1983

"She's pregnant."

"Oh, Philippe! How could you?" Clarisse all but hissed at her wayward son.

"It's not what you think, Mother," Philippe insisted.

Mother and son squared off in the tiny apartment's front room. Clarisse's eyes darted sporadically from her son's now bearded face – he looked so strange, hardly a boy at all now! – to the rather bohemian surroundings. The upholstery on the small sofa and chair could be called threadbare if she were being generous; the floor could only be called clean if she gouged her eyes from their sockets. Every available space was lined with canvasses in various stages of completion. Three empty pizza boxes were stacked in the corner. This place that her son's paramour called home was . . . well how could anyone live in such chaos?

"Do they always talk about people when they're still in the room?" Clarisse heard the paramour ask Joseph as she sidled up to him.

"One grows accustomed," he replied flatly. He took her in with a speculative glance and then resumed his examination of the dust floating in front of him.

"Mother, please," Philippe begged, "listen to me." He edged her over to the dilapidated chair and urged her to sit. Clarisse eyed the chair with thinly veiled suspicion.

She hesitated just long enough for Joseph to cross the room, remove his black jacket and drape it across the chair. Bless the man! He was already proving an indispensable asset on this trip. Rupert had refused to come, pleading state business, but Clarisse was certain he simply didn't want to deal with whatever trouble Philippe had gotten himself into. In the darkest corner of Rupert's mind, she knew, Pierre had abandoned him; he couldn't bear to watch if Philippe would do the same. So he had sent Joseph in his stead. Joseph, who had taken care of that little problem with the American State Department. Joseph, who had actually managed to find Philippe's hideaway within two days, even though three private investigators had already failed to do so in the last four months. Joseph, who had quickly and smoothly slammed shut the door to her suite in the New York embassy when they saw that tart of a secretary and her friend in a decidedly indecent position – and he, himself, had ensured that the maid had changed the sheets! Joseph, who had pointedly refused to gossip with their driver about the prodigal Philippe. And now Joseph, who was protecting her yet again, by this simple gesture. Rupert was right to send him with her.

"Mother," Philippe offered hesitantly as he knelt and took her hands in his own, "it's okay. We're married."

Clarisse stared at him, dumbfounded. "Oh, dear God," she prayed.

"You see, it's okay,' Philippe babbled again, his voice rising an octave.

"It most certainly is NOT okay," she replied with a curt shake of her head. So much for no longer seeming a boy, she mused. And he was going to be her King someday? What was the world coming to? Clearly, she needed to get him home – and soon. But what of his paramour, no . . . his wife? Oh, dear God.

"I know it's probably a shock," he blathered on, "but I love Helen, Mother. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I . . ."

The tart across the room actually had the audacity to smile, Clarisse noted.

" . . . I can't imagine living without her. And now we're going to have the baby. And I know it's not what you and Father expected from me, but the crown goes to Pierre anyway, so I figured that eventually you'd forgive me. Helen doesn't want to live in Genovia anyway, but we could come for visits, I guess--"

"Stop." Clarisse's voice was soft, but unyielding. She lifted one hand, not quite resting it on his head. Philippe hushed and looked at her expectantly.

"Pierre has entered the seminary," she informed him, her feelings on that subject rigidly controlled. "The crown will go to you."

"Oh, dear God," Philippe prayed.

"Next year," Clarisse continued, "after your twenty-first birthday, you will be formally invested as Crown Prince."

"I can't leave Helen," he demanded.

Clarisse looked to her daughter-in-law standing across the room. "Well, Philippe, I'm sure with a little training we can turn her into a suitable consort." Privately, she had her doubts.

"Philippe," Helen said as she grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, "put this all in plain English for me. Are they making you King?"

"Not yet, love." He looked around the room, as though for an escape route. "It's not so bad, you know. It's quite beautiful back home. Plenty of great places to paint."

