How Nickolai, Count Oldeskinski met Prince Rhys of Kashfa ... and how Prince Rhys met two very different ladies ...

Late afternoon was the hour for foreign diplomats to be summoned to an audience with the King of Begma. When word came (veiled as a polite request) for Prince Rhys to attend the blue drawing room shortly before noon, it was a fairly safe wager that he would not be seeing the King - but one of his ministers instead.

Nevertheless, any minister who could command one of the drawing rooms for his meetings must be fairly senior in the government. After two days of dealing with one minor official after another, it did seem to represent progress - of a sort. But it was still unclear how seriously the Begmans (past maters of the arts of bureaucratic obfustication) were treating this matter.

The Hrad (the great Castle) was in actual fact an enormous complex, with cathedrals, churches, chapels, parks and government offices all contained within its walls, as well a several suites of gracious living quarters and the offices appointed for servants, barracks for a sizeable number of guards, stables and mews, workshops and even a small streets of shops. And this was not to count the half dozen palaces that lay in the outer grounds beyond the Hrad's great walls.

The blue drawing room was part of the new Royal Palace, which contained the comfortable quarters where the Royal Family lived, as well as various suites of formal rooms where important officials and foreign ambassadors could be received. Only Begmans were received in the Old Palace; it was, however, probable that this was not an insult to outsiders, but an acknowledgement that only loyal Begmans would be prepared to put up with the austere discomforts of the historically venerable stone chambers.

"Will you require an escort, your Highness?" asked the flunkey with a bow.

"No, thank you," Rhys replied politely.

He was not particularly fond of meaningless chit-chat. And while his father had imparted the importance of it in certain occasions, he happily avoided it when possible.

He clasped his hands behind his back and waited, turning to look at the decorations on the wall.

There were remarkably fine, being a series of portraits of the royal family, past and present. The current King was shown, in a pastoral setting, sitting on an improbably clean log, caressing the head of one of his gun dogs, while the young Crown Prince stood by his side, looking proud and manly despite a pale blue silk suit. The Queen was seated on another convenient log, her two daughters clustering around her in positions of artistic delight as they admired the infant prince on her lap. In the distance could be seen the fabulous Summer Palace of Piertzen - these were clearly the famous Piertzen Woods.

There was a slight sound behind him - no more than the clearing of an aristocratic throat, and then rich, well-modulated tones.

"Your Highness."

It was the Queen's half brother and High Minister, Nickolai, Count Odelinski.

Rhys turned and smiled genuinely. "Ah, Graf," he replied in a richer baritone than when he spoke to the servant. He bowed formally, then offered Nickolai a hand to shake. "A pleasure to finally meet you."

"And for I to meet a Prince of Kashfa," replied Nickolai, taking Rhys' hand in a firm clasp. "Please ... have a seat." He indicated the gilded chairs with their stain striped cushions in white and gold. "Have you been offered refreshments? If nothing else, might I at least tempt you to a cup of our Begman coffee with cream?"

"Certainly," he said as he had a seat. "That sounds wonderful."

Nickolai signalled with a raised finger to a grey-wigged flunky in the royal livery that leaned heavily to blue, gold, knee breeches and ruffles. The man bowed and left.

"In what way might the Begman Empire be able to serve you, your Highness?"

"With the sudden illness of Lord Caelan, High Ambassador of Kashfa, His Majesty King Meilyr of Kashfa has decided to appoint a Deputy High Ambassador to take some of the burden off the ailing ambassador."

He smiled, then, a change from the practiced neutrality of an ambassador. "I have come to introduce myself formally to His Majesty, the King of Begma, both as Ambassador and Prince of Kashfa. I also hope to extend the hand of friendship, so that amiable relations may continue between our two kingdoms, regardless of the outcome of any political differences we may have."

"That will be delightful," said Nickolai. "I shall speak with his Majesty this afternoon and see if we can arrange for you to present your credentials formally at the public audience tomorrow. That should give you the opportunity of meeting some of the other ambassadors - unless you have already started on the circuit of National Day parties?" He smiled. "I spent some time myself as a very humble embassy clerk when I was first out of University, and the National Day parties for the different embassies came thick and fast ... "

As he was speaking, the door of the drawing room opened - but it was not the flunky with the coffee. Instead, a small blonde woman - a girl really, looking to be in her mid teens, stormed tempestuously into the drawing room. Ethereally fair, she was riding a dark blue velvet riding habit with a vastly fetching hat.

