A/N: I realize in my summary that I said this fic would involve scenes from the movie. I got a little side-tracked, but the next four chapters, at the very least, will be building on scenes from the movie. Thanks for reading.

"How's the invalid?" Henry inquired, once he had been helped out of his royal cloak and ensconced himself in—been forced into, rather, with much ado—the best chair in their slight poor but quaint drawing-room.

"I am almost completely well," Marguerite replied from her couch, in a wheedling, almost pleading tone. "I just don't want there to be any fuss."

"That's what she has been saying all day, your Highness," the baroness interjected, her sharp eyes darting from Marguerite to the prince. "She insisted on going to church, saying that she could not commit sins merely for sickness—and on and on about not wanting to be a burden to anyone! I never saw the like."

"Yes," Henry replied tiredly, his eyes already slipping away with boredom. "I never saw it either." Only five minutes there, and he was already aching to be gone. Marguerite, invalid or no—he was quite sure it was no—was looking pretty, it was very true. Someone here obviously knew how to display her to her best advantage. She was prone on the couch, her lithe, lovely body on display in its entirety as it could not often be for a woman except when standing up and walking about. The lace and linens tucked about her emphasized the milky paleness of her skin and the striking colors of her lips, hair, and eyes. There was a pathos about her, as of sickness or despair, a death-bed aura that he was pretty sure they had spent all afternoon creating.

He should be responding, he supposed, to the look of her, to the soft, wistful quality of her voice, to the limpid look in her eyes. But instead she seemed to him only pale, small, and sickly—stunningly like a drowned rat, he couldn't help thinking, and her voice seemed merely grating and overly high, like a small girl squeaking, or some hapless cat dying. A finer voice was thrilling in his head. But it wasn't fair to Marguerite, he knew, to be comparing her to . . . The prince shook his head, knowing he should not be thinking such thoughts.

Henry went on talking—or listening rather—to the baroness's declarations of Marguerite's gentle humbleness and Marguerite's protestations of simple faith and compassion. It felt very contrived and boring. Usually, the de Ghents were at least a little more entertaining than other courtiers; they were a little less refined and so a little more affected—always interesting to watch. But today that quaintness grated on his nerves, and he almost wished even for court, because there he could simply tune out his circumstances, whereas here the shrillness of Marguerite's voice kept him on edge.

At least, he supposed, someone was happy. Laurent, standing in the corner and minding the proceedings, had the silliest grin on his face, and Jacqueline was looking down and blushing furiously. Hm, Henry thought to himself. They weren't exactly the most beautiful couple, but he really did quite enjoy Jacqueline, and Laurent deserved someone well-to-do, pretty, and most of all nice, which Jacqueline most certainly—

"Danielle!" the baroness called suddenly, jarring him out of his latest reverie. His eyes widened slightly at the name, but he showed no other reaction. "It's so hard to get good help these days," the baroness confided, in a lower tone. Then: "Danielle!" again, and Henry suddenly knew wherefrom Marguerite had inherited her 'resonant' voice.

Danielle stumbled into the room, and Henry couldn't help watching what followed with avid curiosity. He tried to maintain a cool, detached demeanor, but was not completely sure if he succeeded.

"Danielle—dear," the baroness began, feigning a smile of indulgence as she looked at her servant. "Where have you been?" Her voice lowered into a snap the prince couldn't hear. "You are in the presence of royalty. Please try to remember to be on your best behavior!"

Danielle steadily kept her eyes averted from the prince, and so kept her gaze directed down at her toes. "What was it you wanted?" she asked lowly.

"You're the only one who looks presentable around here, for some reason," the baroness said with a huff, as if not realizing that she had worked all her servants so hard today to get the manor ready for the royal visit that she hadn't given them a chance to clean themselves of the dust and muck. Perhaps she really didn't realize it at all. "The prince will require wine. And water. And cakes. Well!" the baroness prompted, scowling as Danielle merely regarded her with widened eyes. "Hop to it! Don't stand there looking daft!"

Danielle was used to her step-mother ordering her around; however, she was not used to waiting on people she didn't know. Especially princes she didn't know. Especially princes she did know, or felt she knew in her heart, somehow, in ways she couldn't explain.

That morning, as she had told him, she had let her tongue run away with her again. She knew she got carried away sometimes with her thoughts and her ideas of how things should be. She also knew that much to the annoyance of her step-mother, she put far too much store in things that had passed, things that were not real, dreams that were merely imagined. But a part of her could not help herself, and all she could really help was to try not to speak to vehemently about it in front of anyone who would not understand.

And yet, the prince had seemed to understand, in a way. Things that seemed so simple to her—her love of her father's land, her cherished memories of a loved one—seemed new and unfathomable to him, but his reaction to them, his response to her, was one of eagerness. She recognized that feeling—and yet . . . and yet, now, he treated her as if she did not exist.

They lived in two different worlds. They could never understand each other. And yet she somehow could not pin her heart down, and tell it not to fall . . . Her hands were shaking as she poured the wine and water for the prince. When she brought it to him, he looked at her for the barest moment, and odd look in his eyes. He steadied her hand with his to take the cup, and then did not look at her again.