"Stuck in a stuffy old palace all day, learning to be 'suitable'?" She shot a pointed glance at Clarisse.

"You're more than 'suitable'," Philippe murmured. "You're perfect."

Clarisse rolled her eyes and tried to exchange a commiserating glance with Joseph. For some reason, he seemed to be completely engrossed with the dust motes again. She straightened the front of her jacket, relishing the rush of air as the fabric shifted; it had become quite warm in the small apartment.

"Philippe, I'm no Princess Di," Helen said, all but stamping her foot. "You never said this was part of the bargain. You said it wouldn't be." She turned toward the door. "I need to think about this."

"Helen," he wailed. He followed her, but was stopped by Joseph's outstretched arm barring the door.

"Let her go, Your Highness," Joseph advised curtly.

Clarisse watched as Joseph now squared off with her son. The two men engaged in a silent battle played out through eye contact alone. Definitely still a boy, she decided as Philippe gave in to Joseph's determined look within seconds. Yes, Rupert was most definitely right to send him with her.

"His Majesty will be expecting our call, Prince Philippe. He knows we were coming to speak with you today." Joseph's voice was as flat as the look in his eyes. And yet to Clarisse he seemed so solid, so assured, so comforting. How had she failed to notice that all these years?

Philippe didn't appear comforted, but that was to be expected. He seemed anguished, overwhelmingly so. Just a few short years ago she had wished for him to find just this sort of love in his life – more than what she shared with his father at any rate – and now instead she must demand more from him, instead of being able to give more to him. Did he truly love this girl so deeply?

"You're right, Joseph," she said as she gingerly rose from the chair. 'Thank you for the use of your coat."

"My pleasure, Majesty." He nodded as he took his coat from her. Their fingers brushed accidentally in the process and she felt a tingle. That had happened several times during their search for Philippe. When he'd handed her out of the car at the embassy she had attributed it to the New York winter air. When he had smoothly guided her through the halls at Philippe's university, his hand skimming along her lower back, she had dismissed it as faulty climate control in the drafty old buildings. What was the culprit to be now? The dust?

He was looking at her strangely, she realized. Oh good heavens! She hadn't let go of the jacket – or his fingers. What must the man think? Her breath caught in her chest, and her heart beat wildly. No doubt that was an allergic reaction to the drying paint.

"I do so appreciate the gesture, Joseph," she said lamely, reluctantly letting his fingers slide through hers. She glanced askance at the miserable excuse for a chair.

Joseph's nod was respectful but his face was non-committal. "Shall we go?" he asked as he draped his jacket over one arm and waved toward the door.

The return trip to the Genovian Embassy passed without incident and without conversation. Philippe spent the entire drive staring glumly out the window. Joseph had stared straight ahead, not even responding to their driver's attempt at small talk.

After dismissing several approaches to engage her son's attention as pointless, Clarisse found herself studying the back of Joseph's head. It was really quite nicely shaped, she decided. She tried to recall if the fringe of hair had receded any further since he had come to the palace, but found herself at a loss. She had never paid quite so much attention to him before. Oh, he had troubled her, yes, with his staring at her without using his eyes. And there was the matter of his mysterious shared past with Rupert that she was unable to discover. Yet that ever vigilant awareness of those around him coupled with that common history was what had turned the tide for Pierre, and she was oddly grateful to him.

And he really did have the nicest head. Her hand lifted as though to caress the nape of his neck. Darting her eyes to Philippe, she caught herself and lowered her hand, clasping both firmly in her lap. What had she been about to do? She couldn't possibly be finding herself attracted to Joseph, of all people, could she?

No, of course not.

