Author's Note: Another long one, dear readers. I hope you enjoy, and do tell me if you do. Just for a frame of reference, we're just about half way through now.

For all the love I found in you . . .

1990

"Why does the staff call this the 'Spanish library'?" Clarisse mused as her fingers roamed over the spines of aged books. "Do you know?"

Joseph smiled – rather secretively she thought -- from his seat by the fire. In all the time she'd been meeting him here in this small library, he had rarely moved from that chair. Of course, sitting anywhere other than that chair might have proven to be too tempting for both of them, but still, there was something about that chair . . .

"And you've lived here how long, Majesty?" he teased.

She clucked at him and returned her attention to the row of books before her. "Many of these are in Spanish," she said. "But there are just as many in French, German, English, Italian, and Portuguese."

"There are a couple over there," he pointed to the other side of the fireplace, "in Swahili, but I've never been able to read them." He gave her another wry smile.

"Would it be so difficult to just answer my question?" She shook her head slightly, watching him watch her. Whereas once it had been unnerving, feeling his eyes on her constantly, even when they weren't; now it was almost arousing, sensing his gaze settling around her whenever they were alone and occasionally when they weren't.

"I just thought you might be interested in the Swahili," he insisted with obviously feigned innocence. "They're over there." He waved across the room.

"You just want to watch me walk across the room," she chided. Yes, his watching her had definitely grown arousing.

"Oh, I have much bigger plans than that," he boasted. He shot her the briefest of leers. "They're on the bottom shelf."

"Just for that," and she swished past him as she crossed the room, barely brushing her skirt against his arm, "I will stoop, not bend."

"Stoop?" he asked, taken aback. "How will stooping get you to the bottom shelf?"

"Joseph," she said, pulling her regal manner about herself, "surely you understand that a queen never squats."

"Hmm." He regarded her with apparent indecision. "Does a queen crouch?"

"Rarely." She reached the other side of the room and turned to face him once more.

"Hunker down?" he tried again with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Absolutely not!" She glared at him in mock offense, but then her demeanor collapsed into gentle giggles.

"Swahili, you said?" She pivoted to the shelf and bent at the waist, knowing full well that Joseph's eyes were glued to her backside. Some part of her was incredulous that, rather than feeling cheapened by his frank appreciation, she reveled in it, even sought it out.

Which is so very wrong, she thought as she stood again, fearing to turn and face the man she was very certain she not only lusted after, but loved.

"We have to stop this, Joseph," she whispered softly, wondering if she'd spoken loud enough to be heard – if she wanted him to hear.

"A part of me wishes I could," he murmured as he came to stand behind her.

He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and she leaned back ever so slightly, relishing the feel of his hands over her, the firmness of his chest behind her. She clutched the book he had sent her for tightly to her chest. Self-pitying her words may have been, but at least they'd gotten him out of that damn chair and touching her. Oh, dear God, can you get any more pathetic, Clarisse?

"Do you really?" she asked plaintively. She breathed in the scent of him. It was so rare they were able to stand so close together; even when they were alone, they seldom dared.

"No." He squeezed her shoulders firmly and dropped his hands to his sides. He gently took the book from her hands and tossed it on the table behind him. "That's the problem."

"Joseph . . ." She grasped his hand quickly before he could move away. "We've never been unfaithful. Six years, Joseph, and never. Never," she insisted with a fierce shake of her head.

"But we've wanted to." He began to stroke the back of her hand with his thumb. She closed her eyes and felt his hand pull away from hers, only to return as he drew them to face one another, her hand now clasped between both of his. He lightly traced the outline of her digits with one finger while with his other hand he sketched along her veins from wrist to elbow.

"I do want you, Joseph," she breathed as he kissed each of her fingertips in turn. "I love you."

He stopped, dropped her hand as though it had bitten him, and paced slowly to his chair. He plucked at the chair's upholstery as he sat, as though uncertain what to do with his hands now. Her own felt suddenly cold without his to surround them.

"Joseph?" Her voice quavered. She had felt certain she did love him for quite some time now, but had held off telling him, unsure as to how he would receive the admission. He knew, surely he knew? But hearing it said aloud – would it change things between them?

