Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

When the king saw that all the straw had been turned to gold, he was delighted.

Chapter 4: On the Limited Appeal of Money and the Impressive Mental Prowess of Maidens in Distress

She could not say no to a bath and a change of clothing. She had been wearing the same shirt and jeans for two days, including sleeping in them, and accepting some clean underwear was not going to compromise her principles. The bathroom was as overly luxurious as the rest of her rooms, and she spent a blissful half-hour floating on the jet propelled currents of a tub that resembled a small pool.

She emerged, dripping and boiled, to find a maid laying out a rose satin evening gown. "Oh no, I can't wear that," Rachel protested. "I'll just put my own clothes back on. Where are they?"

"I'm afraid they would not be appropriate."

"What? Look, I've done what they asked. Now I'm going home, and I'm not doing it in some schmanzy dress that costs more than my dad makes in year. I'd probably tear it."

"But you're not going home, Miss Miller, you're having dinner with Mr. King."

Three-quarters of an hour later, a reluctant Rachel teetered down a flight of marble stairs, in heels high enough to endanger her life. Miraculously reaching the bottom in one piece, she went through a door opened by a liveried (she supposed) footman, and stopped in amazement: before her spread a breathtaking view of the valley. The thickly forested landscape dropped abruptly away from the balcony, rows of hazy blue hills stretched into the distance, and far down a river gleamed in the last of the setting sun. Rachel reached a hand toward the balcony rail, and a voice cautioned, "Don't touch, you'll spoil the illusion. Smoke, mirrors, and the wonders of virtual reality."

She was finally getting used to these surprise appearances. Rachel's breathing never faltered as she turned to view this new companion. One look at the perfectly tailored suit, the commanding bearing, and the face whose every line proclaimed unquestioned authority, left her in no doubt about his identity. "Mr. M. F. King."

His smile was confident in its charm. "Please, call me Max."

Rachel did not know what half of what she ate was, and could not pronounce the other half, but it was all superb. Max was a delightful companion, speaking fluently on the beauties of the region, his troubles with the chef, a play he had seen last weekend in London. Rachel, who had prepared herself for a lunatic tyrant, was at a loss. She ate quietly ("Please excuse the barbarically early hours we keep in the country," said Max), only allowed herself to remark on the divinity of the chocolate mousse ("Nothing to what they serve in Vienna, I know," apologized Max), and wondered how to broach the subject of going home without appearing ungracious. The more M. F. King talked, the less she could believe that the last day and half had been under his orders. This delightful man could not have been responsible for her waking nightmare, and perhaps it really had been a dream. It all seemed too unreal, here on the quiet balcony, with softly scented, artificially generated breezes wafting across her face.

As they lingered over imported coffee she took the plunge. "It's been a lovely evening, but I'm afraid I must get started home. It will be the middle of the night before I arrive, as it is."

"My dear Rachel, I'm afraid I can't allow you to go, just yet." Max's velvety voice was soothing. "What you did today was amazing, far beyond my expectations. But flukes do happen, and I must be certain. I must urge my hospitality upon you another night."

Rachel stiffened in alarm, her sense of release shattered. "You can't do that! I want to go home! I could have you arrested for this!"

"Could you?" he asked thoughtfully. "No, I rather think not. Good night, my dear."

He rose and began retreating along the shadowed pseudo-balcony. Rachel picked up her coffee cup and hurled it at his unheeding back.

As the girl sat weeping, the funny little man appeared again. "What will you give me to spin all this straw into gold?"

Sadly, the cup went wide, and she was still staring at the shards of porcelain when Herman appeared to escort her to her room. "He's mad, isn't he?" Rachel asked dully as they stepped into the elevator.

"Miss Miller!" For once, Herman's cheerful composure was shaken. "I cannot allow you to say such things."

Any hope she might have had of persuading him to help her was crushed. This whole place was held fast under spell of M. F. King, and there was no prince to rescue her. She cried herself to sleep on the silk sheets.