She hadn't felt attracted to anyone in years, not like this. Her relationship with Rupert had never been the all-consuming passion she had fantasized about as a young girl, but it had grown into a deep and abiding, comfortable friendship. To even consider being unfaithful to him would be wrong on so many counts; a breach of her marriage vows certainly, but also a serious dereliction of duty to the Genovian people, a betrayal of her sons, and a violation of what the crown stood for. There had been occasional opportunities for such indiscretions over the years, but she had never taken advantage of them. Granted, she helped to perpetrate a fiction, both public and private, that the royal marriage was perfect, and yet also made it quite clear, sincerely so, both publicly and privately, that her loyalty to her husband was absolute. How to deal with these twinges of . . . well, be honest, Clarisse, twinges of lust she was now feeling for Joseph? Joseph – Rupert's closest confidante.

Hot flashes! That was it. The tingling sensation when he touched her was coincidental; it must just be the beginnings of menopause. She settled back a bit in her seat, glad to have an answer that didn't challenge her view of the world as it should be.

But he really did have the nicest head.

"Driver?" she asked, unable to recall the man's name. "Could you turn the heat down, please?" The car was smaller than she was accustomed, and the heat was becoming intolerable.

Joseph turned to face her. "Everything all right, Majesty?" He glanced at her and then quickly averted his eyes to the door handle.

Clarisse tingled all over.

Oh, dear God, she prayed.

"Father, please try to understand!" Philippe wailed into the cordless phone.

Joseph stepped ahead of the boy to open the door to the suite assigned to the young prince. Rico would rake the poor boy over the coals, but Joseph wasn't about to get in the middle this time. His friendship with Rico was still a bit strained after his interference over Pierre's vocation; Joseph would not stand between the man and his sons again.

He made his way downstairs through a small sitting room on his way to the embassy's kitchen. It was early evening yet, but most of the staff had gone home, and the Ambassador and his wife were out for the evening.

"Joseph?" Her Majesty's hesitant voice stopped him in the middle of the room. She was sitting on the sofa, a teapot before her.

"Majesty," he nodded his head in greeting, studying the teapot. It was mauve, almost the same color as her dress, which caressed her skin . . . The table, yes, the table. It was a light honey pine, a very fine grain, almost the same color as her hair, which reflected the light of the single lamp . . . Oh, damn, it was wrong of Rico to send him with her, very, very wrong.

"Will you join me?" She indicated the spot next to her on the sofa, the spot he most wanted, most feared to be.

Was she insane? Surely she couldn't be that insensitive, to have known him for five years and not feel what he felt? He couldn't possibly be that well-controlled. To sit next to her, close to her, with no one in the building but her son upstairs? Her son, who was on the phone with her husband – his best friend – their King.

"Ah," he searched for an excuse to deny her, "that may not be the best idea, Majesty. I have to—"

"I'm beginning to sense that, Joseph," she said cryptically, an odd glint in her eye.

Not her eyes! Look at that plant in the corner, man! A ficus? Surely someone can find more interesting foliage!

"Please, sit down, Joseph." She was unfailingly polite, but there was an edge of steel in her voice. "We need to talk."

"I am . . ." he floundered as he took the chair across the table from her, "at your service, madam."

"I'm very glad to hear that." She smiled at him knowingly, but did she know? "Tea?"

He waited until she had poured the cup for him and removed her hands before he picked it up. This trip had been a difficult one. For the first time in all his years in royal service, he had been alone with her for long stretches of time. He had found himself inadvertently reaching out to touch her. He had caught himself more often than not, but those few times he hadn't had been electrifying. The nearness of her had been intoxicating, the touch of her skin, mind-numbing.

"Drink your tea, Joseph," she told him. "We have a lot to discuss."

He acquiesced and managed to sip the vile, pale liquid with customary stoicism. What he really wanted was a good hot cup of coffee, the blacker and stronger, the better – preferably with a shot of something even stronger mixed in. He waited nervously for her to begin.

"I've wanted to tell you for quite some time how much I . . ." she paused as though searching for a word.

'For quite some time'? Oh, he was in for it now. She did know, she did feel, and what kind of man encourages his best friend's wife to –

"How much I appreciate your, um, your handling of Rupert this summer. I've always expected that Pierre would succeed Rupert, of course, but I do want him to be happy." She shifted slightly in her seat and took a sip of her tea.