He blew a burst of air out threw his teeth – not a sigh or a snort, but a clear expression of resignation. Slowly he brought his gaze to meet hers. "If ever I thought I could leave you . . ."

"Have you thought it?" She was suddenly apprehensive; terrified he really would leave the palace, and her.

"I've tried to think it," he explained. "I've wanted to think it." She turned away from him, biting her lip to keep her emotions under rigid control and he rushed on. "There's no happy ending here, Clarisse, not for any of us. But if I leave . . ." He shook his head and gave her a soft, sad smile. "I could never leave you."

"What if I left?" she said suddenly, not even certain from whence the thought had come. "What if there was no Rupert?"

"You could never do that." He came to stand behind her again and wrapped his arms around her, resting his forehead briefly on her shoulder. "And even if you could leave him, divorce him, there would still be a Rupert. I can't ask you to choose between us; could you ask it of me? We're not fifteen, my darling; we can't run off like Romeo and Juliet." His embrace tightened around her, and her world shrunk to the circumference of his arms.

"I don't recall much of a happy ending for them either," she said.

"I've never much cared for poison or daggers myself," he added.

His attempt to lighten the mood was lost on her though. She squirmed around in his arms to face him and looped her arms around his neck. He pulled back a little, startled. "I know," she spoke softly; "we've never done this before." She brushed his cheek with her lips, feather light. "It feels nice."

"It feels dangerous," he said regretfully, and firmly pushed her out of his arms. Once again he returned to his chair. "Although, yes," he added as he touched his cheek, "quite nice."

"All right," she said, seating herself at the far end of the small divan, "I guess that's quite enough playing with fire for one evening, hmm?"

"Quite enough," he agreed. He snatched up a book from the table and pretended to read for several minutes. She knew he was pretending, but she gave him the time to recover from their closest brush with adultery yet. For herself, she never wanted to recover, and yet she knew she must; once outside the door of the "Spanish library" she would be The Queen again. There had been a time when she had never set the crown aside; perhaps someday she would find that control again. But would that be better or worse?

"Pierre is arriving tomorrow, you know," she said in a desperate bid to change the subject before her maudlin thoughts consumed her.

"I know," he replied flatly.

"You don't sound very eager to see him."

"He sounds as though he's coming home to say his last good-byes." Joseph closed his book and placed it carefully in the chair at his side. Was that a challenge, Clarisse wondered.

"It's a terrific opportunity for him, Joseph," she insisted. "A posting at the Vatican."

"It's not what he wants." Joseph massaged his brow wearily. "He wants to be a parish priest – to serve God, not the Church. This is Rico's doing, Clarisse, and poor Pierre still hasn't really learned to stand on his own."

"Pierre is a good man," she flared in her son's defense.

"I know he is," he responded with equal heat. "You've done a fine job raising him! But that doesn't change the fact that--"

"We've done a fine job," she interrupted softly, recovering her own composure as soon as she realized how closely Joseph's feelings about Pierre mirrored his feelings toward her. She and Pierre were Rupert's, in Joseph's eyes, yet he wanted them both desperately for his own. And yet, though he was clearly afraid to believe it and accept it, they did both belong to him in ways they never would to Rupert.

He smiled, accepting her unspoken apology, and offered his own with his outstretched hand. She came to him and took it, marveling at how much more . . . complete, yes complete she felt when he touched her.

"I should go," she said. "We've tortured each other enough for one evening."

"Wait," he whispered hoarsely. "I have something for you." He opened the book at his side and removed a thin envelope from the back. He handed it to her and gestured for her to sit in one motion.

"What is this?" she asked as she pulled the flap of the envelope out. Inside were three photographs – one of an infant in a hospital crib, another of a toddler pouring a bucket of sand over her head, and the last of a little girl of about six sitting astride a pony. "Oh . . ." she crooned. "Is this . . .?"

"That's your granddaughter. Happy Birthday, Clarisse," he added softly.

"But, Joseph, we promised." She swallowed convulsively, choking back tears. "We promised to keep our distance until the child is eighteen."