Rhys was immediately on his feet. He said nothing however, somewhat confused by her barging in.

"Uncle Nicky," she proclaimed, "it isn't fair! They want to put me on the most beastly slug in the entire stable!"

Then she became aware that Nickolai was not alone, and her eyes opened almost comically wide.

"Oh!" she gasped, and blushed bright pink.

Rhys offered a wide, almost comforting grin to the girl.

Nickolai gave a faint sigh. "Your Highness, permit me to introduce this hoyden. My niece, the Countess Rodkonski, who is on one of her fortunately rare excursions from the convent where the saintly nuns are endeavouring to perform the unenviable task of instilling good manners into her. Emilia, this is Prince Rhys of Kashfa."

Emilia sank into a deep curtsey. "Please accept my apologies, your Highness," she said in a mortified voice.

"Were there some offence to apologize for, Countess," Rhys replied after a bow of his own. "I would gladly accept them. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady."

She straightened, the blush fading a little. "And yours too," she said. "You're a Prince of Kashfa? Where all those wonderful horses come from?"

"Emmie," said Nickolai warningly. "Don't fish."

She turned towards him, looking outraged. "Oh, Uncle Nicki! As though I would! And besides, I could buy a horse for myself ...

"Well," she added conscientiously, "if you advanced me my next year's allowance I could!"

Nickolai smiled. "Next five years', I should think."

"Really?" breathed Emilia. She looked at Rhys, wide-eyed once more. "Are your horses that good?"

Rhys smiled and was prepared to respond when the door opened again.

The door opened - and the flunkey was directing two of his fellows to set out a table for coffee. He looked a little disconcerted to see Emilia in the room.

"You certainly wouldn't call one a beastly slug," he said quietly, turning so his voice wouldn't carry to Nickolai.

Emilia shot him a mischevious smile that lit up her face.

"Yes," said Nickolai drily. "Had I realised we were so short staffed that my simple request would leave the room unguarded, I would have given different instructions."

The flunkey caught the note of ice in his voice and bowed stiffly. "Forgive me, your Excellency."

Rhys considered interjecting for a moment, his youth almost overriding his protocol. His restrained himself, however, taking on his "diplomatic" pose of clasping his hands behind his back. It was a necessary posture, as he had a tendency to fidget.

"Oh, Uncle!" said Emilia, distressed. "It was all my fault! I simply danced past the guards - and they never thought to stop me, I'm sure. Because ... well, it was me. Please, please don't be cross on my only three days of freedom!"

Nickolai looked at her a little exasperated. "Emilia - the convent is not a prison. It provides the finest education in all Begma for the daughters of the nobility..."

"Oh I know, I know," agreed Emilia swiftly. "And the nuns are simply perfect ducks ... well, all of them apart from Sister Prudence who is a little ... you know. Sharp-like-vinegar. But it is bliss to be in the palace again ... "

She turned swiftly to Rhys and smiled engagingly. "Don't you think it the most delightful place too?" she demanded. "Or do you feel bound to loathe it because the Begmans and Kashfans have been the most deadly enemies throught history?"

"My niece's future," said Nickolai wryly, "is generally not held to be in the diplomatic service."

Rhys nodded to Nickolai, then addressed Emilia directly. "Though our lands are currently at odds over this and that, I would no longer classify us as enemies. That being said, however," he says, taking another look around the room. "Meaning no offence, the aesthetic of your land is quite refined. A bit too refined for my tastes. Should you read of or visit Kashfa, I'm certain you would understand."

"Oh," said Emilia, a little doubtfully, and looking around the rather lavish decoration of the palace, as though seeing it with fresh eyes. "Perhaps you would prefer Rodknoski. Life there is a lot simpler. My estates, you know."

"I am sure Prince Rhys will take an opportunity to see the steppes for himself," said Nickolai easily. "He is certain to be invited on wolf hunts when the Court moves to Vas Olan."

Emilia pouted. "And I shall be left behind in Begma at the convent. It is very unfair, Uncle Nicki!"