Did she realize that her other son was now desperately unhappy? Was she unhappy? Had she any idea of the torture she was putting him through just by being in the same room?

"It was my pleasure, Majesty," he said. "Prince Pierre is well suited to the priesthood."

"What makes you say that?" she asked sharply. "How do you know?"

Joseph squirmed, desperately hoping she wouldn't notice. He hadn't entirely thought out just what he had expected from this conversation, but being grilled about Pierre certainly wasn't it.

"Pierre says that the two of you have . . . talked, on occasion." She poured herself a second cup of tea and stared at him forthrightly, clearly expecting him to elaborate on her statement. She seemed to be trying to force him to look at her, which he simply dared not do in such close – and solitary – proximity. The few times he had met her gaze had been agonizing and nearly disastrous – for him, at least.

"Prince Pierre," Joseph spoke firmly, far more comfortable talking about Pierre than the way her eyes sparkled when she thought about her children, than the way she made the simplest of tasks, like pouring her tea, grace personified, than the way his heart pounded and his stomach tightened whenever he was near her – yes, far more comfortable. He coughed to clear his throat. "Prince Pierre has come to me, on occasion, when he has had trouble with Ri--, with the King."

"Aha!" She shook her finger at him and smiled conspiratorially. "I've heard you call him that when you think you're out of earshot; so has Pierre. Why do you call Rupert 'Rico'?"

"Majesty," he equivocated, "with all due respect, I'm not at liberty to discuss the King behind his back." He set his tea cup down, pleased to have reached the dregs of the cup, even more desperate for that coffee.

"But, I'm his wife!" she said with more heat than he'd expected.

"And I'm his friend!" he replied with equal fervor.

They stared at one another across the table, eyes locked, bodies rigid. As the flash of defensiveness faded, something else rose to the surface and he found that he could not look away from her eyes. He felt more drawn to her in that moment than ever before. He could not, would not, dared not look away, and yet he knew he must, for all their sakes.

She reached across the table and took his hand. "And that's the problem, isn't it, Joseph?" she spoke softly, resigned. "That I'm his wife, and you're his friend?"

He held her hand more tightly and met her gaze fully, but cautiously. "When I first called him 'Rico'," he said softly, "it was to help him hide. And then it became a joke – he had everything, and I had nothing, and even though he was my friend, I wanted what he had more than I care to admit. It was years before I came to appreciate that, in many ways, I always had more. Then it just became a habit."

"Thank you." She moved to let go of his hand, but he held on.

"And even now, Rico still has everything I want." He rubbed his thumb lightly across her knuckles, relishing her breathless gasp. His heart beat a tattoo inside his chest, his own breath was short, but he had done it, had told her, had crossed the line.

She put her other hand to her chest, as though to calm her own racing heart, and asked him hesitantly, "And isn't it possible, that even now, in at least one way, you still have more?" She stretched her fingers within his grasp, lightly caressing the inside of his wrist.

"Do I?" he whispered roughly. "Do we?"

She nodded quickly. "I'm not sure how long I've known, but . . . there's always been something there, hasn't there?"

He nodded, too and moved to join her on the sofa. He took both of her hands in his own, but still maintained a careful distance between them. If he thought before that he could lose himself in her eyes, that was a pittance beside the glory of stroking her hands, her wrists. His fingers fairly burned with delight.

His eyes turned down to their joined hands; their fingers slowly snaked and intertwined, caressing and being caressed. Carefully, reverently, he lifted each of her hands to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles.

"Joseph," she murmured sadly, "we can't." She removed her left hand from his and stroked his cheek. He leaned into the caress for a brief moment, and then took her hand again, bringing it between them.

"I know," he whispered as he fingered her wedding ring. "I thought about leaving," he continued. He nodded at her startled look and chuckled. "This isn't exactly my first job, you know."

