Wow! I owe all of my reviewers an enormous apology for not updating in so long. I am so very, very sorry. Thank you all for being so patient and not sending me reviews telling me to hurry things up. Thanks to Stephmarie, Clavel, MQW, Tiger Lily21, jollyrancher-j2k, and sealednectar. MQW: I didn't even realize the Andre Richard thing. It's so weird. I based the names on people I know in real life. Lol.

Enjoy!(and review)

Spring had come. It was not the bleak, gray spring of northern Fraznia that entered with trepidation. It was very nearly and Itolnian spring: clear, bright, and warm. It was 9:00 on such a spring morning that Morena was awakened by the light, beautiful, clean light peeking through the closed curtains and reflecting off her mirror. She opened her eyes slowly and rolled over gently to look at the clock. She smiled and sighed happily. Rodrigo had kept her up late last night, refining some of her songs, and promised that she could sleep late today to be rested for the coming this evening. The evening! She rolled onto her stomach and hid under the pillow. Her debut was that evening. The very thought made her groan and almost tremble with nervousness that bordered on fear. How could she do it? She would fail and disappoint everyone. She would disprove what she'd been trying so hard to prove. No! She mustn't think like this. She mustn't think of it at all. She must go on as if it were any other day.

She climbed out of bed, tore open the curtains, washed her face and dressed, leaving her hair alone. She could smell breakfast cooking from the kitchen. She didn't know that Rodrigo had been waiting in the sitting room for half an hour with his newspaper trying very earnestly, but more fruitlessly, to read.

He would do anything not to show it but truth be told he was just as nervous for Morena as she was for herself in addition to being nervous for himself at the reaction of his new opera. Morena had so much hinging on her performance and that was just the beginning. After the opera they were to go together to Madame Beaumet's gala, Morena's official social debut. The opera would decide her career, the gala her social place. It would not be easy. When Rodrigo cast in his lot among the musicians he had his money to shield him and because of it he retained his place in society. But Morena had only his protection, and in the Jungle of civilized society it was each man for himself; Rodrigo could only do so much. Twice when they'd gone to the theater after people learned that Morena was to sing opera, the people in the boxes next to them had gotten up and moved to those of their friends. The first time this happened Morena did not understand the reason and soon forgot the incident. But by the second time her understanding of society had grown and she'd shaken with what Rodrigo assumed was anger and humiliation and sadness throughout the entire performance but refused to let him take her home. She was strong. There were, of course, those of Rodrigo's friends who would, and had already, supported Morena. But Madame de Lafete had not been near Morena's house since she paid a call one day on to discover Regina Heister, a dancer at the opera who was adored especially by the city's gentlemen, sipping tea with Morena.

As for her performance, Rodrigo had little doubt that she would do amazingly, he only empathized with her severe nervousness. The worst that could happen would be that those nerves got the better of her, which was a decided possibility. Yet if she could live six years under that demon of a Viscount she could do tonight what she was born to do. He wondered what he would do if she did fail. He reflected that a year ago he would have been angry and disgusted and sent her back to her family regardless of whether or not she was wanted there. He couldn't dream of doing that now. If she failed, he would give her another chance in a heartbeat.

In the middle of these reflections, Rodrigo felt a presence behind him and a warm breath on his head. Startled, he looked up to see smiling green eyes and red lips glinting mischievously.

"I've been standing behind you for five minuted now, watching you not read your paper and waiting for you to notice me." She said, pretending to be indignant.

"And I've been waiting for you to wake up for near an hour now." He retorted sternly.

"I never invited you to come into my house at all hours of the day and put my maid to work all without my knowledge." She answered haughtily, knowing it was really his house and his maid since she wouldn't have a penny of her own until that night with which to pay for them. However, he didn't say anything but,

"Touche, then. What can I say, I was worried about you, and I"

"And you didn't want to lose anymore time than is necessary before practicing." She finished for him, crossing to the couch across from him. They had had this conversation before.

