A/N:  Buenos tardes, Bon après-midi, Il pomeriggio buono, Guten Nachmittag, and good afternoon in whatever other language that you may speak or desire to hear!  'Tis I, Kates, and I have returned at last (I know, I'm a bad girl for taking so long, slap my hand if you want…) to give you not one but three lovely, long, and completely new chapters of my latest story!  Hope you enjoy all this, because I've worked long and hard on it…  ^_^

"Ramp":  Ah, men – can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.  Hope your play works out better than mine though…  Kissing the Count – well, I'll tell you this much, his ability to kiss was not impaired by his accident with the fire, and we'll see where that goes from here.  (Ah the wonders of romance!)  As to Clarice sleeping in the same room and the "proper-ness" of that, well, that is explained in chapters to come.  Fabrizio and Chloe's involvement in the Erik-Clarice escape is also handled, so fear not!  I will eventually deal with all of the loose ends I've got here… *rolls eyes*  Or so we all hope…

Lis:  Yes, aren't they a great couple?  *sighs*  Anywho.  The deal with the mirror is also explained in this chapter; it takes an imagination like mine (you know, slightly more "out there" than is probably good for me…hehe) to conjure up things like that, but yeah.  I'm working on it.

CapturedHeart:  First off, I don't take your reviews negatively at all.  They are very helpful, and I am glad that you have mentioned the things that you have.  As for the importance of the art mystery…well, from this point of the story on, we may all find that it isn't quite as important as it once was, or as we thought it was.  Just wait and see.  ^_~

Riene:  Well, what can I say?  Cheers to the intelligent women of the world!  Isabella d'Este…hmm.  Yes, I can definitely see a similarity between her and Clarice.  And yes, I have read Ms. McKinley's 'Beauty' – it is one of my all-time favorite books!  (Bar, of course, 'Phantom', anything by Shakespeare, and the Lord of the Rings trilogy…)

Everyone else:  Thank you all once again for your awesome reviews, and I hope you enjoy what I've come up with in these next few chapters.  You are the best reviewers an aspiring author could ask for!

And now, on to the story!

Chapter Fourteen –

Nowhere Else in the World

Waves crashed somewhere in the distance, onto the sandy shores.

A seagull took to flight and swooped out over the turbulent, briny waters: wailing its mournful cry as it went.

The goblins did all they could to evade the prince, but it was useless: Skye was determined to rescue the baby princess, and rescue her, he would, no matter how fiercely he had to fight the marauding creatures for her. 

Eventually, the goblins and the Elven prince stumbled into the midst of a raging battle.  Here, the goblins realized that they had the perfect opportunity to lose their pursuer: in the tangled mess of embattled living beings, they would disappear, along with the kidnapped princess.

But they were all of them mistaken. 

No matter what they did, no matter where they ran, Skye was always behind them.  Through the battle they raced, becoming ever more desperate…

Then, surprise!  Skye appeared out of nowhere and slew the goblin who held the wailing infant; then, he took the babe up in his own arms and looked about for escape.  He had dispatched the goblins that had been with her in the moment that he had attacked, but there were others about, he knew.  Quickly then, he looked towards the passageway back into the Elven world: a magical doorway through which he and the goblins had come.  It was still open – he must reach it!

He held the infant princess close and began to run, but then, one of the goblins who lay in a mangled heap at his feet – a goblin whom he thought he had killed – shrieked out its rage and fell upon him with blood in its eyes—

Drip.

"Good lord, that is coldErik!"

And Clarice dropped her book and turned around, looking to see the source of her surprise: a soaking wet Count d'Auberie, who stood behind her with a grin on his face as rivulets of seawater streamed off of him. 

They had been in the coastal city of Roses, Spain, for a little over a week; the date was now August 2nd, 1530.  On their arrival to the place, the Count had rented out an abandoned villa that sat, perched high atop a set of towering stone cliffs, just above the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.  This had been their residence for the past days of their stay in the land of the Spaniards, and no one had yet asked any questions about the building's new tenants, even if it was somewhat odd – and quite unseemly, some would say – for a mysterious, wealthy man and a beautiful young girl to be taking up a residence alone with one another.  However, the villa was large, and Clarice and Erik looked enough like one another either for him to pass as her father or older brother.  And one glimpse of the Count d'Auberie's gold was enough to still anyone's wagging tongues…

If he so wished it.

So was their life, at least for the moment.  They had only rarely seen any other human beings during the time since their arrival – and the people that they did see were only those who lived in the city of Roses, when either or both of them went to fetch food or whatnot – and Erik had not yet mentioned going to find the next piece of their puzzle. 

Now, as Clarice looked at him, she thought briefly of all that had passed them since their meeting in France, late one night in spring at the store that she and her aunt owned.  She had become a part in the house of a famously wealthy and enigmatic nobleman and had seen many wonders: the grandeur of the French and Italian nobility, the wild beauty of a ship at sea, and now the heedless, passionate loveliness of Spain. 

What would she experience next, with her dearest friend at her side?  She could not imagine…and yet she was happy because of this.

But as for that direct moment, she was not happy.

Setting aside her writing, she turned around in her chair – a wooden piece especially created for use at the seaside – and fixed her companion with piercing, wrathful green eyes.

"If you got my book wet, my lord—" she began, but he cut her off, amusement and mischief sparkling in his yellow eyes.