"Of course, but . . ." She shook her head. "It's just that Rupert depends on you. He trusts you like he has no other." Her words were rushed, racing to remind him or herself?

"I know." He released her hands and returned to the chair. "And that's why I'm still here. I promised him long ago that if he needed me, I'd be there. Ten minutes with Philippe makes it clear that I'm still needed."

"And when Philippe has matured, when he's settled?" she asked hesitantly. "What then?"

"Do you think I should leave, Clarisse?" He met her gaze directly, challengingly.

"I . . . I . . ." He felt her distress seep across the table. Her hands writhed together for a scant moment and then she forced them into her lap, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in her dress as she did so. Joseph ached to cradle her hands again, to feel the pressure of her leg against his.

"I don't want you to leave, Joseph," she confessed. His heart leapt and then fell with a dull thud. Forty more years of this sweet torture. And now that they were in it together it would be even worse. "But, you must understand," she held her hands out in entreaty, "nothing can come of this."

"I understand," he replied bleakly.

"I wish--"

"I won't do it, Mother!" Prince Philippe barreled into the sitting room, waving the cordless phone wildly. "I won't do it."

She all but jumped back in her seat – too quickly, Joseph thought, but Philippe was too wrapped up in his own trouble to notice any odd behavior on his mother's part. It seemed to take her longer than usual to shift gears to be able to deal with Philippe. Joseph had watched her enough over the years to know her game face, the persona she adopted when dealing with self-obsessed members of Parliament and stubborn princes. He was perversely gratified to know that he was responsible for her gear grinding.

"And just what is that you won't do, Philippe?" she asked him as she smoothed back a supposedly errant strand of hair. Joseph found himself wishing he were responsible for all her errant strands.

"Father says I have to divorce Helen." Prince Philippe was dismayed. "I'm going to be a father! I can't divorce her!"

Joseph glanced from mother to son. Clarisse – he would always have trouble thinking of her as 'the Queen' now – was clearly dumbfounded.

"He told you to divorce her?" She looked to Joseph, almost imploring him.

Joseph drew his mouth into a tight line, lightly gnawing on the inside of his bottom lip. He stood to join the young prince near the door. Duty calls.

"Your Highness," he said slowly, "no one can tell you what to do. Your father tells you what he wants, but only you can decide." He turned the young man to face him, taking him by the shoulders. "What is more important to you – the love you feel for Helen, or the love you feel for your country, your people?"

Joseph looked quickly toward Clarisse as the prince hung his head. Sadness welled in her eyes but was quickly suppressed. He cocked his head in gentle acknowledgement.

"My child . . ." Philippe whispered plaintively.

"Will be well cared for," Joseph promised. "I personally guarantee it."

"You knew!" the prince accused him. "You knew he would ask this."

"King Rupert informed me of his wishes before he spoke with you." Joseph took a tighter hold on the younger man's shoulders, forcing eye contact. "It doesn't change the choice you have to make."

Philippe nodded distractedly. "I need to think. I need to think." He shrugged out of Joseph's grasp and fled the room.

"And what is more important to you, Joseph?" Clarisse asked softly.

He sighed in resignation. "Loving you, madam, I betray my king and my friend. Continuing to serve him, to love him even, I betray the love I have for you. Yet if I did not serve him faithfully, I would be unworthy of you." He shrugged as he ran a hand across the back of his neck. He crossed the room and took her hand once more. He lightly kissed her palm and drew her hand along his cheek as he knelt before her. "I cannot leave him, and I cannot leave you."

She took his face in both hands and planted a soft, chaste kiss on his forehead. Joseph's throat tightened as he felt her tears add to the caress.

Her tears. Clarisse was not a weeper. He recalled only too clearly the only other time he had seen her cry . . .

