Author's note: I am very very grateful for your support and reviews. I am so glad you like Anna; I found her a real challenge, and one that hasn't eased throughout the story. Please read and review if you'd like.

Today she was seven. Seven already; his child, his little girl. He had woken early and, lying in bed, had taken up his pen and pad. This particular pad was fine linen paper, a sugar pink, and her current favourite colour. He hadn't kept count of the letters but the once small wooden box had grown into a large one, stuffed end to end with letters on a variety of colours and styles of paper. One was a bar napkin, written when he was drunk and miserable one night. It had become an addiction of sorts, his own free therapy. While he knew she'd never read them, he sometimes went back and read them to remind himself he wasn't mad or desperate.

It had been so long since he'd thought about it but today he wanted to write about that weekend in Madrid. An odd thing, he knew, to want to commit to paper for her seventh birthday. It wouldn't be detailed, or graphic, but he thought if he didn't write it he'd forget it altogether. It was slipping away from him slowly and quietly.

Romantically, he'd once thought that it would never leave him. He had believed it would remain as vivid as ever, that the feel and taste and smell of her wouldn't abandon him in his loneliness. But it had. The memory had aged and yellowed, curling at the edges till only fragments of the picture remained.

Because time didn't care for your emotions.

So he wrote it down in the most romantic terms he could imagine, filled in blanks that had appeared over the years, and then stowed it away in the box that she'd never have. Then he had to shower because it made him feel terror clinging to his skin.

Anna's real gift was propped up against the wall – a metal detector – wrapped and beribboned. She'd become convinced recently that there was treasure on the grounds of the palace and he'd grown tired of digging with a trowel. Anna was always searching, always looking for her next big adventure. Sometimes it enthralled him and at other times it panicked him; that much inquisition had to lead to misery. She'd love this gift, of course. And, with only Clarisse knowing, he'd transferred money into her trust fund via his Swiss account– as he did every birthday. Clarisse had told him not to but he was so frightened he'd have to go one day, or he'd lose this link, that he ignored her and did it anyway.

At this rate, Anna would be able to sustain herself in the life she was accustomed to ten times over.

Clarisse was angry with him for it. He knew it was fear that someone might questioned his generosity but she had been rude about it the night before and he had been impatient with her. He was tired of excusing the small things he wanted to do for her, for both of them, because of the fear they shared.

The palace was in the throes of preparing for a child's party. It wasn't the same as a ball – canapés replaced with candies, champagne replaced with apple juice, a band replaced by a C.D. player – so Joseph was amused that Clarisse had decided to use china to serve these things. He shook his head, swiping a slice of apple covered in chocolate from a silver tray.

"Joey!"

He turned to the chastising voice and laughed at the sight of her. It appeared her mother had wrangled her into a pretty party dress, hair tamed and tied into a satin ribbon.

"Joe."

If he'd let her call him Joey, it would have been a dead giveaway.

She giggled, "Joe, that's the party food."

He bowed, "Sorry princess."

"Forgiven," she smiled.

"Can I give you a birthday hug?"

"Why are you asking me?"

He pulled her into his arms. Taller and thinner, she'd lost all her childhood chubbiness. It hurt to hold her and realise that time was tricking them. She jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist.

"You're my favourite," she whispered in his ear, trailing her fingers across his goatee as was her affectionate habit.

"You're mine," he smiled, "A birthday dance, my little princess?"

"Oh, please good sir," she giggled again.

He knew there wouldn't any viable waltz music in the C.D. player on the table, so he started humming. Violetta, fussing with a flower arrangement at the far end of the ballroom, smiled at him for a moment but went back to her task. He gave a valiant attempt at the 'The Blue Danube' (her mother's favourite) and waltzed her around the ballroom, enjoying the sensation of his daughter and her happiness in this moment.

"My papa isn't going to be here today," she said slowly, "He has a meeting."

"That's alright," he answered, still moving with her and realising he didn't have a kind reply.

"I wish you were –"

"Princess," he was frightened about what she was about to say and knew he had to interrupt, "You look beautiful today."

"Thank you Joe."

Then he saw Clarisse, standing at the top of the stairs, from the corner of his eye. He pivoted to see her. She was watching them and she was so breath-taking and beautiful and sad looking that he faltered in his step and stopped, his eyes locked on her.

