, she did, did she?" Catherine's green eyes narrowed, and she turned around to glare sternly at her friend.

Isobel tried her best to look innocent. It did not work.

Janette shrugged and came over to join the other girls at the barrier. "Really, Katie, you can't imagine that we haven't noticed. I mean, you dance with him at every party."

"And he's been visiting her house all last week." Isobel pointed out, sliding into place on Catherine's other side.

The girl shook her head, "He only came over three times—and that one time it was on work from his father."

"Yet he still stopped into the kitchen to give you a hello and a wink."

"He did not wink." Catherine retorted, running her hand over the carved stone.

Isobel rolled her eyes, "Oh—my mistake—'blink obviously in your direction', then."

"Isobel, how many times do I have to tell you that-?"

"I know. I know. You two are nothing more than friends and that's all there is to it." She murmured, skating over the argument that was inevitably going to follow. In an effort to change the subject, Isobel declared, "Would you look at the city today? It's absolutely amazing."

Catherine followed her friend's gaze, staring down at the wide avenue below. Traders, tourists, and townsfolk milled about the street, filling the air with the music of at least twenty different accents and hundreds of voices. Horse-drawn carriages rolled alongside wagons laden with produce from the fields beyond the city. A musician, his lute on his knees, lounged in the corner of an outside tavern. He whistled to a passing waitress, receiving only a lofty toss of her head in return.

And then, of course, the waitress did deign to giggle as one of the many Torren sailors made an admiring comment. Ever since the spice ships had sailed in to fill the alleys and marketplaces with the smell of far-off countries, the Torren men had become a temporary fixture to the daily life of the city. Granted, Catherine thought as the waitress tripped lightly into the café, the foreigners were handsome men—exotically tan with musical voices and broad smiles. But she remembered her father telling her years ago that Torren men sailed into port, broke a thousand hearts, and left before the angry fathers found them. She knew better than to take idle flirtation as anything deeper than face value.

There were also several families of children and mothers moving around the different stores. Laughter and scolding could be heard in equal measure as young sons and daughters played, disobeyed, and otherwise acted as kids generally do when surrounded by so many attractions. One boy in particular seemed determined to scale a lamppost despite his mother's frustrated rebukes. And then a flock of sheep, driven up from the pasturelands, filtered into the road and caused a traffic jam as their herders followed in behind them.

As the shepherds started arguing with an incensed cabbage merchant, Catherine lifted her eyes up to the forest just beyond the channel and city walls. A cloud of birds, disturbed by something or another, suddenly flew up from the distant treetops. Watching their flight, the girl started to review the past two weeks.

Thomas had, in fact, visited her home more than once during the week they had officially become friends. Usually pleading some pressing business that took him downtown, he somehow managed to drop by and spend an hour or so talking with her, her family, or whatever friends happened to be around at the moment. She enjoyed his company, and her younger sisters had already claimed him as a 'second George'—though they did not call him that. He had even brought his cousin down the last time (they were doing something military down at the guardhouse) and Frederick, too, had become fast friends with her sisters and flattered her mother outrageously. It was quite amazing to think that all this had happened just last week. Just in the span of four days, her life had been altered to include these two young men. All for the sake of friendship with the prince.

But then the following week, Thomas had said he would be unable to visit due to military training. And she could not visit him—not that she would ever go up to the palace without a proper invitation—because Elizabeth needed help preparing for moving to Dean. The carriages had already come the day before to take her older sister and the majority of her belongings to the city on the plains. Tomorrow morning the rest of the family would be joining her—waking up early, packing the coaches, and leaving the capital for Dean.

Then the next week, Elizabeth would be married, and somehow life would return to normal.

Or as normal as life could be while being friends with the prince.

A sudden gasp broke off her thoughts at this moment, and she glanced over to see Eira pointing out towards the harbor.

"Oh look—the recruits are in training down at the docks!"

Her friends followed her gaze and discovered that she was, indeed, quite right. Several vague, man-shaped specks could be seen lined up on the docks of the city. Most of them seemed to be shirtless—though it was slightly hard to tell at this distance.

"In training? What for?" Henrietta asked, leaning forward to get a better view.

"Military training. Don't you know they conduct sessions during the summer?" Abruptly, Eira let out another delighted gasp, "And now the Torren men are challenging our boys to a competition! My word, they're tan!"

Catherine frowned, "Eira, I really don't think you should be gazing at them like that. What would your mother say?"

She snorted, "Please, Katie, just because you're as modest as a mouse doesn't mean we all are. That one on the end—he's so handsome!"