"So life is," agreed the Count. "Now, come and sit with us like a proper young lady and pour coffee for us."

Rhys was content to be quiet and watch the exchange between the Begmans. His father had always taught him to not say anything unless he had to. Quiet dignity. Even if you don't know what is going on, you don't have to announce it by saying the wrong thing.

She moved to take a place most elegantly at the small table, although not without another mischievous glance at Rhys. Carefully she raised the ornate silver coffee jug and began to pour, and it seemed to emphasise just how young she was, for she seemed to need to concentrate fully on the task, whereas an older woman would have done it easily, without thought.

Finally - after establishing everyone's tastes for cream and sugar, she handed a delicate porcelain cup and saucer (emblazoned with the royal arms of Begma) to Rhys with a quiet air of triumph.

"Thank you," he said quietly as he accepted the cup and saucer.

"So," she said, with the air of one prepared to make grown up conversation, "what is the this and that which we are currently at odds over? And have you found a nice Begman mistress yet?"

Were this a personal conversation, Rhys might have blushed. Instead, he practiced the composure his tutors so agonized to instill in him. "Competing trade agreements. The destiny of a contested protectorate. Age old enmities. Nothing worth spoiling coffee over," he finished with a smile before taking a taste of the drink. He smiled approvingly and nodded to Nickolai. "As to the other matter, no. I have not taken any mistresses yet, and His Majesty the King would be furious were my first a Begman lady."

"Oh," said Emilia absorbing this.

"I'm sorry," she added apologetically. "I thought all the Ambassadors had mistresses. Sometimes they take them to the opera - and they wear so many jewels that it's quite dazzling. Are you really not allowed to take a Begman one? That does seem cruel. Uncle Nicky ... "

"Knows better than to discuss such matters in polite company, Emilia," said Count Odelinski firmly. "It would be more seemly to confine your mind to matters social - such as how his Highness is finding his accommodation, and whether he has had any problem with the transportation system."

"Very well," said Emilia demurely. She looked at Rhys over the coffee cup, her eyes alight with mischief, and said, very much in the grand manner, "I trust your accommodation is proving to your satisfaction, your Highness?" Then she added, more naturally, "Is the trade agreement we are competing on one with Amber? How exciting!"

Rhys chuckled politely, amused by her exuberance. He considered how similar he may have sounded a few years ago, had he spent most of his childhood cloistered.

"No, the trade agreements in question are not with Amber," he replies with a smile. "Our lands are attempting to settle on the tarriffs to be levied against certain public Golden Circle traders in an attempt to revitalize and stabilize trade for the both of us. We lower our tarriffs to merchant company A, you lower tarriffs to merchant B, and we start moving towards an equilibrium where our trade levels both end up increasing."

"The competition comes when each of our rulers has their own numbers which they believe are correct."

"Economics," he finishes neutrally. "Far from fascinating."

"Well," said Emilia, consideringly, "you might find it dull ... although that seems a shame when it is to be your work ...

"Your exports are largely agricultural, are they not? And tend to be raw produce? Whereas ours are manufactured ... suggesting we could overlap and even successfully combine ... for even when we are exporting products one might broadly describe as agricultural, we tend to process them here in the Empire. Like our wines ... "

Again the mischievous look.

"We did a project last term on how one should actually set about creating an interest for an agricultural product. I gained a commendation for my work on single estate teas ... I had the idea from wines, you see." She shot a look of triumph at her uncle. "They don't just teach needlework at the convent!

"Although," she added, with a plaintive sigh, "I really must have stitched literally miles of embrodery since I've been there."

"I know," agreed Nickolai. "I have three drawers filled with handkerchiefs with my crest exquisitely embroidered on them.

"Perhaps you should offer a set to Prince Rhys?"

"Oh, no." Rhys replied in friendly protestation. "They sound like quite a bit of work. There's no need to go to such pains for me."

Emilia smiled. "We have to do the work anyway," she said. "It's the nuns' favourite punishment ... But I'm afraid they wouldn't let me embroider a handkerchief for a man who wasn't my relative. They would say it was rather =fast=."

Nickolai directed a slightly strange look at her - a little brooding, a little calculating.

"I daresay they are right," he said. "Now, having convinced the Prince that you are a minx of the first water, perhaps you would care to take your leave for an hour so that we may talk?"

