A/n Here we go, next piece for your collective delectation. I've got the second part of this episode all planned out, so should get something up by Tuesday at the latest. Hope you're not all tooooo hung-over!

Dousing his face for the last time in the refreshing spray, Joe carefully replaced the shower gel he had 'borrowed' in exactly the same position that he'd found it. It wasn't as if she would mind him using it, but she would definitely object if it had been moved from 'its' place. He shook his head, half to flick the water from his eyes, half in amusement at Clarisse's little obsessions. Reaching for the towel, he dried himself off, then, slipping on one of the plain black robes hanging by the door padded back through to the main bedroom.

As he had half expected, the room was darkened, lit only by the small ornate bedside table lamp, and Clarisse was curled up beneath the covers. She was sleeping on her side, one arm bent under her head, the other stretched out slightly across the pillow. She looked surprisingly small under the heavy counterpane. He crept closer, and gently taking the book from her outstretched hand, kissed her on the forehead. She stirred slightly as he slipped her reading glasses off, and murmured his name, but as he drew the blanket up around her shoulders, it was clear to him that she would soon be sleeping soundly.

She was exhausted and, as usual, had done too much. If he knew her, she had probably been up since six, planning her engagements and organising the ball, and then she had spent the best part of the morning working with him or being hassled by various diplomats. He knew she would have missed lunch, never eating, as she did, when she was busy or nervous. And then she would have spent all afternoon preparing and all evening circulating. As amazing as her stamina was, she had to rest sometime.

Joe, on the other hand, invigorated by his shower, didn't feel much like sleeping. Used to often staying up all night as part of his surveillance duties, he had learnt to snatch sleep in short bursts, often dropping from exhaustion, rather than relaxation. Looking down at the book now in his hands he smirked, 'Pride and Prejudice', typical. She had been on at him to read some Austen for a while, quite why he wasn't sure, but he knew that this was one of her favourites. Generally he preferred something a bit darker, a classic detective fiction, or a good Gothic novel, but maybe he'd give this one a shot. He moved over to the fireplace where, he noticed approvingly, a good fire was burning. Being San Francisco, it wasn't exactly cold this time of the year, but he was most definitely a sucker for big log fires and he was, after all, rather underdressed. Relaxing back into the armchair, he opened the first page…"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." He smiled to himself, thinking of a fifteen-year-old Clarisse reading this for the first time…this was going to be interesting.

As Joe settled down to his night of high literature, Clarisse's mind was also active. Drifting in and out of sleep, her own thoughts were wandering, backwards and forwards…dancing with Joseph, his hand resting on the small of her back as he guided her round the room with a tenderness that made her heart sigh…Amelia, looking every inch the princess in her white gown and tiara…her own first ball, when she had worn it for the first time…that other dinner, much later, when she had worn it with Joseph's necklace, and he had held her hand for the first time…that first afternoon she had met Amelia, and given her the locket of her own….The diary…Philippe…that terrible night… that night she had cried in Joseph's arms, how he held her all night…her pride at Amelia's speech…Joseph's smile, the pride also in his eyes, always Joseph. She was calming now, gradually slipping deeper into sleep, no longer thinking, but dreaming, the images becoming more organized, more real. Her mind relaxing, as her subconscious floated back, replayed the past….

It was March, several months after their state visit to Spain, and three weeks before they were due to depart for Paris. Rupert had been extremely busy with the program of reforms for parliament recently, and, more worryingly, had been dogged with ill health. It was with concern then, that Clarisse watched him eat breakfast. It was just the two of them dining that morning, since Philippe was attending a summit in Berlin.

"Not hungry, my dear?" she asked, noting, once again, his apparent lack of interest in the plate of bacon and eggs before him.

He looked up at her from his paper, and then down again at the plate, "Well observed. No. I can eat later." His words were not unkind, but his patience was thin these days, and she knew better than to continue. She changed tack,

"I thought I might look into getting some new artwork hung in my suite. I have to admit, I'm rather tired of the present ones. What do you think?