"I promise, I won't make you sing, I don't want to wear out your voice before tonight. We'll have a violin lesson to put you in a musical frame of mind, then–" He was going to say more but his eyes fixed for the first time on her hair. Since she didn't know he was there she hadn't arranged it but left it down. He'd never seen it like it was before. Her hair was long and thick and raven black with gentle curls. It reminded him of the hair of an angel he'd seen in a painting back in Itolni. He had an enormous desire he refused to acknowledge to bury his hands in it.

"Then?" her voice knocked him out of his reverie.

"Then we'll picnic in the park and I'll finally take you rowing. What do you say?"

"I say wonderful. It will keep my mind of this evening."

"You're still so nervous?"

"Oh Rodrigo, it gets worse by the minute. I can't so much as look at something red because it reminds me of the carpets at the opera. And that just nerves about the opera. Oh Rodrigo the gala! There's till so much that's unpolished about me, I know it."

She thought she was unpolished and perhaps she was. She certainly hadn't the sophistication of a lady. Her manner was either too reserved, out of shyness, or too forward and passionate, resulting from her deeply-felt opinions. She had not mastered the delicate art of conversation. She was not one for gossip or meaningless chatter. Once during a rehearsal she left a group of dancers discussing the prince's latest intrigue and walked to the circle of producers and musicians Rodrigo was in which as discussing indentured servitude, a subject talked about more and more frequently lately as the movement to end it gained popularity. The producers were defending the institution, one very emphatically, and Rodrigo watched warily as Morena began to tremble with rage, praying her newfound social instinct would override her passionate nature and keep her silent. His prayer was answered but it was a close call. If she were ever not so wise he and Antonio would be sure to create a public feeling attributing hr faux-pas to her isolated upbringing. Disguising his own anxiety he said: you'll do wonderfully. Remember, say nothing unless it's pointless, or unless you are sure you know what you are saying."

"Of course. Antonio has taught me to be so in a much less kindly way."

Mmm. Antonio. He was as impossible as ever. Although, to Morena's credit she took his incivilities gracefully, resulting not in friendship but in icy aloofness which was better than endless arguing.

"Let's not talk about him today."

"No, let's not."

Helene, the maid, came out then with breakfast.

"Thank you Helene. That will be all." Rodrigo said in a tone much like one he'd once used with Morena. Morena politely ignored the maid as Rodrigo wanted. He didn't know that she'd formed a close friendship with Helene, although she kept up the charade of being a merchant's daughter. She often helped Helene with her chores, finding a comfort in the familiar activities now that she didn't do them nearly so much. Rodrigo would be furious if he knew. She'd yet to see him angry except for their quarrel and his hatred of the Viscomte; she knew that his type would become almost unforgiving in anger.

They ate, and practiced. Morena changed and Rodrigo regretted seeing her emerge from her bedroom with her hair pinned up as it always was, although she was al lovely as ever. Even from the first time he saw her Rodrigo reflected that she was pretty and might be truly beautiful if not for her scanty presence and terribly sad eyes. After she left the manor and was introduced for the first time in nearly a decade to decent eating habits and was given a purpose for existing she'd turned into quite possible the loveliest woman he's ever met. He was not alone in this thinking; others agreed with him.

They walked to the park and ate on a blanket in the shade of a maple tree. Then he rented a boat and rowed down the sone river as they discussed many things.

"Your fine society is all very well I suppose," Morena said at one point, "but Rodrigo, is it really worth the effort? Do you truly have a single friend among the whole bunch? If you were to become a pauper tomorrow and die soon after of some horrible disease would only one of them so much as come to your funeral?"

She said all of this after a pause for contemplation in a thoughtful way she had, as if she knew it wasn't her place to speak but she felt that she had to anyway.

"Of course I have friends, for example Antonio, who would stand by me through anything. Calling yourself a 'friend' of someone while he has money and turning your back on him when he hasn't is a basic, but unspoken, tenant of society."

After a pause during which they both examined the riverbank he turned back to her and asked, "what about you, Morena, would you come to my funeral?"

Without thinking or knowing where what she said came from she answered, "No, because I wouldn't let you die. I'd sell myself back into servitude a dozen times over to give you the best doctors."

