Author's note: I am very grateful for the reviews of the last few days. I didn't intend to post this today but I love it and you've all been so encouraging so here it is as thanks!

"I won't wear it!"

Joseph knew precisely who was screaming, from all the way down the royal chambers, before he had to think. He shook his head, not sure what he would do when he reached them both. He spent a lot of his time these days wondering what he would do when he got there. Had he been able to parent her in the way he would have, she would not be screaming down the corridor and slamming every door as she went. She wouldn't be speaking to her mother like that.

He wanted to say he wasn't sure when his daughter had become such a terror but it happened gradually and the culmination of her downfall had been at the beginning of this month, when Anna's maid had happened upon a bottle of vodka secreted in her dresser drawer. She was thirteen and hiding drink and listening to music that made even his liberal toes curl. She was remarkably clever at school but she hadn't been trying for months now. She was wearing ridiculous clothes and watching film she wasn't supposed to and giving her security the slip as regularly as she could.

All of these things a real father would have dealt with but he couldn't and it was beginning to eat him up.

It would be easier, of course, had she been a typical teenager. She wasn't. Her anger was a brand all its own. It had grown and mutated into something incandescent. And it would have been so much easier if he had been a typical father – but he wasn't.

He went towards the screaming match, setting himself up for whatever chaos he was about to meet. Clarisse was supposed to be with the Minister of the Interior just now and he had said he would stop by to escort her but he hadn't realised she'd be mid-battle with their daughter.

And their daughter was a meritorious foe.

"Anna," he heard Clarisse attempting reason but he knew it wouldn't work, "It is simply-"

"I'm not doing it," Anna cried back, "And you can't make me!"

He rounded the door of the family sitting room and stood.

"No," Clarisse looked defeated as she sat on the couch, her eyes scouring a piece of paperwork, "I lost any influence I had over you a long time ago."

He wanted to tell her that she might want to look at Anna when she was so disparaging but Clarisse, when she was particularly angry, tended to seem distant. He didn't think it was the best way to deal with Anna but he couldn't possibly say that to her. At least she was actively trying to stem their daughter's flow of fury.

"I'm not wearing it," Anna flung a bundle of soft pink wool, which unravelled into a dress and fell to the floor at his feet.

"I would pick that up princess," he nodded to the garment, "But I didn't throw it."

"Whatever Joe," she threw herself onto the couch, "This has nothing to do with you."

"Be quiet," Clarisse suddenly stood up, throwing the document she'd been reading aside, "Don't dare speak to anyone like that."

"I am not wearing it and I'm not going to the stupid church to worship a stupid God I don't believe in."

"No, I suppose you are not," Clarisse crossed to the sideboard and poured herself a scotch, "I suppose I have no power over you. I have no way to make you."

"No, you don't," Anna smirked, "You don't. You don't have anything to do with me."

Clarisse turned towards their daughter, "Anna, where did this contempt come from?"

"From you," Anna muttered, "From you, for you, for all of this fucking charade. So much contempt inside me. It's all your fault!"

"Anna!"

He was suddenly furious, as if it had been gathering in him and overflown. Clarisse startled, slamming her tumbler against the sideboard. Anna looked up, eyes wide and alarmed. Then she laughed but it was cold and spiteful.

"What the f-"

"Open your mouth one more time or speak to your mother like that and I swear I will leave you without a leg to stand on," he roared, his fists pulsing at his sides, "Am I clear?"

She looked dazed for a second, as if she wasn't aware of what was happening, but then she turned her face away. He would have sworn, for a second, he saw a smile before she did.

He looked at Clarisse, who turned her face away too.

"Fine but I'm not wearing the dre-"

"Anna," he didn't need to shout this time, "It is non-negotiable. Dress and Church."

"Fine!"

She launched herself from the chair she was sitting in and whipped past him, leaving a trail of indignation as she went.

When he turned back to Clarisse she had polished the tumbler off.

"Would you like one?"

She held up the glass.

"No," he shook his head, "The Minister of the Interior-"

She flourished a dismissive hand, "Cancel it."