1978

He had done his time in the navy, and then taken the American government up on an offer to work undercover as part of their war on drugs. His fluency in Spanish and French, as well as English, and his ease in a variety of social settings, had made him a valuable asset throughout the Caribbean and Central and South America. But Sal had died, his mother was alone once again, and it was time to come home.

His mother had wanted to see the parade. She insisted that Sal had taken her every year and she couldn't have him looking down on her knowing she wasn't showing her national pride. And so they spent their morning standing on a street corner in what passed for downtown Pyrus waiting for the annual Independence Day parade to pass them by.

"Joseph," his mother tugged at his sleeve.

He was distracted this morning, constantly scanning the shifting crowds around him. He felt the buzzing behind his left ear – the same buzzing that had always given him notice of a superior officer's bad mood or a meet with a contact suddenly gone bad. Was there trouble afoot in Genovia's capital or was it just that he was experiencing home subtly altered after a twenty year absence?

"Joseph." She tugged again, more insistently.

"Hmm?" He spared her an eye, the rest of him attuned to his personal alarm bell.

"Doesn't Prince Philippe look an awful lot like your friend Rico?" she asked him. "You remember Rico? Sal and his cousin used to tutor him, too." Ever since Senor Gutierrez' grisly death, even in her letters, he was always 'Sal's cousin', as though speaking his name would somehow tarnish his memory. Diego, her own son, she never mentioned.

Joseph spared a glance at the poster of the royal family gracing the window of the shop across the street. "I guess he does a little," he replied, non-committal.

"Whatever became of Rico?" his mother asked. "Did I miss him at the funeral?"

"I know he went to school in England." His reply was evasive, but she seemed not to notice.

His gaze returned to the picture of 'Rico' and his family. At forty-four, he was the very image of a king – strong, dynamic, charismatic. With his dark hair and flashing eyes he was a magnet for appreciative stares wherever he went. His wife, Queen Clarisse, was a perfect visual complement. Even in the picture before him, Joseph could see that she exuded grace and composure. The two boys, Pierre at sixteen and Philippe not quite fourteen, were clearly cut from their father's mold, the same dark hair, dark eyes, ready smile. Although a closer look at Prince Pierre showed that his features had more of his mother about him, a delicacy to his features as opposed to the earthier cast of his father and brother.

From the occasional letters he and Rico had exchanged, he knew that both boys were shaping up well, excelling in their studies. Ever the proud parent, Rico had shared their triumphs and tragedies over the years. He had said less about Queen Clarisse in his letters, referring to a comment or an observation she may have made, but very little about her as a person. But at least if she was making observations, she had mastered her fear of talking to Rico. Joseph chuckled as he recalled Rico's boyhood fears.

"There they are!" someone in the crowd shouted. "Long live the King!"

Joseph turned from the portrait to the person of his old friend. Rico – King Rupert – sat in an open carriage with the Queen, regally waving to his subjects. The two princes rode on matching white chargers some ways back, flanked by royal guardsmen. The crowd waved and smiled in return, but Joseph found himself unable to join them.

The buzzing behind his ear had intensified. His mother was saying something, but he couldn't hear her. Knowing better than to ignore the intuition that had served him so well, he again scanned the people about him, the doorways, the vehicles, the rooftops – there! Just as he spotted the danger, shots rang out, and pandemonium ensued.

"Everybody down!" Joseph shouted as he thrust his mother to the ground and shoved through the flimsy barricade lining the street. He pulled a slumped over Rico from the carriage before any of the royal guard reached the King.

"What are you doing?" the Queen demanded, rising.

"Get down!" Joseph hissed. He reached across Rico's eerily still form and yanked the Queen from the coach. Sparing his old friend a quick once over, and gratified that his bloody chest was still rising and falling, if raggedly, he raced toward the building from which the shots had been fired.

Strangely, no one hindered his pursuit, and no one joined him. As he ran, he caught glimpses of the activity behind him. Rico's boys had leapt from their mounts with anguished shouts and raced to his side. The royal guard had surrounded the family; at least one guard knelt at the King's side in the street. As he turned to open the door to the suspect building, Joseph saw Queen Clarisse standing in the ring of guards, tears streaking her face. Joseph shook his head and closed the door behind him.

