The Norwegian prince's visit came and went and Clarisse had not seen Joseph for nearly two weeks. It was better this way, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. Frequently she caught herself wondering what he might be doing, where he might be hiding. Or perhaps he had moved on, and was simply doing his job. But, then again, she realised it now, Joseph had never simply been doing his job.

Finally after the weeks of chaos, her life was returning to some kind of routine. Her days were full and extremely tiring, with public engagements and mountains of paperwork. But, in spite of the momentary flash of annoyance every morning as she dragged her weary body out of bed at six, for this continual distraction she was thankful. In doing, she could avoid thinking and, as she well knew, she already thought too much. Not seeing him every day helped. Of course, that didn't mean that she could put him from her mind, not at all, but at least she didn't have to guard herself from him.

Sitting in her office, scanning through applications for some of the minor security positions in the palace, she smiled at his annotations. Of course, his scribbling had not been really intended for her eyes, but, having decided to gain a better knowledge of the staff who worked for her, they were interesting…

Martin Anderson, 27, married (two kids – Anna and Craig); NB. Second wife, don't mention the first; Craig likes stealing the mints in the entrance hall, Anna (5) has an imaginary friend called Martha, not Marcy.

She smiled, picturing the little girl's annoyance as he had presumably confused the name of her friend and his concern not to do it again.

Andrew Barton, 35, single – but v. fond of his nephew (Alex?) on his sister's side; Father died last year, Mother lives in Switzerland; excellent skier and makes homemade beer in one of the cellars (keep an eye on this)

Simon James, 29, partner called Guy…she raised an eyebrow…English, went to Eton and then Queens, Cambridge; former Interpol, breeds Dalmatians and idolises Clarisse. Obviously has excellent taste.

She blushed and brought a hand to her mouth. Enough. She shut the file and carefully replaced it with the others.

There was a knock at the door, and Charlotte entered with several more documents to be gone over.

"Not more…" she groaned, and then, recomposing herself and smiling at the young woman, "what have we got now?"

Charlotte smiled back, pleased that the Queen seemed in better spirits today.

"Security arrangements for the opening of the opera, the week after next. You need to approve the staff, your Majesty."

"Very well…let's have a look."

Clearing her desk a little, Charlotte laid out the various sheets of paper, and began to explain the order of events, and the numbers of guards at each point. Clarisse scanned the pages, noting that everything seemed to be in order, tracing her finger along the itinerary. Something wasn't quite right. They reached the last sheet and she picked up her pen to sign the arrangements, approving the extra personnel that would be drafted in that evening to cover the event. Then she stopped, suddenly realising the now glaring omission. She laid the pen down again.

"Charlotte, where is Joseph?" The younger woman looked confused.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand, your Majesty"

"He's not mentioned anywhere in the arrangements and, indeed, this isn't even his handwriting." She gestured to the sheets of paper scattered over the desk.

"I'm afraid he's still not back, your Majesty. I was going to call him this evening."

For a second Clarisse lost her composure, her head snapping up in surprise, her eyes clouded with confusion, and Charlotte saw everything. In a moment, she understood what had been confusing her for weeks, months even. Suddenly it all fell into place, Joe's terrible mood swings, his sudden decision to go, after waiting all those weeks, the Queen's despondency, her vacant expressions. The fact that she had barely seen them exchange a word in the weeks since King Rupert's death.

But the truth in the Queen's eyes vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, shifting flawlessly into only a mild puzzlement.

"Back, Charlotte? From where?"

Charlotte realised then that he must not have told her. That he must have simply left and planned to return without speaking a word. That poor man. She would call him tonight.

"He's in Spain, your Majesty. His mother has finally died, and he left last week to arrange the funeral and settle her affairs. I think he was planning on returning next week." She paused, not sure how much she should say. "I think he intends to be back for the opening of the opera, but he asked Simon to make arrangements in case he wasn't."

Clarisse stood and wandered over to the window, her throat tightening as she fought to retain her composure. She was reminded of the last time she had stared out of this window, of the anger he had brought out of her, of the pain she had caused them both. Only he made her react like that, only he could make her lose it like that… And now this.

"How long had his mother been sick, Charlotte?" Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

"About four months, I think, your Majesty. He wouldn't speak about it much, but I think she had stomach cancer."

She closed her eyes and swallowed. All this time. Another thing he had kept from her.

"He didn't tell me, you know."

Charlotte heard her voice break a little, and watched sadly as the Queen visibly recomposed herself, squaring her shoulders, running a hand through her hair, still keeping her back turned. She had never seen her like this and wasn't quite sure how to react. She took a chance.