"Then there will be all the world to pay?" he guessed, and backed off, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender when she made a move to stand, the look on her fair young face promising judgment.  "All right, all right, milady – I crave your pardon!  Do not attack me in your vengeance; I swear, I will keep the sea apart from you when you wish to be otherwise employed, from henceforth."

And he swept her a gallant bow, at which she could not help but giggle – it was a rather comical sight: the masked nobleman, wet through from a swim, quite obviously, bowing as grandly as if he were at court, to a girl with ink stains on her fingertips and a face flushed a poppy red with the heat of the sweltering afternoon sun. 

Shaking her head and still laughing a bit, she gave up her ire and turned back around again, beckoning for him to join her. 

Erik's eyes did not leave off of their sparkling as he elegantly acknowledged her invitation and sat down beside her on the long leg-rest of the chair, glancing at her sideways as he did so. 

Clarice had spent many long hours out in the sun since the day that they had first stepped off of the Odyssey onto Spanish turf: her skin had gradually gone from a pale ivory to a gold-tinged cream, seeming as if it had been kissed by the sun itself.  It was an enchanting sight: her, sitting there on the golden beach, her ebony locks tousled by the rough sea winds and eyes shining, reflecting the sea's vast blue-green depths within themselves.

Enchanting indeed…

But, clearing this off, he focused his mind on the real reason why he had come to see her, and trekked down the beach from the city to the place where their current abode happened to be.  As amusing and enjoyable as it was to stand there and tease her by hanging over her shoulder while she wrote, there were more pressing matters at hand.

So he brought out the folded piece of paper that he had kept stuck in his breeches' pocket up until that moment, with a flourish, catching her attention.  As her green eyes riveted on the parchment in his hand, he announced, "I almost forgot to tell you the reason I came down here to find you – I've a letter from Mme. Colbert.  I thought that perhaps you'd like to read it."

Clarice's eyes took on an interested and intense glow and she reached out, taking the proffered letter from his hands and sitting back to read it.  Erik remained where he was, watching her as she scanned over its contents with an eager hunger written across her face and almost tangible in her air. 

Mme. Colbert's letter had been awaiting him in Roses when he had journeyed into the city that morning, as was the habit that both he and Clarice had picked up while staying there.  In it, they were told that the rest of the Count's retinue – those who had stayed behind in Milan after he and Clarice had left, in order to escape the scheming Marquis de Mercier and his accusations of murder on the Count's part – had returned to the nobleman's castle in France, and all were safe and well. 

More important, however, was the news that Erik and Clarice's fellow conspirators in their escape, the Duke Fabrizio de Luca and Clarice's handmaid: Chloe, had not suffered the Marquis's wrath at the evasion of his wiles.  For the moment, all worry stemming from fear of the Marquis's next actions could leave them.  The corrupt nobleman had no idea where they had gone, and he would not have knowledge of their current location until it was too late. 

Of this, Erik was sure.  Armand would not get to them – not this time.

Meanwhile, next to him, Clarice had finished reading the housekeeper's letter and now sat back with a sigh of contentment and, Erik noticed, relief. 

Turning to her, he said, "Well?"

The girl's emerald gems of eyes were distant and reflective as she replied, looking out to sea and yet not seeing it, or him.

"I am glad that they are all safe home – especially Fabrizio and Chlöe."

His eyebrows quirked behind the mask in a show of wry skepticism, which she couldn't see but was aware of anyway by his air.

"You were worried for them?"

"Yes…" She nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. "I thought that if they were caught there, masquerading as us, certainly…" Then she stopped, breaking off suddenly, and looked at him, her gaze now focused and penetrating, pensive. "But you had thought of that, hadn't you?  You already knew."

Her friend's yellow eyes were dark and serious, as was the expression on the visible parts of his face.  "I would never leave anyone to such dire chance," he told her, solemnly. "No, I know the Marquis de Mercier much too well.  He only wants me – you and me, to be exact.  That is why he hired a private interrogator – he is quite aware of the fact that none of his accusations towards me would hold up in a formal court of law.  No, my dear…he is trying to capture us, and he plans to do it by underhanded means…so I resorted to a few of my own."

Realizing what he meant, Clarice finished for him, "And so you had Fabrizio and Chlöe disguise themselves as you and me, leaving them with the command to only stay long enough for anyone to see them and think that the two of them were us, but not long enough for the Marquis de Mercier to arrive and catch them there."

She paused.

"And now they are safe in their respective homes…"

"As are we."

Clarice then gazed at him admiringly, a fond smile playing about her curving lips and causing her eyes to sparkle beautifully. 

"You really don't leave anything to chance, do you?"

His eyes burned into hers.

"Not anything…or anyone."

Then he stood up and she followed him with her eyes, tilting her head back so that she could still look into his masked face. 

"I must take myself off to the house now, milady," he told her, a lightheartedness coming back into his voice and manner after the seriousness of the moment before. "There is a certain matter that I must needs attend to there, and I find that I cannot very well put off dealing with it for much longer without risking some considerable loss to my own plans…"

She stood, fairly bouncing off of the chair in excitement, as she guessed, "It's the next part of the mystery, isn't it?  You're going to go find it."

Erik nodded.

"That I am, lady…and I was wondering if, perchance, you would like to join me this time.  For I think that we have earned the right to make this newest discovery together."

*                       *                       *

They had, in the end, and both well knew it.

Never had the two of them gone off to make an actual advancement in the unraveling of the jewel puzzle together.  Each time before, it had always been the same routine: he and Clarice would both work on the puzzle itself together, and when they had found the answer behind its clues, he would depart to find the next piece in the set, but always alone. 