The next morning was an exact repeat of the previous day, except that Rachel was forced to accept the offer of clothing. Her own had not reappeared. As she heard the lock click behind her, she wondered if Rumpelstiltskin was going to stick his unattractive nose in again, or if it was a one-time deal only. She slumped down against the wall, and examined the blue, gray, and white pebbles between her feet. It would not surprise her if Rumpelstiltskin worked for King, and the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. He had come yesterday to make her believe she had escaped the trap, when really he was part of the plot. Now King could accuse her not only of deceiving him about her abilities, but of cheating on the test. Rachel began to feel very sorry for herself.

"My mother always told me my face would freeze like that. As it turned out, she was right."

Rachel looked up into the oversized features of Rumpelstiltskin and jumped to her feet. "You work for King, admit it!"

"I most certainly do not. Try not to act more of a fool than you were born to be."

His matter-of-fact insult took the wind out of Rachel's sails. "I…I thought…"

"I highly doubt that. Now, shall we discuss payment, or would you like to do it on your own today?"

Rachel rolled her eyes in resignation and produced an oval locket. "My father gave this to me on my thirteenth birthday. It belonged to my great-grandmother. It should fit your definition of priceless."

He accepted the locket and went to examine the fresh stack of printouts. "How generous. He's allowing you to start with what you, I mean I, made yesterday."

Rachel spent her morning staring at the stone fox. He really was a cunning little creature with his pointed nose and delicate feet, surrounded by a perfect diamond of white stone, in the exact center of the room. Rachel's brow furrowed and she suddenly felt her interest in the picture doubled. But the fascination of even brilliant revelations wears off after a while, and she was relieved when he peremptorily announced that he was ready for lunch.

She left him standing in the middle of the room, and when she turned around he was gone. Smiling in satisfaction, she casually dropped to the floor on top of the fox. A maid appeared with the lunch cart and Rachel settled in to wait, but no Rumpelstiltskin appeared. Lunch was getting cold, and she decided it was time to provoke some action. She cleared her throat and began to sing:

Where, oh where has my little man gone?

Where, oh where can he be?

With his nose so strange

And his beard so long

Where, oh where can he be?

"You're very clever," came the grumpy voice from beneath her, "and your ears aren't exactly something to write home about. Now get off."

Rachel clambered up and watched curiously. The fox's diamond split in two and disappeared. A moment later Rumpelstiltskin was standing before her, the floor once again whole beneath his feet. "Very nice," approved Rachel.

"Don't let it go to your head." He stalked over in the direction of lunch.

When he was again settled at the computer, Rachel sneaked a pencil off the desk and began to play anagrams with herself, first thinking of long words, and then rearranging the letters into smaller words. At least it beat origami.

She had just turned 'Transylvania' into 'yarn, vats, lain,' when Rumpelstiltskin peered over her shoulder. "I would have though you'd be tired of mind games."

"No offense, but you're not exactly a brilliant conversationalist."

"Savor, manor."

"What?"

"Savor, manor."

"Oh, thanks." Rachel wrote the words down, arranging the letters in a circle. Ten minutes later she looked up. "Morningstar."

"I'm impressed. That's not a word in the vocabulary of many twenty-first century women."

"I like to read."

"Hive, sour, rob."

A/N Sorry about the delay in updating. My life has been a leetle bit crazy the past couple of weeks, but I have some breathing space coming up. Special prize to the first one who can figure out the final anagram!

Notes to reviewers:

Miss Piratess: No, this Rumpelstiltskin isn't scary at all. Personally, I find him rather lovable. (As long as I don't have to spend endless hours in his exclusive company, that is.)

Melissa: Hope this chapter satisfied your expectations.

Phillippa of the Phoenix: Yes, I have heard of Philippa Boyens. I'm a huge fan of both the LOTR books and movies (although the written canon will always have first place in my esteem). I'm eagerly awaiting the release of the extended ROTK DVD! I called myself after a character in Dorothy Dunnett's The Chronicles of Lymond (few have heard of it, fewer have read it). The Rumpelstiltskin Problem: Is that the one with about ten different variations on the story? If so, then I have read and enjoyed it.

Equus: Yes, yes, I'm updating. Keep your socks on…(I bet yours don't say "Angel" like mine do.)