Janette rolled her eyes, "You can't see anything but the fact that he's got his shirt off."

"Apparently that's enough." Isobel remarked under her breath.

"And now the rest of the Corona men are doing it! Hmmm, they'd be a bit more impressive if they weren't quite so pale…"

Catherine sighed, "I thought they had better sense."

Isobel shrugged, replying mildly, "Not when it comes to showing-off. My Aunt Valerie told me just yesterday that when men get together they absolutely have to flex their muscles. It's part of their nature."

"Thank Heaven it is." Eira added, leaning even further over the railing. "Seriously, girls, look at them! They've started swimming!"

"Janette, make sure she doesn't topple down onto some sort of fruit cart." Isobel said, shaking her head in resignation.

Janette groaned, "Really, Eira, ever since you've turned nineteen you think every man is a gift from God."

"Aren't they?"

"Some would argue with you on that point. But, dear, you're going to fall over…"

Isobel watched as the recruits and Torren men dove into the channel. It seemed they were going by teams, with nine men per group. As the most recent swimmers clambered onto the dock, there seemed to be a rallying cry of voices rising up on the sea wind. The men were cheering their comrades onward.

"Katie, didn't you say the prince was doing military training this week?"

"Yes, that's why I haven't seen him." Catherine replied, her voice suddenly growing tenser in the face of the renewed argument.

"Wonder if he's down there now…" Isobel murmured, watching out of the corner of her eye as her friend started staring at the water.

"Oh, so now you're looking? Hoping to see his royal-."

"Shush, Isobel."

Isobel's grin, which had already been rather pronounced, widened.

Catherine squinted, trying to focus on the recruits down at the dock. They still appeared to be nothing more than indistinct man-shapes. There was a possibility in the form of the tallest member of the Corona team, but she could not be sure… maybe if he—great, now the man had just leapt into the water.

Sighing, she leaned back from the railing.

"Is he there?" Isobel asked curiously.

She shook her head, "I don't know."

"Girls, I'm hungry." Janette announced abruptly. "And Eira's making comments that she probably shouldn't in broad daylight."

"Let's go to 'Ye Cosy Nooke'." Isobel suggested, rolling her eyes as Eira let out a delighted laugh.

Catherine frowned, "I've never heard of that restaurant."

"It's a teashop on Bond Street, near the main plaza. It's not far from here." Said Henrietta.

The girl nodded, responding warningly, "All right, but we can't stay out too long. I've got to get back and help finish packing for Dean."

Janette began to walk forward, "Katie, relax. You can worry about Dean later."

"You can say that because your sister's not the one getting married."

"I should hope she isn't. Esther's two years younger than I am." Janette glanced back at the railing. "Eira, come on, we need to get lunch!"

"Coming!" Eira left off from her perch and joined them just as they were starting down a stairway.

"Did you see which team won, Eira?" Henrietta asked interestedly.

"I think our boys did—but I couldn't tell because someone kept complaining she was starving."

Janette protested, "I am starving! And anyway, the Torren men were obviously going to win. They're better swimmers."

Isobel smirked, "Not necessarily. Corona has talented men who are more than a match for those sailors from the peninsula. Right, Katie?"

Catherine noticed the expression on her friend's face and merely replied with a quiet: "Possibly."

After his recruits secured a successful victory, a satisfied Captain Dansk suspended military training for the day and allowed the men off early to celebrate. The prince and six of his comrades, after drying off and changing into common dress, decided to take a stroll down the wharf. All of them were sons of noblemen, and a few had attended the same university as the heir to the throne. Thus, it was a party of equals, in certain respects.

"Goliath, you are wot the old officers call unstoppable! How did you manage to get past that Torren fellow?" Frederick asked, thumping his cousin cheerfully on the back.

Before Thomas could respond, however, another of the men—Roderick Macintosh—cut in, "Because Tom knew Dansk have his royal hide if he didn't."

There was a chorus of laughter from the rest of the men.

"Dansk looked as if he was about to spit fire when those chaps called Corona secondary. I'm surprised Tom didn't part the channel in order to reach the docks in time." Daniel, one of Duke Montague's nephews, said.

"Yes, well, I did reach the docks in time and that means-," Thomas glanced around his comrades, singling them out, "-you, you, you, you, you, and you, Rod, all owe me a favor."

Frederick frowned, "You don't mean-?"

"Yes, Freddy, you too.

"But Goliath-."

"How about letting me win at cards?" Thomas suggested.