It had been that way with the first portrait, of Love and Death dancing together amidst a sea of English and Spanish courtiers; he had gone to England on his own, there to make purchase of the Windsor Castle ballroom portrait.  It had been that way when he had returned and they had discovered, from the Cupid and Psyche painting, that their way now lay on the road, or rather the sea-path, to Milan, and when she had learned, from the statue of Julius Caesar, that the piece in the set after the statue itself was located in Germany.  And now – now that they were in Spain, in the city that the piece from Germany, the mirror, had named as the next location…now they would finally go together to make the next discovery.  

At last.

Clarice could barely contain her excitement.  Milan had been thrilling, to be sure – she had never been given an opportunity to travel outside of France before in her life – but to actually be at her friend's side when they found the object of their search…

At last.

She followed him up the steep pathway that led from the windswept beach up to the house that was perched on the towering cliffs above, all the while trying to think of what the next piece of artwork they would find would be.  She had seen many examples of fine craftsmanship in their quest thus far: two paintings, a statue, and now a mirror.  What could they possibly find next?  Surely, it would be as intriguing and wonderful as its predecessors, whatever it was…

And with that, he was holding the door open for her and she had walked inside, giving him her heartfelt thanks for his gallantry.  Once she had entered the cool darkness of the villa's foremost hall, she paused for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the shadows and also for him to join her, having closed the door behind him. 

The place that now surrounded her was sumptuous, sensual, and alluring: true Spanish architecture, built and decorated in the style of the Moors, who had carried their exotic influences of the arid lands of the Holy Land and the realms about it to the southernmost parts of Europe.  Scrolling twists and turns of black wrought iron, detailed with stars and flower blossoms and sunbursts were all about her, and walls of rough, creamy white stucco, with floors of detailed tile mosaics in vibrant jewel tones: sapphire, emerald, amethyst, topaz, and even a deep, deep ruby. 

In the gardens that surrounded the villa and the courtyards within it grew all manner of imported and native greenery: olive and orange trees, climbing roses and bright marigolds, herbs and shrubbery, and many others, all creating a rejuvenating, fascinating haven where the outdoors and indoors came together in one smooth, seamless blend. 

How many hours had she spent simply watching the day go by in either one of the rooms of the villa, or outside in the gardens?  How she would miss it here: it was almost as familiar and beloved to her as the castle back in the mountains of France…

She turned to her companion, cocking her head to one side in a show of expectant serenity.  "Shall we, milord Count?"

And he grinned at her from behind the mask.

"We shall, milady."

Then, together, they went into the library, where the mirror from Germany awaited them, set up like some shrine on a table there: the candles in its sockets unlit but soon to once again make the mirror's glassy surface glow with their flames.

Erik retrieved another spare candle from the kitchen, where the flames in the fireplace were never allowed to go out, unless they would be away from the house all day and unable to attend to them, and lit the tall white tapers that were already in their place in the mirror's frame.  Then they stood back and watched as the mirror – which was really more of a simple piece of tinted glass than an actual mirror, so transparent was its surface.  If they both stood on either side of it, they could look almost directly through it to see each other, although the haze of silver that was still there to make the piece at least seem as if it was a true mirror somewhat hampered this.             

Clarice gazed into the mirror's depths, seeing the map of Spain materialize as the flames of the candles grew and brightened it. 

There, still, was the rose that marked the town that bore the flowers' name, and nothing else gave any indication of where exactly the next piece of the puzzle would be.  In previous times, an exact location had always been given: Windsor Castle's ballroom, a certain room in Milan's Sforzesco Castle and another in the fortress in Germany. 

If the past was any indication of the present, they would find a location somewhere in the mirror – and then they would go to it.

She looked up and met her companion's yellow eyes over to top of the mirror's frame.  Then he gave her a resigned, knowing look and said, "Let's to 't, then, milady."

They took their respective places on either side of the mirror and began to pore over it once again: two pairs of eyes scanning over it with a peculiar intensity, silence falling into the room.  Suddenly then, Clarice gave a wordless exclamation of pleasantly surprised triumph, and she beckoned quickly for him to join her on her side of the mirror.  He did so, and she pointed to one of the roses that had been carved in the piece's frame.

"That is not a rose, my lord," she said, confidently. "It is the blossom of a dogwood tree – are you in any way familiar with the story that is told about that particular denizen of the forest?"

He nodded, gazing at the four-petaled flower in silence for a moment.

"It was told that it was to be used as the wood for the cross upon which was executed the Christ, and became so ashamed and saddened that the promise was given to it that it would not be forever remembered in such infamy.  It was therefore given flowers that would serve forever as a reminder to all those who looked upon it of that greatest of all sacrifices – four petals with nail scars on their tips, like to those that were borne on the two hands and two feet of Jesus of Nazareth."

He paused, suddenly knowing where they would find the next part of the puzzle as well. "The words on the frame read, 'Look in my depths for enlightenment'…and where better to find enlightenment than in a church?  It's in the monastery in Roses."

They stood away from the mirror and he briefly smiled at her, a wealth of warmth and fondness even in that short moment.

"Join me on a ride to the home of the local monks then?"

She smiled, the brilliance of the expression lighting the candlelit shadows.

"I would much enjoy that, my lord."