"I didn't promise," he said quietly, but very firmly. "I've been watching them both – from a distance – since the girl was born."

"Does Philippe know?" She flipped through the pictures again, lingering over each, running her fingers lovingly across the small face of her granddaughter. Although she loved her sons, the familiar ache of never having had a daughter to raise flashed through her.

"Mm-hmm." Joseph shifted in his seat. "He wasn't ready for it at first, of course, but I showed him those first two a couple of years ago. He's started writing letters to her."

"He has?" She looked to him in puzzlement. "How much distance is that? She's not supposed to know that she's royal until--"

"They're just letters, Clarisse," Joseph said calmly, "and I mail them. Philippe hasn't known exactly where they are." He paused a moment as though marshalling his thoughts. "Although I'm about to tell him. They aren't in New York anymore and I think it would be in our best interests to establish a consulate in their city. It would ease communication when – if – that becomes necessary."

"Well, yes," she said, tapping her finger on the top photo, "Philippe has rather failed to fulfill that particular duty completely, hasn't he?"

"He's not even thirty yet, and Rupert has plenty of years left, I'm sure."

His expression was so confident, and so free of the guilt that frequently marred their time alone together, she felt an insane desire to throw herself into his arms with trusting abandon. But the crown was calling, so she settled for grasping his hand and squeezing it tightly in gratitude.

"We do have the girl, Clarisse – just in case." He smiled and drew her hand to his lips, barely brushing her knuckles with his lips.

Catching the breath he had stolen from her, she asked hesitantly, "If I . . . if I were to have a letter, or a small package, would you send it for me?"

Joseph's smile grew wider; he released her hand and dipped his head in a mock bow. "Madam has only to ask, and I shall oblige."

She nodded her thanks and stood. "My birthday isn't until Saturday, you know."

"I know that quite well," he interjected with a soft smile. "But Pierre will be here, and there will be a state dinner, and we will both have a great deal of work to do. I didn't think you'd want to receive those in front of the Portuguese ambassador.

"That man!" She shook her head, remembering the last state dinner the diplomat from Lisbon had been invited to, and wishing he weren't coming to her birthday dinner. "He has more hands than anyone I've ever known."

Joseph chuckled, but shot her a telling look. "If the opportunity presents itself, the ambassador will find himself with two less hands," he growled. "Now, go. Much longer and the maids will start talking."

"That's what makes it unbearable, isn't it? No one does talk. Who would ever suspect? We could stay here all night and no one would--"

Their eyes met. Once she had thought that the windows to Joseph's soul were battened down against a fierce storm. But it was all too clear that the storm was raging inside. Love, desire, fear, guilt, all wrenched at him. She wondered if he saw the same in her. Did she want him to see it? Or could she spare him more pain by regaining that distance of old?

As she passed him she bent to whisper a final farewell, gripping his shoulder as much to anchor herself emotionally as physically, only to feel him turn his head toward her, his breath warm and enticing near her ear. "I do love you, Clarisse," he murmured.

There! Joseph poked his head into the ballroom and spotted his target leaning against the open ballroom doors. He had been looking for the royal guest since the dinner disaster. Would Rico never learn to just let the boy be? Philippe was solidly on the path to the crown; Genovia would be in good hands for years to come. Why did the King still feel the need to all but ostracize his elder son? He refused even to think about that octopus from Lisbon. Rico hadn't even seemed to notice. He paused to gather his courage and straighten his coat with a slight shrug.

"Father Pierre?" Joseph approached the prince with studied nonchalance.

"Hello, Joseph," he replied softly. "I knew you'd be skulking about somewhere." He grinned to take the sting from his comment.

"Skulking?" Joseph feigned indignance.

"My most humble apologies, honored sir." Pierre clicked his heels and bowed his head precisely.

Joseph clapped the younger man on the shoulder. With a wave of his arm he drew them both further out into the twilight. He stopped at the top of the steps leading to the gardens, surveying the scene.

"It gets better every year, doesn't it?" Pierre asked.

"More of herself," Joseph murmured.

"Hmm?" The younger man turned toward him, quizzical.

"Nothing." He shrugged off his maudlin thoughts and braced himself for the trial ahead. "Will you walk with me, Father?" He indicated the gardens below.

