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Part 3

"I think we should tell her," was her opening gambit as she settled down on the seat in front of his desk.

Despite the fact Joseph really didn't want to be impatient, he was overwhelmed with work. Problematically he was in the middle of organising the funeral of the king. Turning his daughter away though was not an option so instead he took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself for an onslaught of tangential conversation.

"You should have black on," he said quietly, eying her jeans.

"I know," she nodded, "I forgot, honestly. I'll go and change. So, what do you think?"

He pushed the map for the cortege aside, "About what?"

"You know…telling mama I know."

He felt suddenly frustrated with her lack of understanding.

"Anna," he tried to remain patient, "Anna I think that's a truly terrible idea. I really do."

She looked despondent, "Why?"

"Because right now she has enough on her plate. Do you understand that?"

"She always does," she said calmly, "And it might be the right time. Rupert has died and it means you can be-"

He suddenly understood the motive behind her desire to tell Clarisse and felt ignorant for not seeing it immediately.

"Anna," he interrupted gently, "Anna, what do you think will happen?"

She was nineteen and he'd thought her more mature than she actually was. His stomach felt slightly queasy.

"Anna, what do you think will happen?"

"You and mother…" she trailed off, perhaps realising how ludicrous the idea was.

He felt suddenly sad for her, "No, Anna. Anna that won't happen."

She looked crestfallen, despite the fact she had been so sure of herself the moment before. He was touched though, and incredibly moved, that she had thought it would be so simple and that she so evidently wanted it.

"But-"

"Sweetheart-"

"But you still love her," she said suddenly, interrupting him, "Don't you?"

"Yes, yes of course. It simply isn't as easy as all that Anna, surely you see that?"

She shook her head, "No I don't."

"Anna, imagine how she would look. Right now Phillippe is ascending to the throne and the Renaldi rule is vulnerable. Imagine if the former queen decides she's in love with the bodyguard. She'd be lambasted."

He could see the misery on her face. How terrible it must be, to think you were about to be validated, simply to have that taken from you. He stood up and, coming around to stand beside her, crouched at the chair.

"You know, your mother is so delighted you're home."

She nodded and he could see she was fighting tears.

"It is not fair," she suddenly mumbled, "I thought…"

He squeezed an arm around her, "I know what you thought. I know. I understand it."

He found it oddly humiliating to be having this conversation with her. He had been refusing, in reality, to have it with himself which was as much a problem as any. Rupert's death had alit a dangerous hope in him, one that could only lead to misery.

"Do you want it?"

Her candid question caught him off-guard and the only option was to be honest with her.

"More than anything in the world."

She nodded then, "Promise me you will try."

"Anna, there has been so much before-"

"Are you scared?"

He laughed, though it lacked humour, "Terrified."

It was therapeutic to say it.

"I used to think both of you were selfish," she touched his cheek softly, much as her mother used to do, "But now I see that you weren't. She's haunted by what she's done, and so are you. It's not selfishness, it's pain."

He was mute in the face of her honesty.

-0-

Clarisse, though she wouldn't have dared voice it, was relieved to see the funeral come to a close. Death, despite how dignified it was supposed to be, was never dignified at all. She stood motionless as Priscilla unzipped her black crepe de chine dress and let it fall to a puddle on the floor.

"I have drawn a bath for you, Your Majesty," she said gently.

Since Rupert had died, it was as if someone had wiped the collective memory of the palace and replaced it with the fantasy that her widowhood would be a misery for her on a very personal level. It would be a misery, certainly, but not a typical one. In fact, Rupert's death made her feel void of feelings. At times they were friends and on other occasions, bitter enemies. The complexity had been there, until the very last breath he'd drawn.

She didn't know how she was supposed to feel.

The misery grew from elsewhere, black and huge, and she hadn't yet decided what was tending it and nursing it to fruition.

She would leave this malaise, as she did every other dark moment of her life, behind because she did not have the luxury of wallowing. She slid into the deep bath, the slickness of the bath oil gathering around her protectively, enveloping her in heat.

She wouldn't have time to wallow because she had a coronation to organise in the next four months. Phillippe was now Phillippe the Third, King of Genovia. Then she could hand it all over and be done with it, every part of it apart from the love of her son and daughter. Then her life might begin as it should have been and at that, an insecure smile threatened her mouth.

"Long live the king," she whispered to the empty room and she really meant it.

She let her body slide deeper into the water, grateful for the solitude and silence. Her sons and daughter were in the film room, seeking solace in a comedy, which Pierre had scoffed at, and eating ludicrous amounts of candy.

Tonight she'd let that go, she supposed. Today she had let lots of things go, sliding down into the Renaldi tomb with the friend who was supposed to have loved her.

She'd asked them not to fret, not to worry her by visiting with her constantly, and in all truth she wanted to be alone. Tonight she sought sleep and her bed and all of those things which would let her, just for a moment, forget.