"Hmm? Sorry dear, what did you say?", he looked up again, obviously distracted, "What paintings?"

"The ones in my suite. I'd like a change. I was wondering if you wanted any input?" Suddenly it all sounded rather hollow to her. What exactly was she asking for? Permission? Hardly.

"Not today. Does it require me in any case? I'm due in parliament in 40 minutes, could you not organize it yourself?" It was less a question than a statement. He went back to the paper. She went back to peeling her orange.

They sat like that for some time in silence. It was not exactly unpleasant, not even awkward, but that was just it, it was nothing. Apart from that which etiquette dictated, they existed entirely independent of each other.

A polite cough from the doorway pulled her from her introspection. Joseph.

"Your Majesty, your car is ready." Just for a moment, Clarisse took the liberty of watching Joseph 'at work'. As always, he was respectful, and yet dignified. Nothing about his person could be criticized, and yet, he was most definitely not a servant. There was a grace in his bearing, a charisma, almost, that set him apart. She wondered for a moment why it was him who came to bring the message, but, after checking that Rupert's gaze was not on them, she caught him winking at her and understood perfectly. He was here just because.

"Thank you Joseph." Rupert folded up his paper, and drinking the last of his coffee, stood from the table.

"Ah, Joseph?"

"Yes, your Majesty?"

"The Queen would like some new paintings for her suite commissioned. Could you do something about that? The old ones will need to be stored somewhere secure, several are very rare, they must go in the vaults…"

For a moment, Joseph was thrown, and raised his eyes to Clarisse, questioningly. He knew that she wasn't particularly fond of modern art, at least not in preference to something more antique, and for a moment he was confused by the request. Then he understood.

"Of course, your Majesty. And, if I could be so bold as to suggest…"

"Yes, go ahead Joseph", he replied impatiently,

"If it is a change of scene that her Majesty requires, perhaps she might like to look round the vaults where we keep the royal collection? There are over 1,000 pieces down there and…"

"Yes, yes, whatever…will you get someone to show her round, Joseph? It's pretty confusing down there, don't want her getting lost or breaking anything"

"I am still here, my dear", Clarisse chuckled, slightly nervously.

He didn't dare look at Clarisse, focusing his attention solely on the King, "Of course, your Majesty, that can be arranged. Indeed, I myself am free today, and would be more than happy to accompany you both." His voice was calm and measured, trying desperately to mask his emotion.

"No, go ahead without me. I will be in town until late tonight. Not really that interested – awfully dusty down there." He was distracted, not really concentrating. "Choose what you want Clarisse, all looks the same to me." Tossing his paper onto the seat, he moved in the direction of the door. She stood too, accepting his half-hearted smile and "Enjoy your day dear…" more force of habit than anything, and he was gone.

For a moment, they both stood there, looking at each other, not quite sure what to say. Then he rubbed his chin and shook his head, trying not to laugh with sheer relief.

"Did that really just happen!?" Now she was smiling too, in spite of herself. Finally she found her voice too,

"Yes, my love, I believe it just did"

"And?"

"Just how dusty is it down there? Should I change?"

Now he couldn't help but laugh openly at the innocence of her question. With an impressively straight face, and a mock sincerity that would have put a politician to shame, he replied,

"Well yes, your Majesty, it is very, very dusty down there. We Genovian security guards make it our speciality to deter infamous art thieves from our treasures by encasing them in four inches of weapons-grade dust…" He was cut off by her cuffing him round the ear with the newspaper,

"Joseph, you fiend, I almost believed you there…" She could hardly contain her laughter now. As she went to hit him again, he caught her wrist in his hand. She dropped the rolled newspaper, and looked into his eyes. As if in slow motion, he ran his fingers from her wrist, along her palm, and down to her own fingers. As he broke their touch he softly whispered "Cameras", and stepped backwards.

She swiftly recomposed herself, and nodded. "I have to clear my appointments. Twenty minutes, my office?"

He smiled, "I'll be there"