Though the two men walked side by side, Joseph led with no particular destination in mind. For the moment, it was enough to enjoy the late summer evening and the company of a young man he respected and admired.

"I don't believe I've ever told you, Highness," he spoke the words precisely, yet each unfolded as quietly as the blossoms around them, "that I'm quite proud of you." He cast a sidelong glance, gauging his companion's reaction.

Pierre seemed briefly startled, and then smiled. "Thank you, sir. Your good opinion means a good deal to me."

Joseph didn't respond immediately, but the prince appeared to give it no mind. They reached the gazebo and paused, once more taking in the restful sights and smells of Clarisse's gardens. He felt far from restful, however, and slowly circled the inner perimeter before speaking again.

"Your father thinks he knows what's best for you, Pierre," Joseph began, cursing himself for avoiding yet again the real topic he meant to address.

"He's never really understood," Pierre sighed. "But it's all right. You'd think he would, wouldn't you? To him, duty is all. He just can't see a duty beyond his country. I know my true duty and I'm doing my best to fulfill it." He gripped the rail to either side of him, clearly not as at ease with his father's motivations as his words implied.

"And what is your true duty, Pierre? Do you expect to fulfill it in Rome?" He stopped, glaring at the young man with unexpected intensity.

Pierre stared back, meeting his mentor's gaze firmly. Finally, with a wry nod of his head, he acknowledged Joseph's point. "My duty is to God, and to the people of Genovia. What I want to do is what I've been called to do – what my father trained me to do, in a way – to serve God and serve my people. My father just doesn't see that I'm doing what he wants, just in another way."

"Then you have to make him see." Joseph circled the interior of the gazebo again, leaving the prince to his thoughts. Restless, he drummed his hands against his legs as he paced.

"Joe, I . . ." Pierre faltered. "I want you to know how much it's meant to me. How much you've meant to me. You always listened, but you've always respected my own decisions and still supported them. If you thought badly of me, it would be a blow."

"I feel the same, but nevertheless . . ." He trailed off, uncertain.

"Nevertheless?" Pierre looked puzzled.

Joseph motioned for the younger man to sit, but did not join him. Instead, he sank heavily to his knees and clasped Pierre's left hand in both of his.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he whispered roughly.

"Joseph, what are you . . ." He moved to pull his hand away, but Joseph grasped it more tightly.

Joseph bowed his head over their joined hands, then quickly looked up, meeting the prince's confused look. "Please," he implored.

Pierre seemed troubled, though nothing compared to what he would feel shortly, Joseph mused. But he nodded, pulled his stole from his pocket, kissed it reverently, and draped it around his neck. Joseph watched him school his features into an expression of benign compassion. When the young priest nodded again, Joseph began.

"It's been two weeks since my last confession, Father." His voice was still scarcely above a whisper. "But this particular sin has gone unconfessed for many years. I wish to . . . I need to . . . I have to tell someone."

"Go on, my son." Pierre was obviously self-conscious and uncomfortable, but Joseph had no pity to spare him.

"I'm in love," Joseph admitted in the same tone another man might confess to a devastating addiction.

Pierre visibly relaxed. "Since when is being in love a sin? I'm happy for you. I've never thought you were meant to be alone."

"Since Mt. Sinai," Joseph said flatly.

Pierre blanched.

"I am hopelessly, desperately, all-consumingly in love with another man's wife." He twisted his body around to sit on the wooden floor of the gazebo, unable to hazard the condemnation he knew he would find in Pierre's eyes.

"How long?" The priest exhaled a long pent up breath.

"About fifteen years." He squelched both the love and the pain so intertwined with thoughts of Clarisse and forced his voice into a flat tone.

"Ever since you came to the palace."

"Almost," he agreed.

"Does she . . . know?" Pierre shifted on the bench. Joseph pursed his lips, simultaneously wishing he could take back the last several minutes and wanting to pour all his guilt onto Pierre's shoulders.

"Oh, yes," he sighed.

"And does she . . . return your feelings?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed, his voice barely audible.

"And have you . . . acted on your . . . feelings . . . my, my son?"