*                       *                       *

"Once upon a time, in the land of Ireland during its most ancient days, there was a great warrior known as Fionn Mac Cumhail: ruler of the tribe of people who had taken on the name the Fianna.  Tales of his bold, wondrous deeds were known all across the land, and there was no hero held in higher reverence than he.

Now it chanced that one day, while out on the hunt, Fionn happened to come upon the most extraordinarily beautiful deer: a slender, lithe doe, whom he chased eagerly through the forest.  But then, at length, the doe simply ceased to run and lay down upon the ground, as Fionn's own well-trained hounds frolicked about her, licking her face and head and behaving as if they quite adored her.

So astonished by this was the great hero that he brought the lovely creature to his home with him and decreed that no one should touch her, or attempt to lay any harm upon her.  Late one night after this, Fionn happened to find a most beautiful woman at his door.  With tears in her eyes, she begged him to be her protector from an evil sorcerer of that land – a Druid of most dark and wicked ways – and he swore that she should suffer no harm when he was about to defend her.

In time, Fionn and the lovely maiden, a lady of the Faery: Saeve, by name, were wed, and life passed by the two quite happily. 'She is this world and the next,' Fionn said of her, adoration in his eyes and voice. 'She is completion.' 

But their bliss was not meant to last. 

One day, Fionn returned from being away to find his men wracked with a most bitter grief.  When he asked what had caused this, they told him that a man, who had appeared to be Fionn himself, had come out of the woods, and Saeve had run joyously to greet him. 

'Doubt darkened our hearts, for we knew that you were not yet to have returned,' they told him, 'and we implored her to stay back, and wait for you – or rather, the man who looked to be you – but she refused to wait your coming.'

 'Let me go to my love!' she cried, and we did.

She ran out to greet you, and suddenly, the figure who held her lifted hand, and tapped her with a hazel wand – and even as we watched, the fair Saeve disappeared, and lo! Standing in the place where she had been was a trembling doe.  Then, the pack of hounds that was with the man dragged her away into the forest, their master following behind…and she was gone.'

Then Fionn gave a great and awful cry, as one who was smote almost to death with grief, and henceforth, the Fianna people knew a time of great mourning.  Many years passed.  Saeve did not return, for it was clear what had come to pass: the Druid had come to claim her, in the form of her beloved, and now she was his prisoner. 

One day, however, while once again on the hunt, Fionn and his men came upon a small, fair-haired boy, who looked as if he might be the copy of the beautiful Saeve herself.  Fionn, out of pity, took the child in and cared for him as he might a son, and in time the boy learned to speak the language of the people who cared for him. 

And this was the tale that he told.

'I lived in a land where no men were,' he explained to them, 'and a beautiful doe was my only companion.  She loved me, and I loved her.  A dark, wicked man came sometimes and would speak to her, sometimes gently, and sometimes angrily, but nothing ever came of it.  Then, one day, he came to see us, and took her away – and I never saw her again.  I wandered out into the land, and then you found me.'

At last, Fionn understood the riddle of the boy's origins.  The child was none other than the son of Saeve and Fionn himself: born after Saeve had been taken from her husband by the evil Druid.  The bitter winter of grief that had, for so long, oppressed Fionn's noble heart passed; he had his son, and although Saeve might never return to them, they had one another, and the Fianna people.  And so Fionn brought up the boy – whom he named Oisi'n, or the Little Fawn – and they passed into the legend that you have now heard in full: the tale of Oisin's mother.

"The end."

Clarice looked up, slowly, taking her eyes off of the flickering flames in the fire at her feet, reluctantly returning to the real world – to what was known as reality – from the realm of ancient fairy tales, epic adventures, and beautiful love stories as old as time.  She turned her gaze upon the man who was seated on a bench behind her, with her backbone resting up against his legs from the knee down. 

Sighing softly, she then looked into the dark, blue-black night sky, hearing the distant music of the crashing waves upon the beach far below them, and the crickets gently thrumming their own melodies in the night air, as the stars shone like tiny pinpricks of white light, the moon on the rise behind them.

"That was a very sad story, was it not?"

Her companion's voice was gentle and entrancing, more than hypnotic, and she felt lulled into the blissful calm of sleep by its cadence: safe and content with him there to watch over her.  Finally then, she replied, her voice a mere murmur, "Yes…it was very sad.  Erik?"

Again, she looked up to him, but she could only see the vaguest outline of his figure, as he was sitting mostly in the darkness, further away from the fire than her.  His hand paused in its stroking through the hair on the top of her head momentarily.

"Yes?"

Clarice stirred, tucking her feet underneath herself so as to keep them warm and rearranging the drape of her lacy shawl about her shoulders, before speaking again.

Then, "Do you believe in fairy tales?"

Silence.

"Yes…I believe in the kind of fairy tale that you've been writing, lady – where lands far above and beyond our own exist, with creatures and people that could have been created only by the greatest of imaginations…stories in which anything is possible."

"Do you think that anything is possible?"

Her dearest friend's eyes suddenly glimmered golden in the light of the dancing flames, brightened for some unexplained, hidden reason, and his hand moved to her shoulder, almost in a caress.  Clarice leaned into his touch, closing her eyes and loving his nearness to her.

"My own sweet white rose." he said, softly. "At this moment, I cannot bear to think that anything is impossible."

Then, after those words, they both fell silent, going back into the wordless reverie that had possessed them before.  Clarice looked out to the blackened horizon of the dark sea, her green eyes piercing through the nighttime shadows and seeing worlds beyond it that did not exist, save in the realm of imagination. 