Roderick clicked his tongue, "Tough luck there, Tom. Freddy only knows how to play with trick cards."

Frederick narrowed his eyes, retorting, "For the last time, I didn't cheat! It's not my fault you lot are terrible at playing cards."

"Man from Livesley claims he didn't cheat—that's a laugh right there." Walter commented.

"Just because I'm from the best town in the kingdom doesn't mean that you have to start making remarks on my character." Frederick replied stiffly.

Edward grinned, "Best town, he says? And what does he call the capital?"

"Mistake on the map." Roderick answered casually.

"Now that sounds like Livesley."

The rest of the men, excepting Thomas and his cousin, laughed.

Thomas sighed, "All right—all right, leave off on Freddy. He's the one who got us the lead, remember?"

"Aye, I suppose so." James, another one of Duke Montague's nephews (he had a lot of them), assented.

"Now James, you don't have to agree with the man because he'll be paying our salaries in ten years." Roderick reminded him, rolling his eyes.

"No, but I'll agree with him if he's right. And he is—we would've never gotten past those Torren sailors unless Freddy beat out that one man. And he was fast."

Frederick smiled, buffing his nails casually on his shirt, "Now, now, Jimmy—don't lay on the flattery that thick—you're making my head big."

"-er." Added Edward, earning another round of laughter.

Walter squinted up at the sky, "How about we go down to the plaza for some lunch? I haven't smelled food since Dansk roared in my face this morning and I got a whiff of his breakfast."

"What'd he have?" Daniel asked interestedly.

"Oatmeal as made by Mrs. Dansk herself. Had to have had raisins in it."

"Why raisins?"

Edward grinned wickedly, "Let's just say Captain Dansk does not have the most cooperative of systema digestorium."

"Plain language, Ed, please." Roderick begged, rolling his eyes.

"He visits the privy a lot." Frederick answered loudly.

The man looked slightly surprised, "Ah. Well that explains why he's so bad tempered."

"As well as a lot of other things…" Edward remarked under his breath as they turned into an alley leading to the main plaza.

Thomas climbed up the steps, leading the way through the shadowy stairwell between one of the government buildings and a well-known inn. His feet hit pavement with a loud snap that made passersby jump and watch as the group of recruits emerged from the passage and into the sunlight of the square.

Frederick swept his arm towards the buildings surrounding them. "Well, Walt old boy, you've got the whole blooming plaza as an option. Where do you want to eat?"

Walter considered the café, pubs, and various restaurants located near the square, mumbling their names under his breath. Meanwhile, Roderick and Edward were comparing their biceps—much to the amusement of a few young ladies walking past. James had started a conversation with Daniel about Lord Clayton, and Frederick began to make outlandish suggestions just to annoy Walter. Thomas, meanwhile, had started to meander along the edge of the plaza, listening to the voices of his comrades and the general rabble of the market.

He thought about the training exercises of the day, and he felt a surge of satisfaction remembering the race against the Torren men. Their opponents were strong swimmers, but he and his comrades had pulled through to a victory so sweet that Dansk had let them off early. Nothing could make this day any more perfect…

Then an unexpected picture passed through his mind. It was Catherine, Lord Brian's daughter, sitting on her father's rooftop in the light of the setting sun. Thomas's mind broke off from the recently won contest to pursue another topic: the girl whom he now considered a friend. He could still remember every detail of the time spent over at her house washing windows. It had been a day unlike any he had never experienced, and that, coupled with the small visits he had managed the days following, had somehow firmly cemented the girl into his life. She was important, in a way.

And he had not yet put a name to what it was. A friendship, yes—but the fact that she was female set everything at a different level entirely.

Suddenly, a familiar voice broke through the rest of the marketplace bustle and chatter.

"Eira, really, there was no call for that."

Thomas turned his head so sharply his neck hurt. He spotted Catherine in an instant and stared, almost mesmerized, as she and a cluster of girls (including the alarmingly curious one he had met at her house) trotted down a side street.

Before he knew what he was doing, the prince had started to move towards that same boulevard.

Frederick, ducking Walter's annoyed slap, glanced over at his cousin. He frowned, calling: "Goliath! Where are you going? Walt here almost made up his mind!"

Thomas, regaining some sense of what he was doing, called back in confusion. "What?"

"I said, Walt almost-!" Frederick was cut off as Walter clamped his hand over his mouth.

"Is there anyway to keep you quiet for one second?" Walter demanded angrily, keeping a firm hold of the struggling man.

Despite not being able to speak, Frederick answered: "Mhmm-mm."

