The days passed. Natasha's face stopped swelling and Anna stopped laughing at her. And Francis Bonfeuille returned, bearing a gift wrapped up in pink paper. It was set at the end of Anna's bed, along with the Frenchman himself.

"Bonjour, Anna."

"Stop being French, Bonfeuille." The woman was painting and smoking. "What is that?"

"It's a gift. Un cadeau." A smirk.

"What the hell did I just say to you? 'Un cadeau?' I should smack you." Drag. "Do you want me to open it? What is it anyway?"

"If I wanted you to know what it is, I wouldn't have wrapped it."

Anna ignored the man entirely. "You can't buy me. If you want me to love you, you have to do better than that."

"I don't want to buy you. I want to make you happy."

"Then leave my room."

Pause. "It's so nice to see you're back to normal. Why don't you just come over here and open this gift?"

The paintbrush made a few more colorful spots, and Anna placed it upon her easel. Then, she sat next to Francis, who set the bright little package inside her lap.

It would be a lie to say that Anna was not impressed. At least impressed to a degree. The color pink certainly was not her favorite, but she did not mind it. It was neatly wrapped as well, with a happy bow sitting upon its clean brow.

Miss Ivanovna's long and slender fingers unwrapped the gift, ruthlessly, to find a fine box of black.

The top was removed.

And Anna sighed.

"Allow me to ask you something, Bonfeuille. Do I honestly look like a woman who would wear a dress?"

"You were wearing a lovely gown when you spilled wine on me."

"I was forced to wear that."

"Well, maybe one day, you'll be forced to wear this dress as well." A kiss pressed to that white-angry cheek. "There' something else in there as well."

"What would that be? Some sort of fragrant French monstrosity of a perfume? I'm not quite sure if I could handle that."

"No. Just look, Anna. It's beneath the gown."

So the large silk mess was pulled from the container, creating a pile of lacy pink at Anna's uninhabited side. Then, the bottom was regarded, a few very expensive and high-end paint brushes sitting there.

A part of that glacier heart managed to melt.

Anna remembered asking for new brushes a few weeks ago, but received none. Her mother told her that it was time she stopped painting and owned a husband, and her father assured her that her elder tools would be replaced. Of course, this promise was hallow- the innards of an old show box, tossed aside.

Francis saw this brief lapse of evil.

"Do you like them, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, I suppose I do. Спасибо." The handles were taken and placed within the woman's brush holder, back at the canvas.

"I was hoping we could go for a little stroll in town today." A quiet before the words continued. "Perhaps we could go to the park."

"Are you certain you want to be seen with me in public? Won't that damage your precious reputation?"

"Well, you're going to be my wife soon enough. It isn't as though I can be your husband and never be seen with you. That's simply ludicrous. Besides, who cares about reputations? It's difficult to focus on such a stupid thing when you've gone and fallen in love."

"You're not in love with me." Anna's cigarette was extinguished. "If you say that again, I'm going to be livid with you."

"But Miss Anna, I'm only telling you the truth."

"Really, now? So pray tell, what do you adore about me, if you're so madly in love?"

"Well, I love your attitude, and your short hair. I also love how manly you are."

"Manly?"

"Yes, manly. And despite being so masculine, you're quite lovely, and a very talented artist. The perseverance you possess is incredibly impressible. Not everyone can sit inside a room and paint all day and night, as though it's an occupation." Those horrendous French hands were crossed above the man's lap. "Yes, Anna. Believe it or not, you do have nice qualities. As I said, I even find your shrew side to be unbearably attractive." A stupid goddamn grin. "So? What do you say? Shall we go?"

Anna sighed.

"That seems to be a yes. Come, Anna. Go fetch your carriage."

A minor-heart attack. "Why can't we simply walk?"

"It's too far."

The Russian princess was frozen. What was one to do? Her two worlds were about to touch-the same worlds that were never meant to come eye to eye.

Alfred was going to meet Francis.

Red and green mixing together to create shit brown.

They moved outside, to the carriage. To the American.

The entire time, Anna's chest came to a tumbling halt, while her heart accelerated into full drive. It was freezing and burning at once. Getting cut open and sewn up and still bleeding to death.

The forced pair stopped before the beautiful man with those glimmering spectacles.

Anna forced herself to speak. "Yes-can you take us to the park?"

Alfred stared at his almost lover with a kind if confusion, perhaps even a bit of heart break. "Yes, ma'am." A quick glance was shot to the fiancé.

He was handsome.

A delicate French face. Strong jaw line. Soft golden hair. Cool, knife sharp blue eyes. A nice build.

He was probably rich as hell too.

Suddenly, Alfred felt horrendously small in comparison. Like an ant to a beetle. The man's mere presence filled his veins with hate.

But Alfred did his job. He drove Anna and her goddamn fiancé to the park. And they got out. It made the American cringe when Francis took the woman's hand and drifted into that happy field of children and women.

Then, he sat and waited, as he was meant to.

His blood boiled over.

Alfred was truly beginning to like that strange woman. He wanted to think that he loved her, but was not ready to admit that even to himself. Loving Anna seemed to be a great monument. It was like being the first one to climb a tall mountain, or discover a rare species of animal, or invent a wonderful device.

Perhaps an automobile.

Or a radio.

Or a television.

Or a computer.

Or the internet.

But Alfred did not invent those things, nor could he admit to loving Miss Ivanovna.

However, it did not take the sting away from the wound Francis Bonfeuille had inflicted. The American's arm was still bleeding. Blood was pouring onto his finely polished leather shoes.

And a Frenchman was laughing at him.

Perhaps he truly did love that nymph-that harsh little nymph that gave her soft side to him. He remembered her sweet face, as they sat in the grass together. He remembered the sandwiches. He remembered her soft lips and her lovely eyes and her long, slender neck.

Alfred wanted Anna all to himself. He wanted to be the only one to kiss her and hold her hand and embrace her.

So Alfred hated Francis. There was more loathing in his core for Francis Bonfeuille than he imagined possible and far more than he cared to admit.

And even if the driver boy was not entirely certain of his sentiments, he wished to eliminate that French bastard and take the princess for himself. So he could be the one who took her to the park and held her hand.

Maybe they could even make little candies together one day.

Miss Ivanovna would probably enjoy that.

Part of the fire melted away and was replaced with affection.

But the bitter abhorrence returned when Anna and Francis came to the carriage, to be taken home. Sad glances were exchanged briefly between Anna and her darling.

Then, they came to the mansion.

And the pair went inside, to leave Alfred to his horses and his burning upset.