Despite the gravity of his confession, Joseph couldn't help but smile in sympathy for the young priest. "Am I your first whopper, Highness?"

"My first what?" Pierre was startled out of his reticent voyeurism.

"Whopper. An American word. It means 'the big one'."

"Oh, I understand," the prince replied as he shifted again on the bench. "No, Joseph, I've heard other, even more serious confessions, but this is so, so unexpected . . . from you."

Joseph stared into the night, away from the young priest, all levity leached away once more.

"Why, Joseph?" Joseph felt him squeeze his hand; was that meant to be reassurance, forgiveness, or just encouragement to continue the tale? "Why now? You've kept this secret all this time, why confess now – to me?"

Joseph sighed heavily and leveraged himself up to the bench. He sat at the prince's side, staring moodily across the gardens. "I'm getting older, Highness," he said simply. "If anything should happen to me – or to her, God forbid – I want, I just want someone to know."

"So you're not really confessing this." A statement, not a query. "You're using the seal of the confessional to—"

"No!" Joseph interrupted forcefully. "I am NOT using you. This is a confession."

"But not a repentance," the younger man insisted. "You don't intend to stop being in love with this woman, do you?"

Joseph shook his head slowly. "I can't."

"Confession without repentance is meaningless, my son," he intoned.

"Okay, fair enough," Joseph nodded. "You're giving me the straight shot, and you're right, but . . ."

"Love is a choice, Joseph." Pierre let go of his hand and wrapped his fingers around Joseph's forearm. "You're choosing to still love her, even though you know it's wrong."

"Just because I can't have her doesn't mean I can't love her." He found himself wondering, not for the first time, just who he was justifying himself to. "Love may be a choice, but you don't turn it on and off like a light switch, my friend."

"I wouldn't know," Pierre admitted. "I've never really felt that. I love my parents, my brother, you, my people, some friends, but 'hopelessly, desperately, all-consumingly'? I don't know."

Joseph hung his head, thinking. Of a sudden he recalled something Clarisse had once said and turned to look fully into the young priest's eyes, heartened by the sympathy he found there and not the condemnation he'd expected. "Do you want to know what it's like? Have you ever wanted something so badly . . . so badly you could smell it with every fiber of your being, and it smelled better than anything you've ever even imagined smelling . . . but you weren't allowed to taste it? And then you did get a taste – just the smallest taste, mind. Not even a taste, really . . . the taste of a taste, and you knew then that you could live on that alone for the rest of your life – that it was all you needed. But then, you had to put it aside, all because the plate it was on belonged to someone else."

Pierre regarded him warily now, still sympathetic, but uneasy once again.

"Have you talked to my father about this woman?" Pierre asked cautiously.

"No!" Joseph mentally kicked himself for answering so quickly, so forcefully.

"That's what I thought." Pierre took Joseph's hand once more, and joined him in staring out across the gardens.

"Mother really is fabulous at this, isn't she?" With a wave of his other hand he took in the gardens and the deep red sun setting behind the palace wall.

"She's good," Joseph whispered, "but I think she had a little help with the sunset."

"Joe," Pierre pulled the older man around to face him, "she's one of the two finest people I know. I'd hate to have someone break the pedestal out from underneath her."

Joseph took Pierre's knowing look in with a combination of relief and fear. It was a relief to share the secret, for someone else to know. But as much as he feared ruining the man's perception of his mother, Joseph feared slipping off that other pedestal himself even more. He clasped Pierre's hand tightly. "No one ever will, son," he vowed. "No one ever will."

Pierre nodded and breathed a sigh of . . . relief, regret, realization? "So you've been thinking about your true duty lately too, hmm?"

"Yes, duty is always on my mind," he said guardedly.

"Well then," Pierre paused, and Joseph experienced a brief flash of doubt. "I cannot absolve you of this sin, my son," he continued in a more officious manner, "since you are completely unrepentant."

Joseph all but crumpled inside, wondering if he had laid waste to fifteen years of secrecy in his bargain for an understanding confidante.