Walter frowned, "What did he say?"

"He said he wants you to toss him into the harbor." Edward replied, grinning.

"Mhham! Arhgmeh!" Frederick yelled, glaring at Edward.

Roderick, resting his arm upon Edward's shoulder, nodded, "He said do it quickly before he changes his mind, Walt."

"Um-." Before Walter could say anything else, Frederick had broken free and launched himself at both Roderick and Edward. A scuffle ensued, during which several insults were exchanged and few blows landed.

Thomas walked over, his arms folded over his chest as he watched the three men roll across the pavement. Raising his voice (so loudly that at its release he made pigeons take off in fright) the prince shouted: "Hey! Pride of the king's army!"

The trio froze, glancing over to where Thomas was, seeing a faint smirk on his face.

Frederick peeled his face off the cobblestones, asking irritably, "Wot, Goliath?"

"What do you gentlemen say to a lunch with a group of pretty young ladies?"

His cousin frowned, considering the proposition. Then, spitting out a few grains of sand, he nodded, "All right, then."

Henrietta drummed her fingers upon the table, muttering over her menu, "I think I'll have the—no, I'll try a—no, that's too fattening. Hmmm… how about the-?"

"For goodness sake, Henrietta, just make up your mind already!" Isobel snapped, annoyed with the girl's apparent indecision.

"Isobel-," Catherine said quietly, "-let the poor girl choose her lunch in peace. You're the only one who's ever been here before and we don't know what they have."

Isobel rolled her eyes, "I told you what they have—it's a café! Sandwiches, soup, coffee, tea-."

"Lemon pie?" Henrietta suggested, looking over the top of her menu to Isobel.

She snorted, "That's for dessert."

"Then I might just skip lunch and go straight for the dessert."

"Sounds like a topping idea!" Frederick declared, plopping himself down in an empty seat between Eira and Henrietta.

Isobel frowned, "Wha-?"

"Couldn't have put it better myself." Roderick said, pulling up a chair on Eira's other side.

"Who are-?" Eira started, looking between the men with puzzled interest.

Edward swung another chair around and straddled it, setting his arms upon the back. "Agreed. How'd you fare, James?"

"I think this chair might be broken." James murmured uncomfortably, twisting in his seat.

"Nonsense!" Walter commented, pulling up a chair so that he sat between Isobel and Janette. "You just need to balance yourself on the three legs, James."

"Yeah." Daniel grunted, bringing over a chair for himself and cramming it between Walter and Janette. "Balance, James. Balance."

Catherine, having gotten over her initial shock at the men's appearance, began to speak. "Gentlemen, I don't think that-."

Thomas set a chair beside her and sat down. "Good afternoon, Cat."

She stared at him, feeling rather perplexed at the faintly pleased grin he wore beneath that mustache of his. Eventually she replied slowly, "Good afternoon."

"Brilliant weather we're having."

"I suppose…"

Frederick glared across the table. "Walt—Walt, what do you think you're doing? Go and get Jimmy a better chair."

"Call the waiter over." Walter retorted, shuffling through Isobel's erstwhile menu.

Henrietta started and quickly turned the pages of her own menu. "What? No—I haven't decided yet!"

"Henrietta, really, I think that's the least of our problems at the moment." Isobel said, trying to ignore the giggles coming from Eira.

"And that, darling, is why they call me Rod." Roderick finished with a smirk as the pretty girl attempted to stop laughing.

Frederick, seeing that his territory was being encroached upon, leaned over to hiss: "Yes, because he got smacked about by the schoolmaster's cane. Got about as much sense as a fencepost too."

The recruit glared warningly, "Freddy, if you-."

Frederick interrupted loudly, "I say, Goliath, you've got a big booming voice liable to be heard by the deaf—why don't you explain wot's going on?"

"Yes, why don't you explain what's going on?" Catherine demanded, her green eyes narrowing.

Thomas shrugged simply, "All right." He lifted his voice, smiling at the group, "If you would be so gracious, ladies, my comrades and I would very much like to buy you lunch."

"On the condition we get to spend it in your company." Roderick said, winking at Eira and, to his surprise, earning himself a wink in return.

"Only, if you would not mind." Thomas added, nodding politely to Catherine.

Isobel (having now just recognized that the prince had joined them) tapped her friend on the shoulder. "Katie, the man's talking to you."

"I'm aware of that."

"Tell him 'yes'." Eira said, clearly enjoying the dark eyes of Roderick Macintosh.

"Eira, I'm not sure-."

