He held her for a long time, still unsure of what he should say. She seemed to be calming now, but her outburst had unsettled him. He had only caught the last few moments of the film and, whilst he could see the potential similarities in circumstance, he really didn't understand why she had fallen to pieces so easily. She was most probably still tired from the journey. Stroking her back gently, feeling her warm breath against his neck as she relaxed, he decided not to ask any more just now. He had a feeling that this conversation was one that should be had when they could be sure of privacy…not when they were huddled in a darkened projection room, less that ten paces from the future Queen of Genovia.

Whether by some strange telepathy, or simply coincidence, the same realisation struck Clarisse, and she started to move back slightly. Running his hands from her shoulders down her arms, he smiled and stepped back too. Clasping her hands in his own, he took the opportunity to scrutinise her face,

"Is everything alright now?" He chose his words carefully, not wanting to tear down the delicate composure she had spent the past five minutes so carefully constructing.

She smiled and, closing her eyes, nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Yes. I…" she reached up and placed a hand carefully on his chest, subconsciously reducing the gap between them once again, "I'm sorry."

He glanced at the wet patch on his shirt, and the rather conspicuous mascara stains, and grinned.

"It's okay, I'm sure a good scrub will sort it out…I mean" shooting her a cheeky glance, "it's not as if I've anything better to do tonight."

She smiled, but, looking up from the stained shirt to his eyes, grew serious, and for a moment he feared she might cry again. She took a deep breath and sighed, her voice still a little shaky.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

In a moment, he had narrowed the space between them, and, taking her cheek in his palm, kissed her slowly and deliberately.

As they broke apart, she looked in the direction of the screen, and seeing that the film had now ended, began to carefully wipe the stains that she knew would inevitably smudged under her eyes. Understanding, Joe smiled, and, licking his thumb, carefully helped her. Stepping back to admire his handiwork,

"Hmm…yes, you'll pass."

He paused, unsure how to ask her…

"Um…can I see you later?"

She looked at him seriously and, folding her arms,

"No…I don't want you to do that…"

For a moment he looked genuinely in shock, entirely confused by her sudden retraction. He squared his shoulders and desperately tried not to look hurt. Then she smiled, and cupped his cheek with her hand,

"Please don't ask me ever again, Joseph. "

He looked into her eyes, their warmth entirely incongruous with her cruel words,

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to ask…you never should have had to…"

Their eyes met and he could feel the grin spreading across his face. The projector stopped with a clunk, and they could hear Mia beginning to stir.

She smiled, and tapping him playfully on the nose, slipped out into the darkened room, carefully closing the door behind her. Joe sighed, leaning back against the wall, trying to piece together what had just happened.

After excusing herself from the next film, with the half-hearted reason that she was tired, Clarisse made her way back to her suite. The lamps were already lit and she was pleased to note that the maids had left the balcony door ajar, so as to let some breeze into the bedroom. She glanced at her watch, ten-to-eleven…wonderful. The maids would have left by now, and, unless she called for them, the evening was all hers.

Slipping off her cardigan and folding it neatly over the back of a chair, she wandered through to the huge bathroom. Carefully removing her earrings and unclasping her necklace, she laid the jewellery down on the edge of the marble sink. Glancing in the mirror, she noticed, with a smile, just what a good job Joseph had done in fixing her mascara. And promptly burst out laughing at the image which involuntarily sprung to her mind of Joseph, sitting before a dressing table, expertly removing his mascara and eyeshadow. Running a hand through her hair, she wondered not for the first time whether she should let it grow a bit longer. But, as always, she decided against it…she'd kept it short for so long now, any change would probably just look, well, plain ridiculous.

Turning the large bronze taps, she began to run herself a bath. Usually, the maids would try and insist on doing all this for her, but she always refused. Ever since she had come to the palace, all those years ago, the bathroom had been her little sanctuary. There was a lock on the door, which she could close from the inside, and to which there was no external key. Of course, she rarely locked it, but that didn't matter, the point was that she could. All the staff knew that, Joseph included, and each respected this symbol of privacy. He had never asked to enter…this morning he had returned to his own room…he knew what it meant. Only once had he stepped over that line. Tonight, however, she left the door ajar.

Pouring in a splash of scented oil, she slipped out of her remaining clothes and, lighting the candles which surrounded the enormous tub and flicking off the lights, slid into the warm water. Almost instantly she felt better, more composed. Leaning back, she sighed, her eyes resting shut, the steam from the water clearing her head, the delicate scent wafting its way around the darkened room…

Joe, meanwhile, was back in his own room, taking a shower. He wasn't really a bath man, himself, preferring the feeling of the spray massaging his aching shoulders to the gentle relaxation of a long soak. In any case, he rarely had the luxury of more than ten minutes, and he rather feared that he might doze off in a bath. He was pondering again what Mia had told him after Clarisse had left. Worried about her grandmother's sudden departure, the poor girl had been feeling guilty about pressing her so much about Philippe. Joe had reassured her and promised to make sure Clarisse was alright before going to bed himself. On reflection, he wondered, perhaps that hadn't been the best admission to make to Mia, but never mind…the girl had been worried, and, quite frankly, so had he.

As he dried off his hair with a towel, he glanced at the clock. Eleven fifteen. He wondered if she might not have gone straight to bed. But remembering her earlier comments, he decided that it was unlikely…and, in any case, that didn't mean he couldn't go and join her.

Knocking lightly on the door of the balcony, he was pleasantly surprised when it swung open. Scanning the room, though, he was rather curious as to where his princess might be. The room was lit by the bedside lamp, but the sheets on the bed were still meticulously turned back, as the maids would have left them. She wasn't in the sitting room either or, he was pleased to note, the private study. Walking back into the bedroom, he was suddenly aware of a sweet fragrance wafting from the bathroom door. Which was open.