He watched her pour another tumbler, "He's already here Clarisse."

She took a swig, "I am not going to meet him – two glasses in and with the feeling that I want a whole lot more – I am not in the mood."

"Fine, alright," he went towards the phone, dialled Violetta and told her to send the Minister away. With a resigned sigh, Violetta listened then hung up.

"You think I'm a bad host," Clarisse accused lightly as she sat down on the couch.

He held up his hands, "I said nothing."

She cocked an eye brow, "You don't need to say anything."

He stood where he had been since he came into the room. She moved to the couch though and slid her jacket off and kicked her shoes away. He caught himself staring, admiring, and shut it down almost immediately.

"Sit, you're making me feel uncomfortable."

He did as he was asked, settling across from her on the settee. She was fixing for an argument but he was too tired to go there. He could tell because she would bate him when she was like this. He'd learned not to bite…most of the time.

"Listen," he said softly, "I'm not prepared to sit here so you can fight with me. I'll keep you company all night if you try to resist that urge to argue."

She smiled crookedly, "It's boring that you know me so well."

"It's not," he said softly, "It's comfortable."

She nodded and smiled but then her face grew serious.

"You should not have chastised her."

"It worked, didn't it?"

She considered his counter for a moment, "Yes, it did."

"Well," he held open his hands, "I don't like her speaking like that…certainly not to you."

She nodded, "She's just so angry Joseph."

"It's inexcusable."

She swung her legs round onto the couch and crossed them primly at the ankles.

"Yes, it is," she rubbed her temples, "And I am at a loss."

"You and me both," he agreed.

"What were you supposed to be doing this evening?"

"Work then basketball," he smiled, "Well I did have basketball with the boys, until I came here."

She tipped her head to the side, "I am certain you could still make it."

"I don't want to," he shrugged.

She held up her glass, "Want one?"

"Bad idea."

"Why?"

Her smile told him she knew exactly why.

"Because it is."

She nodded her agreement, "I suppose it means you can cart me off to bed when I'm too drunk to do it myself. Are you sure I cannot tempt you?"

"Stupid question," he smiled darkly.

She looked serious for a moment, almost forlorn.

"You always have the knack of making me feel like the most sublime creature on earth."

"You are. I'm nothing if I'm not honest."

She smiled and took a more measured sip.

"Who was your first love?"

The question took him by surprise.

"You."

She laughed quietly.

"What?" He asked indignantly, despite knowing why, "You were the first woman I have ever really loved. My first and my last."

She closed her eyes for a second, then standing up, came towards his seat. He made room for her then, sliding along.

"Okay, I accept your answer," she set her glass down on the side table, "I shall rephrase for you. Who was your first girlfriend?"

He felt himself grin, "Emmanuella. We were six and she was in my class."

"Precocious," she laughed.

"First proper girlfriend you mean?"

She nodded her affirmation.

"I was fourteen and her name was Maria. I thought I was in love. I wasn't and she ended up dating my best friend after I cheated on her with a girl at the pier," he felt happiness as he recalled it, "Ten years later I was the best man at their wedding."

She shook her head, "You cheated?"

He felt himself grow cold at the memory; the first infidelity of many.

"I wasn't a good boyfriend…fiancé, lover," he shook his head.

"So this works for you, our little arrangement?"

He knew it wasn't an insult but he couldn't help but feel it that way too.

"I don't know how to explain it," he shook his head, "I'm not excusing it, by any stretch of the imagination. It was easier to walk away than it was to stay with those girls. With us…"

She looked thoughtful, "It isn't?"

He laughed darkly, "To any sane man, it would be."

She nodded and took a sip from her quickly emptying tumbler. He stood up, not sure what strange animal was possessing him and, taking it from her, filled it. It had been so long since they had spoken, just ordinarily, that even under these circumstances he was desperate for this time with her.

"She's so difficult."

He turned round and watched as she nervously examined the upturned palms of her hands.

"Rupert wants to send her off to finishing school as soon as he can."