Erik's story of the ancient Irish hero, which was told in picture on the tapestry that they had found at the monastery earlier that day: the piece of the artwork puzzle that they had come to Spain's shores in search of, remained in her mind.  The passionate, devoted love of the hero and his wife, the deep-rooted treachery of the evil, vengeful Druid, the awful tragedy of their parting, and wondrous joy in the discovering of a long-lost son…all these remained in her mind like a splinter. 

Someday, very soon, she would have to look deeper into the story told on that tapestry, to find a location – an actual, tangible place that they could go to in their quest for the stolen jewel – but as for now, she was content to simply remember the tale that her friend had just told her.  On the canvas of her imagination formed a picture of the age-old tale of love and loss, shimmering like an emerald: a perfect, living jewel that was the land of Ireland, the realm of the story's hero and his lady-love…

Behind her, Erik stirred and then bent down to her, stooping so that he could move his hands to her upper arms, just above the elbows, and then raise her to stand with him, all the while gazing into her eyes with his own gleaming golden eyes.

"It's late, cherie," he said, softly. "Time for you to be dreaming, safe inside."

And then he took her into the house, one arm resting gracefully – warmly, protectively – about her shoulders, neither saying one word to break the beautiful silence that now surrounded them. 

Night went on, taking its regular, unhurried, tranquil course, and life stilled to an almost complete quiet, as Clarice went to sleep: resting blissfully in her own deep, enveloping bed, to dream the hours away with visions of her very own fairy tale, in which she was the princess, and a strangely familiar, tall, handsome young man with dark hair and stunning golden eyes was her prince…

*                       *                       *

The next morning was different from any other, she knew even before awakening.   

It was her birthday.

On this glorious August morning, seventeen years a-gone now, she had made her entrance into the world.  August 3rd, 1513 – the day of Clarice Boisvert's birth. 

The sound of birdsong, the playful summer morning breeze, waves crashing in white-capped breakers on the beach far below, and gulls crying out to one another greeted her ears as she swam out of her sleep into the conscious world.  Not yet willing to leave the bliss of her wonderful dreams, she turned over slightly in her bed, half-burying her face in the snowy white pillow that her head rested upon.  On the air was the salty, familiar scent of the ocean, accompanied by the perfume of the jasmine flowers that grew in a tangled curtain just outside of her room's lattice-frame windows, and the much heavier fragrance of roses…

When did roses grow so near to my bedchamber?

Suddenly Clarice's eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed, astonished at the sight that now met her eyes as she looked out at her surroundings. 

Someone had been into her room that morning, and thrown open the windows so that the sunshine could flow, free and uninhibited, into the place: warming it with its glorious golden rays – and that same someone had also scattered the luscious, velvety, blood-red petals of many, many roses all over her bed, so that they surrounded her both on the bed and on the floor like a shower of ruby raindrops.  Clarice could barely contain her overwhelming delight.  Not only were there rose petals on her bed, there were also dozens of white rose blooms themselves, all fresh-cut, scattered about her room, shining in the shadows and glowing in the morning sunshine.

And on the chair that sat across from her canopied bed, next to the tiled fireplace, had been placed a very lovely gown of dusky rose silk, with a note pinned to it: a message written upon it in black ink. 

'Happy 17th birthday, ma belle – I hope you don't mind, but you are to have a surprise tonight, and I must needs be away all day until evening to attend to certain "business" of mine, which calls me quite urgently.  Wear this gown, enjoy your day...and think of me!' it read.

Clarice scanned over the note once again after her initial reading, her lips gradually curving into a knowing smile.  Erik, Erik, Erik – whatever would he surprise her with next?

Well, if he must needs be away all day and leave her to her own means while she slowly went mad with suspense as to what this 'surprise' of his was to be, she might as well spend that time enjoying herself, as the note had entreated her to do.  She glanced then at the door that had been placed in the wall nearby her, emerald eyes gleaming.

Today she was seventeen…and she would indeed enjoy herself!

*                       *                       *

No one lived on the beach for miles in either direction of the villa, which was why neither Erik nor Clarice had had much contact with anyone other than each other during the time of their stay in Roses so far.  This morning, Clarice decided that she would take advantage of that fact and indulge in some leisure time spent down on the beach.  So, as the sun shone down on the golden sands and the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean that ran along that particular point of Spain's northeastern coast, the adventurous young French artiste experienced her first contact with the ocean's salty waves. 

Most women of that day and age did not know how to swim, but Clarice did, for some odd reason.  Why she had learned, she hadn't any idea; however, she was certain that there were the select few others of her gender that had mastered the art, and what was wrong with being possessed of such a knowledge, anyhow?  More likely than not, it would prove an asset, especially with all the sea-faring that she had been doing in the last few months of her life…

The water was at once both deliciously cold and comfortably warm, and she took to the waves like a mermaid, emerging every once in a while from beneath its surface to breath in the arid summer air and throw her hair back from her face, onto her back, where it glistened like a river of liquid ebony.  When she was not enjoying the water, she remained on the beach, letting her linen shift, which she had chosen to wear as swimming attire, dry in the hot sun while she lay on the sand, reading a book: her mind completely leaving the world and traveling to places far beyond it.  The hours of morning crept away, leaving her at noon with a voracious hunger and a warmth of the skin that told her that retiring indoors would be the best course of action now.

In her room, she drew a bath from the inventive washroom plumbing system that the house's expelled owners – Moors – had installed long before she or the Count d'Auberie had ever thought to inhabit the place. 