Isobel nudged her again, urging: "Go on, Katie. The waiter's coming."

Catherine sighed, "Very well."

"Good." Thomas grinned cheerfully, "Now, can I borrow your menu?"

Waiting for the following meal, as well as the time throughout it, allowed Catherine generous opportunity to sort out who these young men were. Thomas and Frederick, obviously, she knew already. The others, however, she seemed to recognize but she required the prince's help in terms of names.

Eventually, she had shifted them all into respective categories. There was Frederick, of course, who was flattering Eira outrageously while taste-testing everyone else's lunch. His competitor, Roderick Macintosh, was the handsome, dark-haired one who seemed to think of himself as the group's leader. James was the humbler sort who stammered under Henrietta's questions and apparently found her interest quite unnerving. James' cousin, Daniel, was the intellectual one who would eventually end up with Duke Montague's vast fortune (Janette found this information rather intriguing). Walter was the indecisive man doomed forever to be a bachelor due to his lack of regard or concern for ladies. And then there was Edward, the cheeky joker who struck barbs at everybody, including the prince, and offered no apologies for his jests.

Catherine had seen these men at parties before. She remembered being introduced to Roderick and Daniel, but somehow the vague memories in her head did not match up with the young men sitting at the table. In person, and in their company, she found them to be somehow changed.

"You're right, of course." Thomas replied little more than forty minutes later as they strolled past the market shops. "Those men you met at the parties? They weren't them. That was a mere façade dedicated to winning the admiration of ladies, their fathers, and whatever future political connections happened to be around. The men you saw today are the boys I grew up with."

"And are they still boys?" She asked, watching Eira, Roderick and Frederick break away to visit a nearby clothing store.

He smiled and gave a small nod, "Well, I'll let you decide that for yourself. But really, what is a man but the shadow of the boy he always was and will forever be?"

"You realize that you're including yourself in that comment."

"I do. But, if you haven't seen that already, I'd be quite disappointed in you."

"Oh, I've seen that. It showed up most clearly when you were playing 'lion tamer' with my sisters." Catherine said, glancing up at him.

Thomas laughed slightly, "Ah yes—and how are your sisters?"

"Very well. They're happy and excited about the wedding."

"Next week, right?"

"Correct."

They continued to talk, trotting down the street as more of their group peeled off to examine the various wares and items for sale that afternoon. An enthusiastic Henrietta dragged James and Walter over to listen to a street musician, claiming that he sounded like Gregorio the Great from Eldesland. Janette and Daniel had already retreated into a shady bookshop five minutes after lunch, and thus it was that only Catherine, Thomas, and Isobel remained.

Isobel, having dropped back somewhat, looked between the tall prince and her best friend. The young man had his arms tucked neatly behind his back, his head tilted to the sky as he listened to Catherine speaking quietly. It was almost as if they had forgotten about her completely.

Isobel, seeing what an opportune moment this was, decided to make herself scarce.

"Oh—I think I see a—a dress over there! I'll just go have a look at it. Don't stop for me!" She had bolted out of sight by the time Thomas and Catherine turned around.

Thomas frowned, "She sees a dress in the baker's shop?"

"I don't know—she's always been a little odd. She was the girl who was with me that time you came over."

"The royal accountant's daughter?"

"That's her."

Thomas frowned as they turned to resume their trip down the street. "Hmm… I think I know her father. He helps me when the sums get to be too much."

Catherine smirked, "The 'sums'? You make it sound like an ailment."

"When you are as bad at arithmetic as I am, Cat, it is an ailment." He said, ducking below a low-hanging clothesline as they entered an alley. "Anyway, what were we talking about?"

"Lizzie—she left for Dean yesterday."

"Right, and you've only just escaped the house today."

She sighed, "Yes, it's been an absolute nightmare. Running from one shop to the other checking up on contracts—writing to the duke's family and getting last minute reservations by guests we don't remember inviting. We haven't even gotten to Dean yet and we're all about ready to give up. I'm half-afraid that by the time we arrive to the city tomorrow, Lizzie and George will have somehow kidnapped a reverend, gotten married, and skipped out of the country."

"And then what will you do?" The prince asked, leading her down a flight of stairs and out onto the wharf.

Catherine grinned at him, "Apologize to everyone who wanted to come, while, at the same time, secretly breathing a sigh of relief."

He smiled, "You probably wouldn't be the only one."

The girl shook her head as they began to pass by the various stalls of the dockside merchants. "Well, as maid of honor, I do have some interest in seeing the thing dealt with properly—even to the very exhausted end."