"No," he found himself saying, not of his own volition, as he handed the glass back to her.

"I know," she nodded, "Do not worry. I've laid that particular beast to rest."

She pulled her legs up so he could sit beside her on the settee though there was a whole seat of space between them. She withdrew as if he might burn her and he wanted to grimace at her reluctance to be near him. He didn't, of course.

"You know," he observed casually, "This set-up is as bizarre as anything. You know that, don't you?"

She smiled spiritlessly and let her head fall forward, "Isn't that an underwhelming observation."

He laughed quietly.

"I know," he shrugged, "I don't know how else to say it."

"There is no other way to say it. You rescued me from our daughter tonight. I suppose I should thank you for that. In normal circumstances –"

"These aren't normal circumstances," he looked into the fire, "And I think it's taken me a very long time to come to terms with that."

"She's unhappy," Clarisse said suddenly, bringing their focus back, "And I don't know how to help her."

He nodded, "Neither do I."

There was a gentle silence then, laced with awkwardness that had imposed itself on them over the course of the years.

She examined the contents of her glass, as if they were incredibly interesting, "Has there been anyone else Joseph?"

It took a second to understand what she meant.

"No," he felt his stomach clench in a mix of indignity and love, "I have thought about it. And a few times…half-heartedly. I never manage it all the way to the bed. I'm stuck. I'm stuck in an apartment in Madrid nearly fourteen years ago."

She looked at him, "Sometimes I don't want to be here. I understand if you don't."

He shook his head, eyes still on the fire, "I've just told you; I'm stuck."

-0-

Anna clawed her way to the back of the closet in which her multitudinous evening gowns lived. She had refused to let the maids clean it for fear they'd stumble across her hidden evidence. It wasn't as banal as a hidden bottle of vodka; it was a collection of her own evidence, lest she think she'd simply imagined the king's revelation of years ago. She pushed a satin evening gown out of the way, the one she would never have worn for it was extremely ugly, and pulled an old tattered box out. She'd banished the book her brother's had fabricated to this box and she set it aside as she rummaged, as appalled by this work of fiction as much as she could possibly be. They'd made it out of some sense of obligation, she supposed, because she was well aware they knew that their father and her father was not one and the same man. They had never breathed a word of it to her, of course, so it felt a cruel joke that they'd tried to trick her into believing something that couldn't possibly be true. She couldn't part with this masterwork though, fake as it was.

She pushed her hand into the bottom and pulled out a bundle of loose cuttings and papers. Pictures of her mother and father, not together of course, and far from official. One was a tasteless article from a gossip magazine a year ago, which conjectured over the queen's unusually close relationship with the Head of Security; Anna wanted to congratulate the magazine's editors on their unintended accuracy. The cheap and flimsy paper was so worn from being handled and touched. She remembered her mother's furious tears after its publication, and Anna had rifled through the trash at the back of the kitchens to rescue it. She recalled Rupert's silent fury at having the truth nearer the surface than ever it had been and Joseph's quiet fear, trickling through everything and everyone. And not once had anyone looked at her, wondered about her, worried about her.

So for four years now she'd kept Rupert's revelation all to herself, nursed it and tended to it until it had grown into something she couldn't control. She had tried on countless occasions; it had sat on the tip of her tongue, heavy and poisonous, and then she swallowed it. Each time it infected her more, becoming more potent and cancerous than it was previously. She practised asking her mother, imagined asking Joe, and each time the words would clog her throat and burn her tongue. And Rupert, Rupert was a fringe character, an archetypal villain she despised and feared in equal measure.

She felt tears come them, stinging and hot, and stuffed the papers back in the box, dropping the horrible book on top. She crawled into a bundle of the dresses and felt the satin against her shoulders, against her warm cheeks, and cried out her frustration, her poison, her confusion.

Anna knew she was merely a by-product of complexity, of some dark and sticky mistake made in a moment of weakness. She could tell, just from the way all of them at looked at her and it made her want to die.

I hope this clears some things up for you but who wants a resolution this quickly? The angst is the best after all! Please leave a review if you have time.