"Cinderella," Marguerite said sweetly, as if it were merely a childhood pet name, "would you please stir up the fire? I'm feeling so cold . . ." She gave her statement a little emphasis with a shiver.

"My poor dear!" the baroness exclaimed, moving to shift the blankets closer up around Marguerite. The latter swatted at her mother's hand and nodded frantically at the fireplace. She wanted to make sure the prince saw Danielle in her proper place, after that scandalous scene at the market-place.

"Well, Danielle? Won't you help poor Marguerite?" the baroness demanded, taking her daughter's hand and feeling the pulse, as if there was danger.

Marguerite cast her eyes skyward. "I would do it myself, mother, only I feel so weak . . ."

Danielle sighed and said nothing, moving to the hearth. After arranging the wood into the fireplace, she started up a healthy blaze. For a moment she knelt there, reveling in the memories it invoked. It was this room, more often than not, that her father had cuddled up with her close to the flames and read to her.

In the shadows cast by the new light in the room, the prince shifted. The flames glowed off of her and into Danielle's eyes, making her look for a moment like something from the spirit-world. Then Danielle left the room, and the prince moved forward to the couch on which Marguerite lay.

"I'm afraid I have to take my leave, now," he said, almost if he regretted it. "This visit has been most pleasant, but I see you are far too ill to admit my company. I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you in this manner, but—"

Naturally, remonstrance's and pleas met his announcement. "Oh, but Prince Henry, I really am feeling so much recovered—"

"No convenience at all! Won't you please stay the night? Our guest quarters are in excellent condi—"

"But I really must be leaving," he assured them. It took some doing, but he finally extricated himself from the situation, the room, and at last, the manor. Once out into the night, he took a deep breath, feeling relief wash over him. He wondered what might have happened had he never had a higher standard to which to compare Marguerite. Might he have married that fawning, cooing weakling? He shuddered at the thought, and thanked whatever Beings were watching over him.

Feeling Laurent and several of the other attendants come out behind him, Henry whirled. "Give me a couple moments," he told them, dismissal in his voice. "I need to be sane again, after . . . that." He waved his hand vaguely at the manor behind him, and Laurent nodded in understanding. Henry paused a moment at that, and then raised a brow. Briefly, he nodded, and Laurent disappeared. The prince might not have found any sort of success tonight in securing his future wife, but it didn't mean other men weren't more lucky.

Frustrated, the prince wandered into the dusky twilight, trying to absorb the approaching tranquility of the night, needing to recover from the stifling sickness inside the manor, from the de Ghent's inexcusable for pretentiousness. And yet, as much as he tried to appreciate it, the night had somehow lost its luster.

He was frustrated. His father had at last allowed him some modicum of control over his own life, and yet he had failed in the deceptively simple task of falling in love and finding a wife. Somehow, between an orchard and a vegetable garden, all his dreams had died today, and though he had tried, after that, there really didn't seem to be that much point in looking around elsewhere. Scenes like the one he had just left behind disgusted him; woman such as Marguerite left him feeling empty and slightly repulsed. His mother would protest; not all women were as insufferable as Marguerite, after all. But somehow, they were all the same to him. He was a lost cause, trapped by, more than anything, his own failure And he felt so completely alone.

Sighing, he wandered in the direction of the stables. Though his attendants would probably be in a tizzy at his not having informed them, he hoped to derive some amusement from their thinking he had run away again when all he wanted to do was go home and accept whatever it was his father told him. That was all he was fit for, he supposed.

Someone was moving on the other end of the stables, the play of shadows in the torch-light letting him know he was not in the warm barn alone. One of the grooms, he supposed, was making sure all the royal steeds were well taken care of. He rolled his eyes—and caught sight of her, there, his roan stallion nuzzling her, the soft light outlining her in a way that made his breath catch in his chest and stay there, swell there, making his heart expand in ways he had never thought possible . . .

Danielle started. "Forgive me, your Highness; I did not see . . ." She trailed off and stepped back, her hands falling away from the horse, who butted her chest and whickered. The ensuing silence was long and thick, and smelled of sweet hay. At last, Danielle spoke, chagrined. "He was hungry." Danielle opened her hand to reveal a chomped down apple core.

"And you have a particular taste for apples, as I recall," Henry said mildly. When she looked away, eyes troubled, he stepped forward, knuckling the jaw bones of the large animal. "And horses?" he inquired, raising a brow.

"I'm partial to them, yes," Danielle replied. "What's his name?"

"Caligula."

"That's a twist. Will he inherit your throne?"

Henry laughed a little, and so did she. Eventually, her hand returned to the horse's muzzle, offering again the apple core. He watched for a moment, and at last sighed. "You're spoiling him."

"He's already spoiled, past redemption. I am merely indulging him," Danielle assured him. "It's the best way to treat royalty, I've heard."

He blinked at her, and then threw back his head and laughed a real laugh, this time. She grinned back, and her smile only disappeared when his hand quite suddenly locked around her wrist. "I need to ask you a question," he said suddenly, looking at her in a way she had never seen before.