"And so does your mother."

It was out before he could reel it back in.

The little girl pulled back to look at him for a strange second, then to her mother on the stairs.

She smiled, "Yes she is beautiful."

"Are you dancing?"

He knew Clarisse had heard him but she didn't appear to let it trip her up. She floated towards them, the pretty satin dress dancing around her knees.

"You've managed to keep you dress clean, at least."

Clarisse leaned in and kissed her daughter on the cheek. She was so close, he could taste her perfume.

"Your brothers want to speak to you in the library," she said gently, "Go and see them."

"Yes mama."

When she had run out of sight, skidding at the top of the stairs and earning a sigh from Clarisse, they found themselves alone. He didn't know where Violetta had gone but between the queen arriving and the princess leaving, she had disappeared.

"Can we walk?"

"Of course."

The spring gardens were beautiful; the scent of new flowers was heady, with a sharp undertone of frost, the first grasses were growing too quickly to control.

"I owe you an apology," she said quietly.

He remained silent because he agreed.

"You are entitled to give her what you want," she said, "And I am sorry I lost my temper."

He threw her a sideways glance and realised how truly exhausted she looked.

"Have you noticed all we ever do is apologise to each other? It is as if we're still apologising for that first moment, as if we owe each other something huge."

She stopped walking and faced him to answer his question.

"Yes," she laughed without a hint of humour, "Yes, as it happens."

"I hate it," he continued, "I really do."

"Me too. We should stop it," she smiled as he nodded his agreement, "Seven, can you believe it?"

"Hardly," he shook his head and fell into step with her again, "Thank you, for loving her so much."

"It's easy," she answered, "Very easy. It is easy to love someone made out of love."

Her words were a balm she'd applied, ignorant to its healing impact. They were in the rose garden now, hidden from view and cameras.

"Will you hold me?"

He nodded, frightened his words would fail him if he said anything. He opened his arms to her and she stepped into them. She'd put weight on, he'd noticed and felt, and yet she was bird-like and frail in his arms. He buried his nose in her hair and smelled cotton and cherry-blossom.

"I miss you," she whispered against his collarbone.

"I miss you too," he rubbed her back.

"Maybe one day-"

"Don't. You're having a weak moment," he murmured, "So don't."

She just nodded and held him even tighter than he thought her capable of.

-0-

Anna found her brothers in the library, though she had dawdled, and both were staring out of the window that looked onto the gardens. Their heads were bowed and they were whispering. They turned quickly though and broke apart when they heard her come in and Phillippe, scooping her into his arms, lifted her as if she were an aeroplane.

"It's the birthday girl!"

She laughed loudly as he swung her around the room.

"Put her down Pip," Pierre scolded, "Mama will kill you if she gets dirty."

"Get dirty, in this old dusty library? I don't think so," he threw her onto the couch beside Pierre and then flung himself down beside her.

She loved them and she didn't have a favourite, but Phillippe was certainly the more boisterous of her two much older brothers. Pierre was wise and quiet and sometimes silly but he lived far away and she didn't see him as much. He wasn't a prince anymore really, and Phillippe was now, so he was busy. The funny thing was he was busy and sad. She knew it was because of Amelia, but she never asked, because she hated to see hurt on his face.

"Mama said you wanted to see me?"

"Ah, yes," Pierre smiled, "We have a gift for you."

Excitement tickled her stomach but she knew it was impolite to seem keen so she simply smiled.

"Really?"

"Ah yes," Pierre answered, pulling a book from under one of the plump cushions.

It was leather bound, in rich purple, and on it it said 'Princess Anna'.

"What is it?"

"The story of you," Phillippe answered, "We made it from all the press clippings and photos and other things. Like the song that was number one the day you were born or all the royal families of Europe who attended your Christening."

"Can I look?"

"Actually, no," Pierre answered, "Look at the time. It's nearly time for your party. We can do it tonight though. We'll get Joe to sneak us some coke and cake and we'll look at it."

"Can Joe stay?"

"Course," Phillippe answered, not looking at her, "Of course he can."

She was content then, and excited for her party and pleased with her gifts so far, and so she pulled them both by the hand from the library and down to her party.

Thank you for reading. Please review if you have time.