"Of course," she said almost penitently. "You have both been too sweet to allow me to stay so long. Will you still be able to ride with me later, Uncle, or is that something we shall have to see about?"

"I shall do my best," he said. "I hope to arrange an audience for Prince Rhys, and there is to be a Council meeting before dinner - but I hope we will manage a short ride."

Emilia nodded, clearly accustomed to her own desires taking a low ranking, and then dropped a sweeping curtsey to Rhys.

Rhys stood as her attention returned to him. He offered a formal bow in return.

"It was lovely to meet you, your Highness," she said, "and I shall be the envy of all the other girls when I tell them!"

"It was my honour, Grafin," he replied with a smile. "I'm sure we will meet again."

"I hope so," she told him cheerfully, and left the room.

Nickolai watched her go, amused.

"My niece bids fair to become a minx," he said. "I fear she charms even the nuns ... " He glanced at Rhys. "I dare say you would cast her into speechless joy by riding with us later. It will doubtless seem impossibly dull and tame to you - a gentle jog round the Park here. But it will serve the function of letting you be seen by the most fashionable section of Begma Society - and allowing them to begin to pay their respects. If, however, your soul revolts at such a dull exercise, I shall quite understand."

"I am not half the rider or horseman His Majesty the King or Her Highness Pricess Caollaidhe are, but I think it would hardly seem a mission of Kashfan good-will if I were to =not= to go on a ride," he said bemusedly. "My only condition is that I provide the mounts."

"If you are prepared to withstand my niece's unconfined joy at such a kindness," said Nickolai, "I shall accept most gratefully. The fame of Kashfa's horses has extended to all Begma ... "

The afternoon was brilliantly sunny, with light dappling the long straight green rides of the Park, and the smaller paths that intersected them. It seemed that much of fashionable Begman society was there, either on horseback, riding in showy open carriages, or else (in some sedate cases) walking along the footpaths. It seemed that everyone was desirous of showing off the latest fashions on this loveliest of afternoons; the function of this hour or so was not to take exercise but to see and be seen.

The party from the Hrad consisted of six persons. In addition to Nickolai, Rhys and Emilia were three grooms, considered essential to their dignity. But these worthies rode stolidly behind, ready to offer assistance should a horse go lame, or if there was an untoward accident.

Rhys, in his finely tooled black leather jerkin over white shirts, grey suede riding pants and polished black riding boots, was not dressed to display high Begman fashion.

The paths were just wide enough for three to ride abreast and, as was customary, Emilia, as the only lady, rode between the two men. Her natural exuberance seemed to have been checked by the occasion, and she was riding in demure silence - very different from her raptures at the stableyard when first introduced to her mount.

Her eyes had opened wide at the sight of the spirited Kashfan grey, with her proud head and long, silky mane flowing free (not plaited in the Begman style).

"Oh!" she said. "She's the most beautiful mare I've ever seen!"

And at once she ran across the yard, quite heedless that the guard of her deep blue riding habit had fallen and was forming a train that swept behind her. Nickolai smiled faintly.

"You will have risen high in the Grafin's favour, your Highness. That is a fine animal, even by the high standard of Kashfa."

"Our breeders have perfected several bloodlines over generations," he said, his words more a statement of his beliefs than a practised response. "That line is quite well-suited for dressage and performance riding. Aside from their obvious grace and the stamina known to be a Kashfan trademark, they are quite intuitive of their rider's desires."

"And an excellent choice for my niece," said Nickolai appreciatively. "I must admit, that stallion exerts almost as powerful an attraction for me. You have great skill in matching the rider to the horse, your Highness."

Emilia was already feeding the mare a carrot, her fair face alight with pleasure. "Oh please!" she begged, looking at Rhys, "what is her name? She's a princess among horses! Thank you so very much for letting me ride her!"

Rhys chuckled. "Actually, her name is Riognach. It means Queen." He turned his attention so that he addressed them both. "My sister believed steeds from her line would best suit the aesthetic of your land."

Nickolai nodded in agreement. "You would find few who would disagree with that, if Riognach is a sample of her breed."

But, on their entrance to the Park, Emilia had fallen a little silent and was now riding quietly, the model of demure young ladyhood, while Nickolai was speaking to Prince Rhys in a quiet tone designed not to carry beyond their group.