"To the very exhausted end?"

"It will probably be a long night. The wedding is in the late afternoon so the reception will most likely last into the early morning." Catherine paused at a craftswoman's stand, examining the woven grass baskets for sale.

Thomas watched her running her fingers over the fine handiwork of the basket weavers. The strong breeze blowing in from the sea stirred at her brown hair, blowing a wayward strand across her forehead. As she turned her head, the sun hit her face at such an angle that he saw a sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. It was not surprising he had never noticed them before—they were very faint. The addition was a pleasant one, however, and when she glanced at him he suddenly had to find something to say.

Jumping on the topic they had been discussing, Thomas blurted, "I have been to weddings before—I've even been in weddings when I was younger. But I—I never quite understood why there was a special position next to the bride. What does the maid of honor actually do?"

"Be honorable, because the bride is probably not going to be." Catherine replied, turning away from the basket-weaver's stall.

Thomas smirked, "Really? Is that true?"

She laughed, "No, I'm only joking. Truth is, I'm there to keep Lizzie from going insane, even if I lose my own sanity in the process."

"You're the buffer to the rest of the poor defenseless people out there." He remarked as they wandered nearer to the edge of the quay.

"Precisely."

"Thank you. I appreciate your sense of self-sacrifice. It's citizens like you who keep this kingdom running. The politicians don't do anything."

She smiled, leaning upon a mooring-post to view the ships sailing in and out of the harbor. "Oh really? Politicians do nothing, then?"

"Aside from washing windows and crashing lunch parties, those in power have very little to do with anything else." Thomas grinned.

Catherine raised her eyebrows, "At least you understand how hard it will be. I mean, it will be loads of fun, don't get me wrong. But I don't think I've ever worked harder on something in my entire life."

"Are you happy for her?" Thomas asked, watching as one particularly misguided vessel managed to get itself tangled up in the lines of a fishing boat.

Catherine nodded, "Yes, I am."

"Then the hard work is worth it." He declared, raising his voice so she could hear him over the angry quarrel springing up between the fisherman and the yachter.

"It is worth it." She started to walk down the wharf again. "And, Tommy, to answer your question in terms of position—my job will be to keep track of George's ring, make sure Lizzie's veil and dress look pretty, and keep the rest of my sisters quiet during the ceremony."

The prince sidestepped a team of men unloading a ship, "Are all your sisters bridesmaids?"

"Every single one. Including little Georgiana who has never been happier about dressing up. Normally she hates wearing shoes, but Lizzie asked her nicely so she's willing to give it a try. After all, it's not every day your sister gets married."

"And how does Lizzie feel about the whole thing?"

She shrugged, listening to the guardhouse bell sing out the half-hour. "Nervous, in some ways. But I think she's quite—quite ready for it all to be over with. She's ready to be George's wife."

"What about being a duchess?"

A sly smile appeared on her face, "For that, she was born ready."

"So she will be a good addition to the nobility of Dean." Thomas commented with satisfaction.

"Tommy, she could out-noble you in a heartbeat."

"Is that an insult?"

"An observation." Catherine laughed at the amusement on his face. "You do realize that for a prince you're not very good at acting the part?"

He shrugged, "Slow reflexes."

"Is that what it is?"

"Yes. I'm afraid I never quite adapted to the role of 'being prince'. Doing the job, looking stern, counting up taxes—I can do that just fine. But unlike my good friend Prince Dalen of Salisbury, I've never mastered the technique of aristocracy."

"The technique of obnoxious arrogance, you mean?" She asked sarcastically, remembering all too well the behavior of the prince of Salisbury.

He winced, "Ah—I see you haven't forgotten that dance at the palace. I do remind you that it was somewhat my fault."

"Yet I've never thanked you properly." Catherine smiled, shaking her head, "He was not a pleasant man—rude and smelling of vinegar."

"Vinegar?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I hate the smell of vinegar."

"That seems to be the opinion of most people. It is a very good preservative, however." Thomas pointed out cheerfully.

"Be that as it may, it smells awful. That's part of the reason why I strongly dislike canning vegetables. But-" she sighed, stopping at another booth to see the merchandise for sale, "-with Lizzie married off in Dean, I'll be the only one to help Mother when that time of the year rolls around."

"And you will help her because you are that kind." The prince murmured, smiling down at her.

"Or unlucky." She seemed to appreciate his compliment, however, and it was not until they continued their walk that she spoke again. "So what have you been doing all week, Tommy?"