The things that she had brought with her from the Odyssey were few but luxurious: only the items that she had been able to fit into her trunk, along with her other belongings, and among them was a set of cut glass bottles of various colours – a vivacious red-pink for rose oil, a deep sea-blue for grapefruit and peppermint-scented scrub, entrancing green for white tea and chamomile, and amethyst purple for, what else?, lavender, to name a few.  Clarice made up her bath and stepped in, sluicing off the sea brine from her grateful skin and indulging in a good, long soak. 

At length, when she felt as if she might turn into a human-size prune from too much of a good thing, she let the water drain out and wrapped herself up in one of the delicate, whispering silk robes that were the part of her wardrobe that had been stored on the Odyssey.  Then she went downstairs, looking for all the world like a playful peacock blue, golden-yellow, and jade green hummingbird of supreme grace and elusiveness.  Into the kitchen she went, seeking the sustenance that her stomach now began to so desperately crave.  A blood orange, pomegranate, and sprig of purple grapes were part of her selection, along with the end of a loaf of bread bought in town earlier that week and a slathering of tangy, soft farmer's cheese; some olives and a glass of tea brewed in the sun completed the piece, and Clarice took herself – and a good long book – out of doors and into one of the jasmine-covered alcoves in the gardens.

So intensely concentrated was she upon the adventures of the Spanish hero that she was now reading of, that the sun had begun its descent to the horizon almost before she had realized it.  Looking up suddenly, she noted the progress of the day and remembered that Erik, her friend, had promised to return in the evening, and it was almost that time. 

Hastily gathering up what was left over of her lunch and her book, she ran back to the house and dashed through the kitchen, across the front hall, and up the stairs, not pausing until she had reached her room. 

But, surprise of all surprise, it seemed as if she had again been visited by some kind fairy!

For, once again, her room was decorated with a multitude of roses – all a deep, dark red that was almost black – and candles had been lit all over it, seeming to sparkle like stars or diamonds.  On her chair was yet another gown…and this one was even more beautiful than its predecessor.  Clarice maintained her presence of mind long enough to close the door behind herself, and then she crossed the room, approaching the waiting gown in silent reverence.  She gently picked it up, holding it by the shoulders, carefully, as if it was so delicate that it would rend itself into shreds if touched the wrong way. 

She gazed at it.

It was so beautiful.

Dark, midnight blue was its colour: a shade that reminded her of the night sky, bereft of the moon and stars.  The feel of its material against her fingertips was unlike any sensation that she had ever experienced before – she very nearly began to wonder if she was dreaming the whole scene, so incredibly silky and effortlessly delicate was the touch of the gown on her skin.  Its sleeves were long and full-cut, fluttering like butterfly wings, made of some transparent black fabric with beads of jet embroidered heavily along their draping cuffs; the same beading was about the sloping, squared neckline and hem, and scattered about everywhere else in the gown's folds.  It flowed in her arms like a waterfall of inky, liquid ebony, splashing down to the ground with sheer, heedless elegance and glorious beauty.

Slowly, as one who is in a dream, she slipped the dark wonder over her shoulders, letting it drop into place about her perfect figure, melding to her curves as if it had been created solely for her wear.  Clarice stared at it in awe, scarcely able to believe her own eyes.  So, tonight was to be a special night? 

She glanced at the door that led out of her room and into the further regions of the house, knowing that this newest surprise was only the beginning of the night of 'surprise' that lay before her, if Erik had anything to do with it. 

Then she would make it special, for her own part.

*                       *                       *

The most romantic of poets could not have created a more flawlessly beautiful moment; it was not even imaginable.  Not imaginable, or possible.

The front hall of the villa was a-light with candles: some glowed in sconces upon the stucco walls, some shone down from the wrought iron chandelier that hung above the compass rose floor.  Someone had created a garland of black roses and jasmine vine and wound it through the banister, letting its ends drape freely, and someone had arranged for a quartet of supremely talented musicians to play their music softly in the background that evening.

That same someone now waited at the bottom of the stairway, gazing up in knowing expectancy.  He had planned for so long to give her this: a truly wonderful day in which to celebrate her own birth…and now his plans had come full circle, tonight was that night!

A gentle tap of a slipper sounded on the stairway above him.  He looked up, turning his face towards the curve of the banister, and his eyes lit upon her as she paused, resting one hand on the rose and jasmine-covered ledge, gazing down at him with tender, utter devotion and understanding in the shimmering depths of her green eyes. 

And he beheld her in all her glory: black hair piled in a careless, upswept mass atop her head, held by bejeweled combs of sapphire and black diamonds and emeralds – an enthralling contrast to the pure whiteness of her skin, which seemed to have a sparkling sheen about it, and her full, glossy lips, which had curved into a peerless smile.  In her free hand, she held a long-stemmed black rose: clasping it within her fingers as if it was the hand of an adored lover…

He could only remain where he was, and gaze at her, knowing that he had never seen anything more beautiful in all of his long years.

A brilliant white grin suddenly splitting his face, shining from behind the white porcelain mask that hid most of his features, he took a step forward, reaching out a hand to her, beckoning: come…

And the dazzling creature did. 

Gathering her waterfall of skirts into one graceful hand to hold them out of the way of her tiny, slender feet, she came down the staircase to him, stretching out her own hand so that he could clasp it in his when she was within his reach.  For one heart-wrenchingly perfect moment, they stood facing one another, gazing into one another's eyes as if there was nothing else in the world but the two of them.  Then, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it: slowly, gently, ardently.