"I think he thought you had enough on your plate. He didn't tell anyone. I think only myself and the other guards knew. And maybe the King, though I'm not sure."

Clarisse couldn't turn round, she didn't want Charlotte to see the tears that were welling in her eyes. Instead, she tried to smile, to raise her voice a little,

"I see. Still, I wish he had… Do you have a number on which I could contact him?"

Charlotte hesitated, remembering the strict instructions Joe had given about contacting him. Only in an emergency, and not to give his number to anyone. She looked again at the Queen, who had turned now, and sat back down at the desk, her eyes obviously reddened.

"Yes, your Majesty, I will fetch it right away."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Joe had gone beyond exhaustion and was working on autopilot. The funeral over, he had spent the last week organising his mother's possessions, and it was beginning to take its toll.

She had been ill for so long, had suffered so much. They had known from the beginning that her cancer was incurable, and the doctors had been honest with her. The amazing woman that she was, she had retained a philosophical dignity right until the end, calling him every night, wanting to know what he had been doing, asking about Clarisse. Of course, she had known everything. His mother had been his only confident on that matter. But not in the curious, meddling way that other overbearing mothers might have been. She treated him as an equal, she always had, she understood him better than he ever could, and, more important than anything, she had understood the situation. Indeed, it was she who had encouraged him in the first place. He sighed, remembering her excitement when he had told her about buying the necklace for Clarisse…

All his other family gone, Joe regretted not having spent more time with his mother. He should have been with her these last few months, he realised that now. She should not have had to take second place, worthy only of her nightly phone call. He should have been here. Instead he had stayed with his Queen, desperate to help her. And look where that had got him.

The night before she had died, his mother had asked about Clarisse again. It had been a Saturday. She had suggested he try again, to give her another chance. He had tried to explain that he couldn't see the point. If she didn't understand why he had done what he had, she could not possibly see why it had been necessary. His mother had insisted. Although her voice was noticeably weaker than in previous conversations, her message had been firm. Give her another chance, and then accept it, and move on.

He smiled ruefully, remembering how he had gone to Clarisse's room the next evening, on some inane pretext of security arrangements. How she had cast him off again, only to call him back. Yes, it would always be the same…

Maybe his mother was right. Perhaps it was time to accept it. Perhaps if he started not to expect anything from her, he would learn not to want it? She had caused him so much pain, and he had given so much…maybe it was time to think of the duty he had to himself. He was Head of Security for one of Europe's oldest monarchies, he was one of the best. Perhaps it was time to just get on with the job.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Clarisse sat in her office, the scrap of paper with his number on glaring at her from the table. Since the morning it had been there, tempting her to call. And she still couldn't decide if she should. For who was she calling? To placate her own conscience, obviously; to make him come back, beyond doubt; to make him feel better…?

All day she had been trying to process his decision not to tell her. It simply didn't make sense. She could have supported him; he could have gone to visit his mother; he could have taken time off to grieve. Why had he left it so late to go? She went to pour herself a drink and remembered bitterly his parting words from that evening they had argued…she had argued,

"I did it for us, Clarisse…because I love you. Nothing more."

Had it really been all to protect her? Was that why he had stayed? Charlotte had certainly implied as much. She felt sick to the core. Suddenly the iron wall that she had so meticulously built threatened to shatter. How could she hate him when he had already done so much? For the first time in months, she allowed herself to wonder if he had been right not to tell her about Rupert.

No…he had not been right. But perhaps this was not a game of right and wrong. By making him wrong she had not become more right. Far from it. As he had told her so many times, it had been what it had been. They had both known that. And would she have done anything different? In his place, would she have told him? Yes, she would, but, she was forced to admit, it would not have been because of her honesty. It would have been because of her inability to bear it alone. For how long had he borne it alone?

But what did this all mean? What could it mean? She didn't know anymore. Her obligations were unchanged, and the field of play had shifted. No longer was she merely the King's consort, but a ruler in her own right, a figurehead. Her motives for freezing him out might have just thawed, but they could not return to before. It was simply too dangerous, for both of them.

She picked up the phone, and carefully dialed the number. It rang several times and then clicked through to the voicemail. She closed her eyes as his deep voice spoke the message calmly in Spanish, only to be startled back to herself by the harsh beep. She swallowed, suddenly aware of the fact she had no idea what to say,

"Um…Joseph…it's Clarisse." She paused, wondering how much to tell him. "I know, Joseph…Charlotte told me everything. I…I'm sorry. Take care of yourself… I", she paused again, "I think I…please come and see me when you're back." She hung up, annoyed with herself for sounding so incoherent. Sighing, though, she doubted whether she could have done any better even with a lifetime to prepare…