It is difficult to say who was more shocked at this profound response.

The conversation took another turn towards politics.

"Fraznia's hope lies in the crown prince," Rodrigo said, "his ideas are advanced and could pull the country out of the past and into the contemporary era. It's always moved slowly. It's the last country on the continent to retain indentured servitude and fifty years ago was a century behind the rest in abolishing slavery. Its ideas on economics are far outdated and the country can only survive so long as it is. But the king won't give an ounce of influence to his heir. There are rumors that he will remove the title of crown prince from his son and make someone else his heir to preserve old-fashioned ways."

And so their afternoon went. Much of it was spent in silence. At one point as Morena stare quietly at the scenery the glimmer of er hair caught his eye. He watched her quietly observing the park and its inhabitants and thought for the umpteenth time how unlike any other woman he'd ever met she was. Uneducated but possessing an inquisitiveness, desire to learn, and quick mind rarely found even among men. Her simultaneous shyness and independent spirit gave her an unusual charm. He knew her very well yet kept discovering new things about her and drawing new conclusions. Her simple, frugal previous lifestyle combined with her sudden introduction to elegance gave her a unique yet beautiful taste in clothes and such things. Most of all, she was so good. She never would admit it if he pressed her, and he never spoke of it to her, but Helene told him that more than once she'd taken in some hungry wanderer and given up her meal so Rodrigo would not have the added expense. Her compassion and patience were felt by and commented quietly on by nearly everyone in the opera. Her door and heart were open to even the most infamous of the dancers. She was the only person he'd ever felt privileged to know.

Morena had similar reflections as she stole glances at Rodrigo as he rowed, his musician's arms struggling, yet steadily pulling the oars. He too was unlike anyone she'd known. It was not only that he was cultured and educated ad despite this had come to treat her as an equal. He was king; he'd tried so hard to be less demanding in their lessons and more patient in rehearsals. He was the most intelligent person she'd ever met in many ways. Lately he'd given more and more not only of his pocketbook but of himself. He was considerate, compassionate, and had proven his goodness to her time and time again. She would never forgive herself if she disappointed him tonight.

It came time to enter the doors of the opera and for the pair to separate and take their respective places. Rodrigo ruefully and anxiously went to his office to settle some matters before going to the orchestra pit. Morena went to her dressing room to prepare herself. She had dancers and singing coming in and out constantly sometimes to help her with makeup, sometimes to lend her a handkerchief or talk to her and try to make her stop shaking. In the moments before the curtain rose she reasoned with herself that it was after all, not a very large part. Of course it was larger than what most–any singer began with but Rodrigo seemed so sure she could do it. She heard the orchestra tune up, the shaky A grating on her ears. She decided it was her least favorite note. Then, a moment later, the quick 6/8 time of the overture she knew so well. In her minds eye Morena pictured Rodrigo conducting in his earnest, brilliant way. She knew how much he wanted this opera to do well and was as nervous for him as he was for himself.

She waited. It was perhaps a half hour before her entrance, a half hour which seemed suspended in time. Every breath seemed to take an hour. To Morena, weeks had passed when she finally heard the music calling her on stage. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I'm going to faint, she thought to herself. As she was grasping for consciousness, Richardran over to her, grabbed her shoulders, whispered harshly in her ear "deep breath NOW!" and pushed her on stage. She's going to ruin all of us, he thought to himself, watching her walk wide-eyed onto the stage. The music stopped. She was to start singing. There wasn't a sound. The audience waited for this unfamiliar face to open her mouth and let something come out. Everyone back stage stared at her, hearts pounding, willing her to sing. In the orchestra pit the musicians held their bows and fingers ready, and Rodrigo waited, baton in the air, ready to bring it down after she sang her first measure. His eyes were closed, praying for her to sing. Please, Morena. If not for yourself then for me, he thought silently and intensely. As if on cue:

"Ma scrozi torne arna."

There was a collective sigh back stage and in the pit. In the pit several of the flutists played too loud, breathing sighs of relief. Rodrigo was relieved and ecstatic and proud. She was beautiful. Never had she sang so well. Never had he been so happy.