"Over there, we have the Ambassador from Glantri. A fascinating fellow, although somewhat withdrawn. It's actually quite rare to see him in the Park. The man over there on the slightly shaggy horse is our envoy from Olan province - you'll see his wife beside him. That very fair colouring they both have is a feature of our Northern provinces; if you should speak to them, you will probably note the accent too - the vowel sounds very flat and broad."

Rhys nodded at each explanation, returning to his former demeanour of quiet attention.

Strolling along the lawns, in a riot of colour, was a threesome. On the left a short woman, in a bright red empire dress more suited for evening, with her dark auburn hair piled up on top of her head in curls, was laughing loudly enough for the sound to carry over quite some distance. Anyone associated with the arts in the city would recognize the widowed Marquessa of East Shore on that laugh alone. She sponsored many of the younger artists in the city, but her special love was theatre.

She was on one arm of a tall, well-dressed man. His clothes were impeccable, if a bit formal for the afternoon, and even his style of strolling left nothing to be criticized. He had shortly cropped brown hair and icy blue eyes, was well built, and carried himself like he knew it. His features were classic. He was smiling sedately at the Marquessa, and one might suspect from his manner he would never be caught laughing too loudly. Visitors to the theater would recognize the man as Alexandre Valicevic, a player currently in the company at the Timber House.

On his other arm was another woman, taller than the Marquessa. Though her dress and cosmetics were both far more subtle than the Marquessa's, she was also already in her evening clothes. Her dress was a deep blue overlaid with silver lace, also in the empire cut. The skirt split to reveal fine silver underskirting. She had a wrap in the dress's blue wrapped loosely around her arms, which she kept adjusting. Her free hand was moving in emphasis to her words. Her brown hair was down and loose, which was much out of style. Again, those familiar with the arts would recognize her as Francesca Didias, one of the more infamous playwrights in the city.

The group of them seemed fairly oblivious to the people around them. They appeared to be deep in conversation, more out to be seen than to see.

Emilia, who had been looking at the walkers and riders with a shy, desultory interest, gave a little gasp.

"Oh - Uncle Nickie! Do look! Isn't that the actor we saw at Hammas Eve - Alexandre Valicevic? And - oh, Uncle! Isn't that Miss Didias? I absolutely love her plays!"

Nickolai glanced in the direction excitedly indicated by Emilia.

"Yes," he said easily. "I believe it is. Interesting. It's rare to encounter strolling players in the Park - although there are, indeed, few better places in the City for strolling ... Are you fond of the theatre, your Highneess?"

"Honestly?" Rhys asked, knowing Nickolai expected only a polite answer and not actual honesty. Regardless, he preferred honesty. "I enjoy comedies quite a bit. Histories bore me, and tragedies... I suppose I'm too young to appreciate their complexity."

"Interesting," said Nickolai. "Histories ... yes, they can be complex. And frequently their historical content is at war with the political propaganda they are designed to deliver, which is, of course, a source of amusement in itself. But tragedy ... I would have thought that had a more universal appeal than comedy. The death of innocence must surely touch us all - the sight of a great man brought low by unworthy opponents ...

"Comedy, however, so often depends on language and social niceties. For example, here in Begma there is a fruit called a kabonne. Quite delicious - but in shape it bears a resemblance to a certain portion of the male anatomy that we will not name in my niece's presence.

"Now, a few months ago, in some low comedy performed in Piertzen - not one of Miss Didias's noted works - a certain comedian uttered the line - 'Why bless me, Vicar, your kabonne has quite wilted.' For no reason that anyone can explain, the phrase caught on. It was shouted as an insult in the streets by vulgar market women. Our intellectuals wrote serious columns on it in the newspapers. A more than usually foolish Bishop denounced the phrase and the play it came from in the pulpit - and one knows that invariably boosts the popularity of any work of art however humble. I believe theatre managers say that a good blast from a bishop is worth three weeks of ticket sales ...

"Of course, the craze has died away now, but at any time in the next five years, if you say, 'Your kabonne has quite wilted' to a Begman, you will see his lips twitch in helpless response. And yet ... to a Kashfan ... the phrase will mean nothing.