With the door shut, he paused to listen. Scant seconds had elapsed since the shooting; the assassin could not have gone far just yet. He cocked his head toward the ceiling. Yes! Footsteps above, moving very quickly – too quickly to be an honest citizen on this day. Joseph crept toward the rear of the building.

He almost tagged the shooter, grabbing his coat as the man barreled out the door, but the villain allowed the jacket to slip away. Joseph noted the man's hands were empty and made a mental note to check the building later in case the authorities failed to. Still grasping the coat, Joseph sped after the assassin.

Within moments, the two approached a familiar neighborhood. It was slightly cleaner than Joseph remembered from his boyhood, but he could navigate the streets with ease. The assassin was keeping apace with him; no matter how fast Joseph ran, the shooter always pulled ahead.

The man turned a corner and was plunging toward Sal's Boxing Gym. Although still usually packed according to his mother, most of the country was lining the streets for the parade, and a quick glance inside made it clear that no help would come from that quarter. Joseph sped on.

Just as the villain reached the next intersection, a young boy came around the corner. With his heightened senses of the moment, Joseph took in the boy's appearance with lightning speed. He was about ten years old, average height, a bit chunky, hair that light brown that would darken with age. Eyes? Unknown as the kid was wearing dark sunglasses. He had a blue towel wrapped around his neck and a gym bag thrown over his left shoulder.

Joseph's prey, head down as he ran full out, failed to notice the boy and plowed into him. Joseph dove and grabbed the man by an ankle as a handgun fell from the assassin's waistband and shots rang again. Joseph leveraged himself further up the man's legs, keeping an eye out for the boy with the shades. The shooter stretched out his arm for his pistol. Joseph grabbed the arm, determined to stave off any more violence.

"Grab the gun!" he shouted as he saw the boy struggling to stand.

The youth reached the weapon first and turned it upon the two men, wavering as to at whom he should be aiming.

"He's the bad guy!" Joseph grunted as his fist connected with the other man's jaw.

Before he could rise on his own, rough hands were pulling him to his feet, and he found they were being surrounded by uniformed royal guards and police.

"You're quite the hero today!" one of them said, clapping Joseph on the shoulder. Several others hauled the would be assassin upright.

Joseph eyed the boy as he carefully placed the handgun in a policeman's care. One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "I couldn't have done it without Shades over there." He nodded toward the youngster, cocking his head in salute.

It was nearly a week later that he was escorted into the throne room to receive a royal thank you. The King had lost a great deal of blood, but no vital organs had been pierced. Although his doctors insisted that more rest was necessary, Rupert had shouted them all down. He had a responsibility, he said, to keep his weekly appointment with the people of Genovia. Each Thursday afternoon, the King held public court, hearing petitions from all and sundry.

"A private audience can be arranged," the King's personal secretary informed Joseph for the twelfth time that day. The man stood near him as Joseph waited in line to approach the throne that particular Thursday.

"This is the time that the King meets with the people of Genovia," Joseph said softly. "I am a person of Genovia." He indicated the wicker basket he held. "I know the routine. I did this once with my mentor as a boy."

Joseph eyed his surroundings tentatively. Indeed, the last time – the only time – he'd been in the royal palace had been at just such a public court day. Senor Gutierrez had petitioned King Christophe for more police in their old neighborhood. The old man had taken seven year-old Joseph along for "the experience of meeting his King." That had been just before Rico had come into their lives. Joseph smiled slyly, wondering if the sordid tales Senor G had told the old king had encouraged Rico's early expeditions beyond the palace walls.

There were now five people ahead of him in line. Joseph kept his head down, not sure if he wanted Rico to recognize him, even less certain if he would. Twenty years changes a man, even a man who had once been closer than a brother.