She tried to extricate her hand. "I don't think—"

"Yes you do," he said, tightening his grip. And then was suddenly aware that he was touching her, and that night was falling outside, and that no one knew they were alone here. He hastily dropped her wrist, not wanting to scare her. But she merely looked up at him, a touch indignant, but not at all afraid. He ran a hand through his hair and half turned from her. "You remember," he began at last, "what my friend Signore da Vinci said earlier today, don't you?" He looked at her, his gray eyes intense. "You remember."

He looked at her that way until she nodded. "About a . . . how did he put it? A 'happy medium'? He said you know what he meant. Tell me, what was he talking about? I need to know." He took a step forward, entering Danielle's space, forcing her to look up at him. "Tell me."

She could taste his breath, and it was warm in here—very warm. The animals created a feeling of comfort, of simplicity, of peace. The atmosphere here had always made her feel alive and sleepy at the same time, as if in that slightly fuzzy part in the day when all people dreamt. She wanted nothing more than to sink into his arms, and somehow the air here, the soft light, was lulling her into it. She wanted to taste him deeper, to touch him, to know him. She could sense his sorrow and his confusion, and she wanted nothing more than to take him into her arms and tell him it would be alright.

Danielle blinked, shaking her head. She could not do that, here—or anywhere. It didn't matter that she knew him better than anyone else, that she might have been able to help him. Heaving a sigh, she swept all such thoughts from her mind. "I can't presume to know Signore da Vinci's thoughts," she said at last.

Henry had been regarding her with a contemplative eyes. The look she had just given him . . . somehow, it had sent a shiver right down to his bones, and yet in the next moment, it was gone. "But you have your own theory of what he meant," Henry prodded speculatively, ignoring, for a moment, the strange feeling. She nodded in response, and he demanded, "Well?"

Frowning, Danielle began at last, "You seem to think that if you cared about one thing, you'd have to care about everything." He looked surprised at her assessment, but nodded at her to continue. "But it's not true--at least, not in the way that you think. A person can do so much, if he actually cares. You were born to privilege, and with that, comes specific obligations."

The prince had begun to scowl at her as she talked on, seeing himself in her description and feeling enervated by it. "Yes," he agreed bitterly. "And yet I'm supposed to . . . what? Espouse the ideas of your philosophers and artists; is that it?" His voice was condescending and sardonic, and heat flared in Danielle's face. "Come, enlighten me. You seem to have plenty of ideas of your own." He said the word 'idea' as if it was something ridiculous.

"You have everything," she fired, "and yet still the world holds no joy. And yet you seem to make fun of those who would see it for its possibilities!" She was piqued now, her voice shaking. He inhaled, and was suddenly silent, merely looking at her. "Think of all the wonderful things you could do for your country, for the world!"

"Yes, but to be so defined by your position, to never be seen as who you are but what you are; you have no idea how insufferable that is!"

One slow brow rose up the soft skin of her forehead. "Excuse me. I know exactly how insufferable that is." He blinked, not comprehending, and she went on. "A servant, for example," she began, that challenging brow still aloft, as she indicated her clothing with a significant gesture, "is rarely painted as anything else. They are defined by their status, as your title defines you, yet it is not who they are. It is not who I am. I . . ."

Danielle trailed off, at last registering the look on his face. She suddenly realizing to whom she had been talking in such a manner, and hastily reassessed. "Well, Sire, you did ask. I'm sorry if yet again I've—"

His hand was suddenly over her mouth, stalling any more words, and he stepped closer, his other hand gripping her arm. "Stop," he demanded. He looked down at her, only inches from her, and she saw that fire was leaping in his eyes. He seemed to sway there for a moment, and then his hand dropped from her mouth and extended a knuckle beneath her chin, drawing her head up. His eyes were drifting down her face—from her eyes, to her nose, to—

Suddenly, he let go. "Haven't I told you it isn't you?" he asked, teasing in his tone.

She was still too startled to smile. She could still feel the heat of him, still smell him, almost taste him . . . had he been about to . . . ? She shuddered inwardly at the thought, wanting to wrap herself away from him, to protect herself from such desires. If he had, she could've been lost. She just hope she could learn to love again, once he was out of her life.

"Danielle?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

She looked up, but did not get past his jerkin-buttons. "I must go . . . inside. I'm feeling quite cold. Good day to you—" She nodded and was turning, when Laurent opened wide the door of the stable.

"Oh!" he said, suddenly flustered. "Sire, if I have interrupted—" He began backing out.

"No, I've just come to fetch my horse," Henry said calmly, already slipping the bridle onto Caligula. "This woman here was just helping me. He can be a rather fractious horse, you understand," Henry went on levelly.

"Ye-es . . ." Laurent said slowly. He paused for a moment longer, until Henry had the bit in and was holding the lead, before looking back over his shoulder. "He's in here!" he called. Then he turned back to the prince. "They were a bit concerned upon not finding you."

"Don't worry," Henry said solemnly, glancing at Danielle. "My days of running away are over." He led the horse out, leaving Danielle to swallow and regain her composure. She wasn't even sure any more whether she loved him or hated him, for confusing her so.