"However, since it would seem that your sin is essentially its own penance, I offer you my sympathy. I hope that . . ." He faltered again and his tone became familiar once again. "I hope that someday it will all work out . . . somehow . . . for everyone. Vaya con Dios, Joseph."

"You keep hoping, Father," Joseph said quietly. "I've been too afraid to hope for a long time."

"Come on," Pierre said as he stood and hauled Joseph to his feet as well. "Let's go to your place, have a drink and you can tell me what daredevilry Philippe is up to lately."

"That boy?" Joseph let out a rush of breath, relieved, and clapped Pierre on the shoulder. "That boy will be the death of all of us."

"Joe," Pierre stopped him just before they reach the palace steps, "I want you to know that . . . well, I'm proud of you, too."

Stunned, Joseph stared blankly at the prince. "Thank you, Pierre. That means more to me than you know."

"But I do know, Joe, and I'm still proud of you."

1978

"Right this way, Senor del Lago," Jorge Gruber, Rico's personal secretary, led Joseph down yet another long corridor. "King Rupert said you're to have your choice of quarters. Not all of the staff live in the palace, but most of the department heads at least keep palace quarters even if they have another primary residence. Do you live in Pyrus?"

"I grew up here," Joseph answered. "My mother still lives in town, but I think I'll trust the King on this one."

"So you've met King Rupert before?" The secretary's eyebrows rose enquiringly.

"Yes," Joseph replied.

"Care to elaborate?" The man's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

"No." Joseph chuckled to himself as the eyebrows – there was really only one of them, and a bushy one at that – came crashing back down into a suspicious pout.

"Very well," Jorge recovered, "this corridor contains available staff apartments. If you want to take a look now, we can continue the tour after that."

"Continue?" Joseph asked weakly. They had already seen two throne rooms, seven conference rooms, four kitchens, a grand ballroom, three smaller dancing rooms, five sitting rooms, one grand dining room and no less than six smaller dining rooms, all of which were larger than most mess halls he'd seen in his Navy days, a receiving dock for palace supplies, and a movie theater. "Just how much more is there?"

"Senor del Lago, this is a large house and the grounds are very extensive, if you don't feel up to the job . . ."

"My job is the King," Joseph fired back, growing weary of the officious little man's trampled pride. "I'll learn the layout. I assume there are blueprints available?"

"In your office . . ."

"Which I have yet to see, I'll point out." He sent his own eyebrows as far north as possible, determined to wait the man out.

"Yes, of course," Gruber all but whined, "King Rupert was very clear about your locating acceptable quarters, however."

"Fine," he snapped, "do I just choose one?"

"King Rupert stated that you would know which quarters were yours when you saw them."

"Really? Well, let's get on with the tour then. We'll walk through each of these and any other available space. If R- King Rupert already has some space set aside for me, I'm sure I'll find it."

"Why would His Majesty plan quarters for you and not tell me about them?" The man's tone was almost, but not quite, insulting.

"Senor Gruber," Joseph began patiently, "or should it be Herr Gruber? Which do you prefer?"

"Actually," he drew out the word as though warming to a well-loved topic and Joseph winced. "Actually, my father was part Spanish and part German, but my mother was French, but of Scottish ancestry. Both were in royal service, as I have been since age ten, and so French and English were always the primary languages spoken in our home as they are in the entire palace. I prefer Monsieur Gruber." He ended with a quick bob of his head and a foot stamp that reminded Joseph of the prancing white chargers Rico's boys had ridden in the parade last week.

"Only in Genovia," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'll call you Jorge," he added decisively and passed the man into the first of the staff apartments. "Unless you'd rather I call you George!"

Three corridors, and almost as many hours later Joseph had visited his office, the King's office, the Queen's office, the housekeeper's office, two libraries, a solarium, a full scale boxing gym, and the dungeons – renovated into storage of goods, not prisoners, during the reign of King Enrique, Rupert's grandfather. They had also traipsed through any number of empty staff apartments, all of which were more than suitable for his rather Spartan needs, but none that contained a hidden message from Rico.

At the top of yet another staircase, Jorge motioned to a wide corridor to the right. "In this direction we have the royal apartments. The King and Queen each keep a suite of rooms. The Princes have connecting suites. There are also smaller private sitting and dining rooms. I expect you will need to become familiar with those as well?"