"Still, what is funny to a Begman is funny to a Kashfan, once you overcome the intricacies of different languages," Rhys said, quite amused by Nickolai's story.

"Miss Didias's works are perhaps ... more subtle." Unsmiling, he watched her for a moment as she moved through the Park. Then, as the Marquessa made a rather broad gesture, he added softly, "Or perhaps not."

"Best not to confuse the woman's work and the woman's performance in selling her work, I imagine." Rhys noted.

"Indeed," said Nickolai. "Indeed. And she is a superlative ... saleswoman.

"Would you care for an introduction?"

Emilia gave a little gasp. "Oh, Uncle! Could you introduce us? Do you really know her?"

Nickolai looked across at the group of three, unsmiling.

"Yes," he said. I know her."

"Not on my account," Rhys said pleasantly, "But I would hate for the Grafin to miss the opportunity."

Emilia rewarded him with a glowing smile.

Nickolai turned his horse and lead his companions towards where Miss Didias and her companions were walking.

Alexandre pulled the women's attention upward with a pause in his step. The Marquessa looked up and her already happy demeanour brightened even more. Francesca looked surprised.

"Marquessa!" he called. "How pleasant to see you abroad again. I trust you have recovered from your indisposition? May I present you to Prince Rhys of Kashfa and my niece, the Countess Rodkonski? Prince Rhys, may I present the Marquessa of East Shore?"

The Marquessa's smile was broad, if a bit predatory when it fell on the Count. She disengaged herself from Valicevic's arm and curtsied briefly. "Your Highness, what a privilege to meet you. How wonderful they've let you out of the stale buildings to get some air. And Grafin," she nodded to Emilia, "it is good to see you about."

"And M'selle Didias the noted authoress," he added, "and, I believe, M'sieur Valicevic, one of our finest actors."

Francesca executed a court perfect curtsy to the prince, with a small smile, but without letting go of Valicevic. "Your Highness, my Graf," she nodded to the Count, without quite looking at him. "Grafin," she smiled in delight at Emilia.

Alexandre moved with her, bowing, though the series of acknowledgements, but his eyes were especially cold as he bowed to the Count.

Rhys, similarly, bowed his head with each greeting. His smile was unmistakably warm and pleasant, however.

Nickolai was regarding the party with detached amusement - but the youthful Countess was staring at Francesca with almost worshipful awe.

"Oh!" she breathed. "You are my very favourite writer! I've hidden all your books in the secret compartment in my trunk - and my whole dormitory takes turns in reading them whenever we can!"

The Marquessa restrained herself, just barely, from falling into a fit of laughter. Valicevic's expression mirrored the Count's, and Francesca laughed with a little wince.

"That may be the sweetest compliment I have ever been paid, but wherever did you get them, my Grafin? I am not at all sure they are suited for dormitory life," she smiled, but there was an undercurrent of worry to her words.

"Ah," said Emilia, with a mischevious look at her uncle, "I have my methods. I can usually find an obliging page who is loyal to the house of Rodkonski.

"But I would love to know," she went on seriously, "how you manage to write so ... wonderfully! When I read the play about Prince Aeleric and the Lady of the Waterfall - oh, I just sobbed and sobbed when they parted ... They were both so noble!"

"In other words they both behaved like confounded idiots - when a little flexibility on either side would have ensured they could have continued to enjoy the pleasures of each other's ... society indefinitely," said Nickolai drily. "Perhaps, over time, the Lady came to appreciate that."

A brief look of annoyance flashed across Francesca's features before she pasted her smile back on. "As I'm sure you know, my lord, people rarely behave with flexibility when it comes to such things. And under any measure, it would hardly make a good story if they did," Francesca's smile warmed then, and mischief brightened her eyes. "One would think a man of your experience would know better. I would hardly have thought you a romantic, my lord."

Nickolai's lips twitched in response. "Incurable," he said, straight-faced.

Alexandre's jaw clenched. The Marquessa failed to keep her mirth from her face, but still managed not to laugh.

Francesca went right on, turning to Emilia. "I must say, my Grafin, I do not... think about writing. It is almost as if I can not help but contain it. I began writing poetry," she hesistated and grinned, "very bad poetry, but poetry none the less, when I was a bit younger than you." She sobered suddenly, and looks at Emilia with great sympathy. "My mother had died, and it was a way I could still be close to her. She loved poetry, and every beautiful thing. I was very sad for you when I heard about your parents. I hope you will be able to find such an outlet."