She spent an hour or so in the bath, until the water grew chilly in a cruel way, and then pulled on the soft cotton robe she was fond of. She planned to retire, maybe take a few sleeping pills, and find dreamless oblivion in her bed.

It seemed, when she stepped into the sitting room, that Joseph had other plans. He'd retired the guards no doubt, and snuck in.

She didn't care, for the first time ever. She knew it was misguided and, at worst, dangerous, but she couldn't say it was worrying her.

She examined the bottle of scotch and crystal glasses on the coffee table before her and awarded him with a quizzical eyebrow.

"I figured you needed some help sleeping."

She looked at him, "And you think you can do that?"

He smiled solemnly, "I figure I'm better than sleeping pills."

"Precariously near the knuckle," she answered, "But infinitely right."

He nodded and corked the vintage bottle.

"It seems awfully like we're celebrating," she murmured, taking the glass he offered nonetheless.

"Commiserating," he corrected sincerely, clinking the crystal against hers.

"Commiserating," she ran her finger around the rim of the glass, "From Queen Consort to Queen Regent in one fell swoop."

"How are you feeling?"

She swirled the golden liquid around for a moment and considered his question.

"Blunt. Afraid for my son…afraid," she sighed, "Afraid is the best way to describe it. I don't know if I can handle it all alone."

"That's tiring," he leaned forward and touched the back of her neck, still damp from her bath, "I mean, not being sure if you can do it."

"It is," she agreed, tipping the contents back in one burning gulp and holding out the glass for more.

"Fancy slowing down there? And I know you can do it."

"No," she shook her head, "Not in the slightest. And no, you don't."

"You don't often drink," he poured it for her anyway.

"But when I do, terrible things often happen," she sat back on the couch and leaned into him, tipping her head on to his shoulder.

"I can't argue with that," he sighed, "Regale me with the story of your first drunken adventure."

"I was fifteen," she smiled slightly, "And I drunk the pantry dry of Christmas eggnog, was profusely sick, and scolded hugely by my father."

She paused and laughed a little, "But it was delicious. Fattening but delicious."

"It is delicious," he agreed, taking a sip from his own glass.

"You?"

"Thirteen," he shrugged, "Andre and I stole a case of beer from my father's bar, went to the beach and got trashed. My mother still holds a grudge about it to this day."

She laughed at his embarrassed smile.

"Tell me what you were you like as a boy again?"

"Boisterous, idiotic," he answered, "I didn't know when to hold my tongue or my fists. Apart from with girls, I was smooth with girls."

"You still are," she said dryly.

"Thank you. I will assume that's a compliment."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know," he whispered, "But not tonight. You shouldn't be alone tonight."

In an unusual move, one that she could tell shocked him a little, she lay down so her head was in his lap, her face towards the warmth of the fire. Silence descended over them then and it was a good while before she spoke, both of them simply content to stare into the flames.

"I want to promise you but I cannot. I cannot promise you anything, not right now. As Pip's Queen Mother I have to support him. He'll be on the throne soon and then…then we'll see."

She felt his body go tense and could not bear to look at his face.

"I know that," he ran his fingers over her hair, "That isn't want I came for."

"No?"

"No," he traced his finger over the shell of her ear and it made her shiver.

"No," he continued, "I came to show you that I love you. That no matter the darkest places you find yourself, I will be there. I promised, once, to always love you. I have to show you that – now that I have the freedom, more than ever. Time will do the rest."

She turned to stare up at him, her eyes locked on his.

"Do you know," his fingers wandered over the tie of the gown, "Do you know that water makes this transparent? I've been trying hard not to point that out to you since you came into this room."

She felt a blush, not as a result of the fire, climbing over her chest.

"You took me by surprise."

"I took you by surprise," he murmured, "Now let me take you to bed."

"You shouldn't be here."

Her voice was weak.

"You shouldn't sleep alone, not when you don't have to."

She bit her lip nervously and scolded herself for doing it. There was a black smoulder in his eyes. Usually it was desperate passion, unrelenting fire, but right now it was a spark promising a blaze.

She nodded in silence and allowed him to scoop her up and take her to her bedroom.

"Tonight," he peeled the water soaked cotton from her body, discarded it on the chair beside her bed, and turned her to face the windows so she could see the glittering stars. The déjà vu was so overwhelming, her legs buckled beneath her and he had to catch her tightly around the waist to prevent her from falling, "Tonight I get to worship you and I get to do it without…"

From behind he kissed the nape of her neck, "Guilt," then trailed a row of kisses down her spine, "Or jealousy," he finally concluded on his knees, his hands gripping her hips, "Or anger."

Then he pivoted her to face him and the smile on his face stripped her of the last fragments of those feelings too.

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