Undoubtedly," Joseph answered, and strode toward the hallway's entrance.

"Senor del Lago," Jorge gasped, "please! One does not enter the Family wing at this time of night unless one is summoned. Queen Clarisse is quite firm on that point."

"Is there anything else I should know about her?" Joseph asked with thinly veiled derision. Though quite beautiful, Rupert's wife had yet to impress him.

"You should know that she is the Queen. Never forget that." Jorge shifted the leather covered notepad he carried from one hand to the other. "She is also the single most gracious woman in the kingdom. All women aspire to be like Queen Clarisse. All fathers desire their daughters to follow Queen Clarisse's example. All--"

"I've been out of the country for a while," Joseph interrupted before the man could grow yet more effusive. "I'll be polite, and do my duty, but my job is the King. I doubt I'll need to have many dealings with the Queen."

"What's through there?" He gestured toward a closed door down the hall to the left.

"The Spanish library," Jorge replied, "very seldom used. King Rupert is fluent, of course, as is the rest of the Royal Family and many of the staff. It isn't reserved exclusively for the Family, but its proximity discourages."

"Let's look." Joseph carefully opened the large oaken door.

The room was small in comparison with most in the palace, positively dwarfed by the two ground floor libraries, yet it quite obviously warranted the appellation. The greater part of every wall was covered in books, many quite old, some clearly well used. A stone fireplace dominated one end of the room; a small sitting group of a sofa bracketed by two chairs faced it. There were several books stacked on a low table before the sofa and more on an end table next to one of the chairs. Joseph stood rooted in the doorway. For all that the room was a great deal larger, the emotions it stirred in him were the same; he felt as though he had just walked into Senor G's front parlor. Slowly, almost reverently, he approached the sitting group. Running a hand over the nearer chair's soft, worn leather, he glanced at the books on the table – All Quiet on the Western Front, Le Morte d'Arthur, The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, Plato's Republic, and Run Silent, Run Deep. On the mantle shelf sat a small wooden box, scratched a bit with age, but polished to a high gloss. Joseph was all but certain he knew what was inside.

Making his way around the front of the leather chair he dropped to his knees and flipped the large cushion up. It was still there. Burned into the leather upholstery was his name. He had been all of four years old when he'd done it, just learning to spell, the letters oddly sized. Proud of his new ability, he had written his name everywhere, and with whatever writing instrument was at hand. This time he had used a stick from the fire. His father had been home then, he couldn't recall why, but the man had never come home again. Joseph remembered his father telling him how proud he was of him, spelling it all correctly. Two years later, after the war, when times were even harder, his widowed mother had sold many of the family's possessions to feed her young sons. Senor G had purchased the chair and kept it in his front sitting room until he died.

There were no windows in the "Spanish library,' but a small door in the corner beckoned. Through the door was a generous suite of rooms – another sitting room, a small kitchen, much larger bedroom, and bath. Quite suitable, and quite definitely home. Twenty years before Rico had promised to look after the items that Senor G had left to him, but this was more than Joseph had ever expected. Every room was furnished in some fashion with objects that had once belonged to their old mentor. On the very familiar desk in the sitting room he found a letter in Rico's hand held in place by the '28 he'd given him earlier in the day.

Joe,

Once you've found this, come find me. By now I'm probably in my private office – third door on your left down the family hall. We can share the bottle and I'll quiz you on the damn Greeks.

Best hurry if you expect any of your mother's cookies,

R

He carefully folded the letter and slipped it into his jacket pocket, snagged the bottle off the desk and went back out to the library. "We're finished here, Jorge," he said as he picked Plato up from the round table. "I'll start my day in my office tomorrow, getting to know my staff, but I'm sure we'll see quite a bit of each other, so if I have any further questions . . ." he trailed off as he left the library and made his way toward the family wing.

"Senor del Lago," Jorge called softly, "you can't."

Joseph clutched book and wine together in one arm and fished in his pocket for Rico's note. Waving it in the air, he called back jauntily, "Ah, but I've been summoned."