"Thank you," said Emilia. "I ... I hope so too."

Nickolai had turned to the young Prince. "Are you familiar with M'selle Didias's works, your Highness? It might be possible to arrange a visit to the theatre during your stay ... and, despite my niece's raptures over the more lachrymose passages, you will find them excellent social comedies. They will probably tell you more of our Begman society than almost any other method ... "

The Prince was just about to explain the fact he was not familiar with the playwright's work.

"Go to the theatre!" gasped Emilia, her eyes starry.

Rhys merely smiled to author, having become accustomed to interruption by the excitable Frafin.

Nickolai regarded her with slight disfavour. "By that time, my dear, you will undoubtedly be back at school."

"Oh," said Emilia, with the look of a hurt kitten.

The Marquessa scowled in empathy with Emilia. "Worry not, Grafin. Once you are a bit older and married you will be able to attend such functions, however masked society forces you to be, presuming your husband is generous and indulgent. Men can get away with things ladies can not, and that is the sad truth of the world."

Emilia gave an extravagant sigh. "Oh ... I know!" she agreed.

"My lady, please," Valicevic murmered quietly, very uncomfortable the conversation had left the path of strict civility.

"Yes, you're right Alexi. I forget we're not supposed to go speaking the truth out loud, either. That is another rule you should remember, Grafin. I will be quiet now."

Francesca looked only slightly embarrassed. She was either very used to the Marquessa's antics, or did not care. In an attempt to redirect the conversation to it's proper course, she smiled up at the Prince. "I would be honoured to host you in my box, your highness. I would be happy to sit and explain the more obscure passages as well. The intended meanings are often buried layers deep, but on the surface it is very amusing, if I do say so myself."

"The honor would be entirely mine, Miss Didias," the young Prince happily replied. "Send word to the Palace and I will clear my calendar for the performance."

Francesca smiled with glee. "Excellent. I shall do so. And please call me Francesca. I'm well beyond my days as a 'miss'." She let her eyes slip right over the Count and turned her smile on Emilia.

"My Grafin, if you and your friends have questions, feel free to write to me. I would be happy to explain what I may appropriately explain to a group of young ladies," she offered. Then she looked at Nickolai and added, "If your guardians would be comfortable with such a thing?"

Emilia sighed. "Oh ... how I wish! But the nuns won't allow us to write to anyone but relatives."

Nickolai smiled. "Perhaps a little diplomacy is called for here, Emmie. If you were to write to me, and, in the course of your letter, ponder aloud how a certain authoress might feel about this ... or that ... then I could convey your questions to M'selle Didias, and respond to you in my name, but with her voice. If, of course, M'selle Didias would permit such a liberty on my part as to address her on some questions that might prove a little ... intimate."

"Intimate?" asked Emilia, a slightly puzzled frown between her brows.

"Well," said Nickolai, "you might wish to know what her favourite flower is ... or what she eats for breakfast ... or whether she sleeps on silken sheets."

Alexandre gave the Count a disapproving look. The Marquessa smiled and shook her head.

Francesca looked slightly angry. "The Dog Rose, I rarely eat breakfast, and it depends on where I am. You can ask me whatever you wish, and I'll answer anything I think might lead to the Grafin's further education. Of course, Graf, you should be careful with your associations. I'd hate to see you out of favor, after all your hard work and sacrifice. Would it not be safer for you to simply have your man bring your niece's questions to me, I'll send my answers to you, and you can enclose them in your letters?"

"Heavens," said Emilia, "this is starting to sound fearfully complicated. I... I really don't wish to put people so so much trouble ... "

"For the sake of my niece's education," said Nickolai promptly, "there is nothing I am not willing to do. If my household staff are to run relays to M'selle Didias' home ... or wherever she may have travelled in search of different sheets ... then that is what shall happen."

Emilia looked a little aghast. "I don't think we'll have =that= many questions," she said worriedly.

She shot a helpless look at Prince Rhys.

Rhys hated interceding, but felt obliged to at Emilia's wordless request. "I'm sure some intermediary could be used. A publisher, perhaps.