He groaned, "Military training, mostly. Occasionally I would get the chance to read and sort through reports—but that's only if I was very, very inept at escaping work."

"Military training—hmm… does that include swimming across the channel?"

He looked at her, clearly surprised by her knowledge.

Catherine shrugged, "We—my friends and I—noticed a group of recruits training down by the docks."

"Did you really?"

She nodded, "And, considering your hair is still wet-," here he grinned, brushing back his hair, "-I'm assuming you were down there?"

"Yes I was. We've been down there every morning to do laps and diving exercises and whatnot. Around this time of day, we usually would hike out to the fields west of the forest for equestrian training. But Captain Dansk gave us all the day off thanks to the outcome of a certain contest."

"Contest?"

"Did you happen to notice a group of Torren men joining us down at the docks?"

"We did."

Thomas grinned smugly, "Well, we were challenged by them to participate in a race across the channel. Nine men to each team, and the leader of the team was to perform the feat twice. First team done—wins."

Catherine heard the pride in his voice. "The men of Corona won?"

"Yes we did." He replied happily.

"You sound quite pleased."

"I should be, considering that I'm talking to you now because of it."

Before Catherine could respond, a rather abrupt shout alerted them to Frederick's presence behind them.

"Hey! Goliath! Kitty-cat! Slow down for a bloke, will you?"

They turned to stare as Frederick sprinted towards him. He was not the most adept runner in the world, nor did he dodge obstacles very well. In the thirty yards it took him to reach them, Frederick managed to accidentally knock over a stack of wine barrels, shove a rather startled sailor into the harbor, broke through a crowd of ladies, and upend a wagon of cabbages. Ignoring the yelps, shocked gasps, and pained yells of 'my cabbages!' he left in his wake, Frederick slowed the last few feet and staggered over to his cousin.

Setting his arm upon the taller man's shoulder, Frederick took a deep breath, let it out wheezily, and took yet another. Then, when he had recovered enough, he panted, "So, Kitty-cat, how's it been with you?"

"All right." Catherine replied, smiling at the grinning man.

Thomas frowned, "Freddy, you just knocked over-."

He waved his hand absently in the direction of the chaos he caused, "They'll be peachy. Just—maybe—maybe we should get out before they find the old torches and forks?"

"What are you-?"

"Hey!" The sailor—who was a remarkably brawny fellow—had just pulled himself out of the harbor. "Stop that idiot!"

Frederick's eyes widened, "Sweet muffins I've got to scoot!" He took off running, nearly knocking over another cart in the process.

Both Thomas and Catherine watched as a mob of very angry females, sailors, and a man howling about his ruined vegetables, all gave chase after Frederick.

Catherine asked concernedly, "Do you think he'll be okay?"

"He can outrun them. In fact, I'm almost positive I know where we'll find him hiding." The prince responded confidently.

"Where?"

"Ever been to the square called Thatcher's Courtyard?"

She nodded slowly, "Yes, but it's one of the smaller markets in the city."

"There's a little coffee shop there—wedged between the gentleman's clothes store and the stables of the Admiral Benbow. He'll be outside waiting for us."

"Will he still be in one piece?"

Thomas grinned, "Oh, I don't know. How about we go find out?"

The next morning was a very foggy one. Long, dense streams of mist rolled in from the crashing sea to fill the streets and open spaces of the city. The cover gave a melancholy feel to the sky, blocking out the light of the stars above, making obscure shapes in the near darkness of the early dawn. There was a distinct chill to the air, a coldness soon to disappear with the melting heat of the rising sun. But, as of yet, the sun had not risen, and the fog remained.

Catherine, cradling a large suitcase in her arms, walked carefully downstairs in the dim light. She nearly stumbled twice, but eventually managed to reach the front door with relative ease. Then, entering an outside world of mist, the girl moved quickly towards the two, vague-shaped coaches waiting in the road. Pinpricks of light—from the glowing pipes of the coachmen—were all that penetrated the thick cloud. She saw one tending to the horses at the second coach, while another dark figure stood on the roof, strapping down the family's luggage. At the gate, Catherine passed her burden on to the only idle worker, and started back to the house to fetch the last case.

She passed her father and the head coachman at the door. Both were discussing the cost and time of the trip and paid her no attention. Then, as she started upstairs, Catherine heard her mother talking quietly to her sisters. Her mother's voice was soothing, trying to explain to the girls why they had to rise up before daybreak. Catherine knew, as she entered her bedroom, that none of her sisters had expected this need of waking so early. It had taken her and her mother at least fifteen minutes to get them all up—cutting into their travel time severely. Thankfully, however, the coaches were almost packed and soon they would be on their way to Dean.