Four more to go. He turned to regard the paintings on the wall. Dozens of Renaldi ancestors met his gaze, many with the same intense stare as he remembered from Rico.

Three more. There was an apparently new painting not far from the throne. Queen Clarisse, and clearly done within the last couple of years. She really was stunning, Joseph decided – very regal. He tried to see through the layers of paint to the little girl who had impaled a pig at a royal feast, but this was a painting of a woman every inch a queen.

Only two people ahead of him. Prince Pierre, the older boy, was at Rico's side. Rico seemed to be making a point of including Pierre in his conversations with each petitioner, occasionally allowing the boy to provide the royal response.

One more, and even though Joseph strained his hearing, there was just enough distance, or the acoustics were designed just so, that he couldn't hear what was being said between the King, the prince, and the young girl kneeling before them. Despite the long line, each person essentially received a private audience. Joseph couldn't recall noticing that as a boy. Of course, as a boy, he had been far more impressed by the large sword leaning against the throne, by the plush red carpet, and by the palace guards in their colorful uniforms.

It was his turn. Still keeping his head bowed, he knelt at Rico's feet. How odd, he suddenly thought. He had known his King for thirty years now and yet had never knelt before him in this manner. He felt like a character out of one of Senor G's medieval epic poems. Joseph shook his head, chastising himself for getting caught up in the pageantry.

"Your Majesty," the secretary intoned, "I have the honor to present--"

"Joe?" Rico – King Rupert – whispered. "Is it really you?" The King leaned forward, eagerly, Joseph thought as he snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye. Then the king grunted and grimaced in obvious pain and sat back again. Prince Pierre placed a hand on the back of the throne and leaned in.

"Something for your table, Majesty," Joseph recited the formula, handing the small basket to his sovereign.

"What are you . . . ?" Rico – King Rupert – what on earth should he call the man now? He trailed off as Joseph indicated the basket with a small wave.

Curious, the King lifted the hinged lid and extracted a small tin. Opening that, he inhaled deeply and smiled slyly at Joseph. "My doctors will try to take these away from me."

"Not quite as good as Senor G's sister's," Joseph admitted, "but my mother made them, so don't tell her I said that." He carefully returned Rico's – yes, definitely Rico's smile.

Rico delved into the basket again and emerged with a bottle of wine. "A '28 Siglo Saco? I'm impressed."

"No doubt the doctors will be after that faster than the galletas," Joseph smirked. He noticed the young prince chuckling, wanting to join the adult banter, but clearly uncertain as to his place.

Once more the king reached into the basket. This time he pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside the bag were two spent bullets, the casings warped into small metal blossoms. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Joseph. Prince Pierre gasped and regarded Joseph with suspicion.

"They match the one your doctors retrieved from your chest," Joseph explained quietly. "That never should have happened," he added, leaning closer to the King. "You need me, Rico," he whispered intently.

Again the king seemed confused – and very tired, Joseph noted.

"Senor Del Lago is the man who pulled you from the carriage, Your Majesty." The secretary pushed forward, briefly blocking Joseph's view of his old friend. "He ran down the assassin and captured him."

Rico waved the officious man away, clearly preferring to deal with Joseph directly. He leaned toward Joseph again, gasping, but accepting the obvious pain the movement cost him. He held out his hand and Joseph took it.

"Your security is insufficient, Majesty," he began. "As the King's man I would be remiss if I failed to point that out." The two men exchanged a knowing glance. "You needed me and you didn't call." Joseph kept his voice flat, passionless. He hadn't intended to connive Rico into giving him a job, but suddenly he found that the place he most wanted to be was at Rico's side. His heart beat wildly and his palms began to sweat. How strange to now want something desperately that he hadn't even considered just moments ago.

Rico placed his other hand over their clasped ones and stood, pulling Joseph upright with him. "You're right, my friend," he said steadily, some sort of relief evident through his physical pain. "I do need you."