"Princess…" he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face. "You are so beautiful."

She smiled at him as well, and replied, softly, "Princess?"

Gathering both of her hands into his, he nodded and said, "Yes…tonight, you are a princess…and I can only hope that you might let me play your prince."

The silence in the air after those words was profound and spellbound, as enchanted as a night after fairy revelries in the old tales.  Then he stepped away from her, standing to one side, and offered her his arm, smiling at her with the elegance and surety of a true nobleman.

"Would milady find it in her heart to join a lonely man whose heart she has utterly captured for dinner, that they might both celebrate the joyous occasion of her birth?"

Clarice felt her own face split with an elated grin, and she nodded.

"Oh – please do, Erik!"

And he returned her smile, and wound her arm through his with the practiced ease of a soul long accustomed to court life and gallantries, and led her from that front hall and into the evening that awaited them…

*                       *                       *

Their dinner had been set up in a gazebo in the gardens just outside of the villa: close enough so that he might return into the kitchen to retrieve the courses as they came, but far away enough that they felt entirely secluded and undisturbed.  As Erik came into the gazebo, bearing a tray of hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of wine, and then seated himself across from her at the small, intimate table, she gazed at him: wonder, almost disbelief in her eyes.

"You did all of this…for me?"

She gestured to the lighted gardens, the kitchen – from whence issued the smells of what promised to be the most delicious of foods that she had ever before tasted –, and the musicians as they played softly in the background, the strains of their music drifting through the jasmine-scented night air to the couple sitting in the gazebo. 

Erik nodded, seeming hesitant and shy in her presence for what seemed to be the first time ever in their acquaintance.

"You did this, for my birthday – for me, at no one's behest other than your own?"

Still, those deep golden eyes watched her: gleaming like topaz in the ambiance of the candlelight, never leaving her, seeming to pierce into her very soul itself, and warm her.  "Yes."

Clarice felt her throat tighten painfully, as if her vocal cords had tied themselves into a knot, and her vision began to blur, as salty tears of utter, incredulous, but beautiful joy burned in her eyes.  Over the waves of emotion that threatened to drown her, she whispered, "Thank you." She paused, looking at him and knowing that there was no one who was dearer to her than this man: the Count d'Auberie, Erik, her first and most beloved friend. "Thank you."

And suddenly he was out of his chair and kneeling before her, taking her hands in his and turning her so that she faced him. 

Looking up into her young face, he seemed to know all of her thoughts, all of her feelings and hopes and dreams: past, present, and future, and then his hand came up, cupping against her cheek as she let a single, hot tear drop from her eye onto it.  As gentle and knowing as a soul mate, as loving and warm as a father or brother, and yet as passionate and devoted as a lover who had known her and everything about her for ages past, he stroked his thumb against her cheek, caressing her tenderly.

"Happy birthday, Princess." was all that he said.  "Happy birthday."

Then she was in his arms, holding him close as if she never wanted to let go – as if all of the wonderful dream-come-true that she now saw before her would rip apart and became as if it had never existed, had never been real, even for a moment, if she released him, and he was holding her just as ardently, just as devotedly.

My prince.

At length, they finally turned their attentions to the sumptuous dinner that he had been away in the city of Roses to prepare, and fell upon it with a voracious hunger.  Clarice marveled at what he had come up with: a pasta that he named to be 'scampi', with fresh seafood scattered about it, so spicy that it made her tongue tingle with delight, fresh white rolls sprinkled with melted butter and crystallized ginger, some sort of fruit sorbet that sent chills up her spine: served between courses to 'cleanse the palate', she was told, and a host of other unbelievably delicious items. 

By the end of it all, she had begun to wonder if she would ever fit into any of her slender-cut gowns again, but even then he wasn't finished. 

After having cleared off the table, he returned with yet another wine bottle, and a covered silver platter.  Clarice groaned in mock-horror from her seat, tilting her head back and half-closing her eyes, making both the sparkles in her makeup and in her jewelry beam into the night like starlight. 

"Oh please, no, Erik!  You can't tell me that you've got more up your sleeve – not now, surely!  For the love of human decency, tell me no!"

But he only gave her a maddening grin and took his seat across from her again, moving at the same time to pop the cork of the bottle.  Clarice watched him, amusement and utter contented happiness lighting her eyes. 

"This, I think, milady, you will not find entirely distasteful – I give you now merely an after-dinner trifle, meant to set stars to dancing on your tongue."

She regarded the object of his words with pretend skepticism as he reached across the table to pour its contents into the clear glass flute that he had set in front of her previous to seating himself.  The wine that she now saw looked to be some sort of white wine, perhaps a very pale Chardonnay – but it bubbled and fizzed so that she thought this could not be the case.  Erik poured himself a glass of the stuff – whatever it was – and then took the lid off of the platter, revealing a plateful of the most luscious, ruby-red strawberries that she had ever seen. 

Then he raised his glass to her, and said, "To you, Princess, and to your life being one of complete happily-ever-after, forever and ever and ever."

With a grin, she raised her own glass and clinked it against his, replying, "To complete happily-ever-after's for each person on the earth – for all of us who truly believe in the wonder and magic of fairy tales."

She took her first sip of her wine and was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of a light, dizzying, fizzing sensation in her nose and on her tongue.  Bemused by this, she held her glass up, staring at the pale gold contents within it, and asked, "Erik?"