He raised an eyebrow and decided to investigate. Slipping off his shoes and jacket, and draping the latter over a chair, he moved towards the door quietly. Gently nudging the door open a little more, he glanced in, not wanting to surprise her or, indeed, invade her privacy if she were changing. The room was almost in darkness though, lit only by three or four candles which surrounded the tub. Stepping further into the room, he carefully pushed the door to.

"Darling?"

Again, he didn't want to startle her. But there was no answer. His eyes adjusting to the dim light, he realised that she'd fallen asleep. Turned on her side, her head was resting comfortably on her folded arms, her breathing shallow and relaxed. He smiled to himself, falling in love once again with the sleeping beauty stretched out before him.

For a moment he wondered if he should leave her, but his responsible streak soon convinced him that she shouldn't be left alone like this. He considered waking her, but quickly told himself not yet… She was so relaxed and, from the slight smile playing on her lips, was definitely enjoying whatever dream she was having. He settled on a not-entirely-unpleasant compromise, and sat down gently in the chair by the mirrored dressing table. The room was warm and the air heavy with the delicate scent of the bath. The flickering candles lulled him into a wonderful state of relaxation. Shifting a little, he told himself that he couldn't sleep, not now…and so he started to think…to think back to the first time, the only time until now, that he'd been in this room…

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Flashback to post-Rupert period, last seen in Chapter 17

They had successfully avoided each other for months. After his return, Joe had established a new strict routine to his day, a routine that was crafted almost entirely around avoiding Clarisse. He woke early, and took the first shift in the security room, starting at four and coming off at ten. Then he slept until three. In the afternoons he met with other members of staff and co-ordinated any official engagements. In the evening he debriefed and planned for future events. By nine, he was asleep.

Clarisse had begun to learn how to live without his continual presence. She rarely saw him now, meeting as they did only for a brief, hour-long meeting on a Friday. And never alone. He insisted on Charlotte and Martin being present because, quite simply, he had added in a tone that left little room for questions, 'their presence was required.'

By day, she was starting to exist without him. At night, though, her mind would slip back into a past that her heart was still nurturing. She would dream of him, waking only to find herself alone…once again. Each morning she would resist the urge to let her eyes slide shut again, willing herself to move on from that impossible fantasy. Each day, though, it was getting harder.

And she worried about him. His face was drawn and he looked permanently tired. One afternoon, quite out of the blue, she had surprised Charlotte by asking how he was. The young woman had looked up suddenly from the file she was skimming, and met her gaze with a hint of a raised eyebrow.

"Joseph is fine, your Majesty, just fine…" Her voice had been uncertain, and, as usual, Clarisse had known immediately that she was lying. Charlotte never was any good at that.

"Really? I thought he looked a little run down last week…"

"No. I mean yes…he did. But no, he's fine. He'll be fine."

She hadn't said any more, and Clarisse hadn't asked. But she was worried.

One morning in early February, when Joe had just finished his shift, a call came in to the security room announcing the imminent arrival of Prince Philippe. He had been rather taken aback by the news, irritated at, once again, the lack of proper warning. But he had kept his cool and quickly delegated Martin to fix up the route and co-ordinate the necessary travel arrangements.

The Prince had been conducting a short tour of Italy, attending a global economic conference in Turin and meeting with the new Prime Minister in Milan, and was not due back in Genovia until the middle of next week. A year ago, Joe would have wondered about the sudden change of plans, whether something was up, but now he simply didn't have the energy. The Prince was returning home, and it seriously messed up his arrangements. At least Clarisse would be happy though…

He sighed, forcibly shifting that last, almost automatic thought from his mind, and headed off in the direction of his rooms. Closing the door behind him, he did what he hadn't done for several months, and reached into his desk drawer for the sleeping pills. His doctor had prescribed them after the nightmares began, and though he had tried desperately not to overuse them, today, with the thoughts that were whirring round his head, he decided to give in for once.

It had already grown dark outside when the insistent buzzing of his cell phone finally woke him. Eventually managing to located it in the gloomy room, he flipped the cover and raised it to his ear,

"Yes?" His voice was still heavy with sleep, and almost threateningly gruff.

"Joe…Joe, you have to come to my office." It was Charlotte. And something was seriously wrong. Her voice was thin, and uncharacteristically shaky. He reached for the light, and winced a little as the brightness glared against his eyes.

"Joe?"

"I'm here, Charlotte…I, I'm coming." He flipped the phone shut and, throwing on his jacket, moved to the door. It was only when he was halfway down the corridor that he realised he hadn't even asked what was wrong.

It was a few short corridors to Charlotte's office, but each step stretched out before him, filled as it was with possible scenarios, each more terrible than the last, of what might have provoked such a reaction in her. He hadn't asked, he realised now, because he hadn't dared.

Clarisse.

And now it all came flooding over him, with a force that was almost palpable. The weeks and months of silence. The avoidance, the indifference. It all meant nothing. The fear that coursed through him was proof enough. She would never, could never, be nothing to him.

He burst through the door and was immediately surprised to find nearly all the security staff, and some of the domestic staff waiting in Charlotte's office. For a moment, all eyes fell on him, some of which, he noticed, were noticeably reddened, and then all looked away. He felt a delicate hand on his upper arm, and turned slightly towards the touch. Drawing him slightly away from the group, Charlotte saw the fear in his eyes and, rubbing his arm discreetly, soothingly, whispered the words he needed to hear,

"It's not her…"

He swallowed, and understanding the implications, squared his shoulders, turning to face her,

"Which one?"

"Philippe."