Catherine paused as this thought struck her. She glanced up from where she knelt next to the remaining case. Her surroundings—dimly lit as they were by a guttering candle—were familiar. Yet… there was something painfully missing.

Feeling a stinging at the corner of her eyes, Catherine smiled, whispering, "Honestly, Lizzie, you're not even married yet and I miss you."

She picked up her bag, stood, and deliberately blew out the candle. Without another look she started back downstairs.

It took them nearly another ten minutes to get all the girls walking out the door and into the coaches. The whole ordeal occurred with much complaining, yawning, mumbles about interesting dreams experienced during the night, and gradual movement. Lady Marie had her youngest three with her in the first coach, while Catherine would be riding in the second with the elder two. Lord Brian was to alternate between sitting next to the driver of either carriage as well as with his wife and daughters in the first coach. The trip would take longer than normal due to the extra weight of the carriages, but with hope they would reach Dean by the late afternoon.

Catherine helped Emma into the carriage, "Be careful. The step is rather high."

"Katie?"

"Yes dear?"

"I left something." Emma slid into place next to Jane.

Her older sister shook her head, "We're going to be leaving in five minutes."

"But I really need it—it's my music box I wanted to show George's sister Lucy." She pouted, her eyes pleading.

Catherine sighed, "Fine. Where is it?"

"On the table by the couch."

"I'll be back." The girl hurried past her father and the coachman again and entered the darkness of the sitting room. Fumbling, she located the requested music box—a present from her Aunt Martha—and went back outside.

As Catherine neared the coach, she noticed a dark box lying on the pavestones. One of the coachmen must have forgotten to load it, and now they were too busy with the horses to help.

"Emma-," she handed her the music box through the window, "-I'll be back in a moment."

Catherine rounded the carriage and lifted the box into her hands. It was a fine box, dignified, if old, gilding around the corners and faded initials imprinted on the lid. It was also quite heavy—and Catherine suddenly realized it was one Elizabeth had left to be brought later.

She groaned, hefting it up higher, "My word, Lizzie, what on earth did you put in this thing?"

Catherine lifted the luggage and set it against the side of the carriage roof, hoping to somehow tip it onto the top. She rose up on tiptoe, determinedly shoving at the trunk. It really was remarkably heavy. Determined, Catherine gave an impressive shove upward so that it rested, haphazardly, on the edge of the roof. Then it slowly started to slip backwards towards her face…

There was a loud slamming sound as a man's hand struck the side of the trunk, effectively catching it in its fall. One of the workers had noticed her difficulties.

"Oh, thank you, I didn't think I could get-." She stopped, suddenly aware that the hand holding back the luggage belonged to the prince of Corona.

"Tommy?"

"Excuse me." He moved over to get a better hold on the case. Then, with much more ease than she could have ever done, Thomas secured the luggage's position on the coach roof. He grinned, his face outlined starkly against surrounding fog. Then he turned to smile at her, "Good morning, Cat."

"Good morning." She gazed at him, trying to understand why he was standing before her. "Wha—what are you doing here?"

He shrugged, "I had some business in town."

"At what time?" Catherine asked, incredulous that royal duties called the prince out at such an hour.

"Oh, you know, three… in the afternoon."

Her eyes widened, "Tommy, why on earth are you-?"

Thomas interrupted her, stating clearly, "Before you say anything, know that it was my choice to come here. I wanted to see you off." He nodded at the coach, "After all, it will be at least half a week before I'll see you at the wedding. I thought I should—I—I wanted to say-…" his voice died as he suddenly realized he had no clue why he had gotten out of bed, dressed in the dark, and practically jogged all the way down to Lord Brian's house so early in the morning.

He did not have a reason—he had just done it. And now he had to explain himself.

"I wanted to say goodbye, I suppose." Thomas murmured, looking at her. "And have a good—have a fantastic trip."

Catherine gazed at the man, not entirely sure what to think. Then, the head coachman's call cut through the still morning: "Everyone on?"

"Oh—I forgot." She hastily went over to the carriage door, not noticing that Thomas followed her.

He opened the door, helping her into the coach while ignoring the impatient hiss of disapproval the driver gave him. Closing the door, he stepped back as the carriages began to roll into the fog, the clops of hooves and creaking of wheels fading away.

Thomas smiled, whispering, "I'll see you in Dean, Cat. And at the wedding—I'll dance with you."