At that moment, her companion was occupied in selecting a strawberry from the plate.  His reply of, "Hmm?" was somewhat distracted.

"What exactly is this stuff?  It causes my tongue to tickle very oddly, and my nose as well…what have you given me?"

He sat back, rolling the stem of the strawberry that he had picked out between his thumb and forefinger, causing it to spin madly, and grinned at her, an elusive, almost teasing sparkle in his yellow eyes. 

"It is called 'champagne', m'lady."

Clarice eyed her glass again, turning the name over in her head a few times and finding that she had never heard of such a thing before, even in all her time at the Count's own house and in the court at Milan. 

"Champagne?" she said, trying it out.  Then, suddenly, she felt an urge to laugh; and she did so, quite animatedly and clearly.  "Champagne – ha!  I like that: it sounds so playful, so utterly uncaring of what the world thinks of it.  Champagne.  Where else in the world can you get it?"

The elusive sparkle in those yellow eyes intensified and he replied, "Nowhere else in the world – yet, that is."

Not knowing quite what to think of this, she looked at him for a moment longer and then decided, Well, my girl, you haven't been all over the known world as he has yet – there's probably a lot that you don't know about, and probably even more than you'll ever know!  Don't waste your time worrying about the details; just enjoy what you have with him here and now!

And so she did.

They stayed at the table for hours into that evening, talking and laughing and relishing one another's company completely. 

Finally then, Erik stood up and held out his hand to her.  She gazed up at him, eyes sparkling and face flushed with pleasure, and he said, "Come now, milady – let us to the beach, for a walk along the waters of the serene Mediterranean, as a fitting means to end the day of your most glorious seventeenth birth-anniversary."

Clarice could not think of a better way to do that very thing, and so, placing her hand in his, she let him lead her down the path and onto the beach. 

The sand had become cool by then, and she slipped off her slippers once they had stepped onto it, carrying them in one hand.  Erik took them down to where they stood almost within reach of the water, and they stood there for a long, silent while: neither speaking, but both knowing that their hearts beat as one.  Erik's arm unconsciously went about her waist, winding around her slender figure and draping there as if it had always meant to be in that position, and she unknowingly leaned up against him, as they savored each other's warmth and closeness. 

Then, Clarice stirred, her head moving against his chest, where it had pillowed itself, and she made a soft laughing noise. 

Angling his head so that he could look down, into her face, he watched her face for a moment, and then asked, "What?"       

She shrugged slightly, seeming unwilling to move in his embrace.

"Oh…nothing.  It's just that…it's just that not even I could have ever imagined this – being here…with you.  For all of my imagining of far-off lands and fantastic adventures…I could have never come up with something as…as totally indescribable as this very moment."

Then there was silence again between them.

"We are the moment that we live in; we are the past, and we are the future." he said, softly, and then he released her, stepping away and facing her, as they stood holding hands only a little ways apart, ducking his head so that he could look directly into her face.  "I would not change anything that has happened to us, Clarice: my white rose of France," he said. "And I would not change anything that will happen to us."

"Nor would I." she swore, passionately.

He stepped near to her again, both of his arms moving to completely encircle her within their protective, warm strength, and she placed her hands on his chest, her head dropping back to allow her to look into his face. 

"Erik…" she whispered. 

And then she reached up and, after glancing at him as if for permission, she gently moved her hands to the back of his head, her fingertips weaving through his thick, almost shaggy jet-black hair to find the ties of his mask.  Tenderly, oh so tenderly, she slid those fingertips to the sides of the mask, pulling it away from his face and lifting it entirely off, lowering her hands as she faced him: calm, and unafraid. 

Her green eyes scanned over his features then: his poor, distorted, sunken features that had been mangled so long ago in the entrapping inferno of a fire.  She wondered briefly if that was how his eyes had become their startling, bizarre colour: or had they simply always been that way?  Someday, she somehow was confident, she would know.  He would tell her…but as for now…

It was truly a horrific sight to look upon.  One could only imagine the pain that he had endured to gain such cruel marks; merely seeing such a thing brought a pang to its viewer's heart.  Where smooth, pale skin was supposed to have been, there were only rough, discoloured scale-like patches, stretched tight over muscle and bone.  She almost had to wonder whether some of those places were truly scarred skin, or muscle exposed to the air by the terrible accident that he had been in, all those years ago.  Somehow, his lips and chin had been spared from the devastation, but everything else…it was awful.  His cheekbones jutted out as if they had been carved out of rock, and his eyes were sunken deep into his head, with no eyebrows of any sort to relieve the stark ugliness, the shock, of his yellow gaze.  He hardly had any nose…

And he had lived in loneliness, keeping himself from the world because of a tragedy that he could not have stopped from coming to pass.

In loneliness and grief, without any love to lessen his pain.

Without anyone to stand at his side.

Alone.

She then placed her hands on his shoulders – his broad, strong shoulders – and gently, but firmly, pulled him down towards her.  When his face was almost on level with hers, she lowered her eyelids, letting them drop until they had almost closed, and then she breathed her next words, whispering them so softly that only he could have heard.

"Erik, I would not change a thing…"

And she brushed her lips against his twisted, tortured brow, and he felt, for the first time in all the long years since his disfigurement, the burning fire on his skin cease for a moment…

*                       *                       *

A/N: Sorry, for those of you who were expecting a kiss or whatnot (hey, something like that!) in this chapter…I can promise you, however, that good things do come to those who wait…including our beloved Erik and Clarice…  Read on!