"For the moment, however," Rhys quickly added, changing the subject, "Perhaps I could entertain the Grafin and Marquessa's party." He smiled at those assembled, happily to perform for them in an attempt to relieve some tension. "An example of equine grace and intelligence courtesy of this fine Kashfan stallion," he finished, patting the stallion on the neck.

"That sounds delightful," said Nickolai smoothly, "but I think it might occasion a little adverse comment if you were to undertake it here in the Park at the hour of the fashionable strut ...

"Perhaps, if we were to return to the Palace, you could utilise the Royal Riding School? It is usually unoccupied at this hour ... "

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" said Emilia, brightening again.

"Well, we do have a few hours before we need to be in House..." the Marquessa began.

"Actually, Master Didias and I have an appointment with the director that can not be missed without dire consequences," Alexandre said in his commanding stage voice. "I regret we'll be unable to join you. Perhaps another time," he smiled with a bow to the Prince. Francesca pursed her lips.

"I'd forgotten all about that," she sighed. She smiled regretfully up at the Prince. "I wish we could. He looks like a fine horse, for what little I know of them."

Francesca smiled up at Emilia. "Worry not, Grafin. Send your questions to your Uncle. We will work out a system of communication. Forgive my testiness, my lady, for we are early in the production and I am having a long day."

"Your Highness, I will send a note up, thank you," she smiled again at Rhys.

Alexandre bowed to the Grafin and Graf. "It was an honor to meet you all," he said sincerly. He turned to the Marquessa. "My lady, will you be returning with us, or going on to appreciate the horses?"

The Marquessa scowled like a child trying to chose between desserts. "I suppose I will accompany you back. It simply would not be the same without you, Alexi."

He smiled at her and offered her his arm. She curtsied to the group and laid her hand on his arm. "A pleasure my lords, Grafin."

"It was wonderful to meet you, M'selle!" Emilia assured her. "And you are so very kind to let me bother you with questions! And M.Valicevic. My friend Brigitta will be simply wild with jealousy, you know! She thinks you are utterly divine." She gave him a warm smile and extended her hand.

Francesca smiled indulgently at Emilia. Alexandre released the ladies and came to take her hand. "It seems convents are the breeding grounds of all my followers. It must be something in the water. Give your Brigitta my regards." He kissed her hand and met her eyes. His were very blue. "And my regards to you, my Grafin."

"And Marquessa - it was so lovely to meet you - and you may be sure I shall profit by your advice!"

"It is always delightful to see you, Marquessa," said Nickolai. "M'selle Didias, M.Valicevic, I look forward to your next joint production."

"We shall expect to see you there, my lord," the Marquessa smiled. Alexandre nodded to the Count once, more, helped Francesca with the scarf that seemed to be giving her such distracting trouble, and lead the ladies off.

Once their group was some distance away, the Marquessa asked, "What is this meeting with LaFoote?"

Alexandre sighed heavily. "There is no meeting, Bella."

"It is not every day we get invited to the palace, Alexi," she growled. Francesca sighed.

"I am not one for sending my friend into the lion's den, my lady," Alexandre explained.

"So you two are still attached to your paranoid belief that the royal family has it out for you? There are so many things they could interfere with..."

"I need a drink," Francesca interrupted.

"Yes, darling, I suppose you do. You certainly proved he can still pull your strings," Alexandre told her haughtily. "The next time, why don't you just ask him where the hoops are and when you should begin the course?"

"Alexi, please..." she began, but he interrupted her.

"What were you thinking, offering to correspond with the girl?" he demanded.

Francesca tugged on her scarf. "Well, Alexi, I was thinking in a few years, I'd much rather be under her protection, and out from under his."

"What makes you think the Queen will stand for you forming a friendship with her sweet little niece, when she would not even let you bed her much debauched brother?" he whispered. The Marquessa looked quite interested in the answer to this question.

"Alexi, I..." she sighed. "I don't know. I can hope she does not find out, and since Odelinski has involved himself in the plot, he can hardly tell her, now can he?"

"Until he decides to use it against you, he has yet another thing over your head, love," the Marquessa smiled in delight. "You know, I love the way you set traps for yourself. I have never seen anyone quite so adept at it before. And I find I am rather good at thinking like a paranoid player. Now the two of you owe me a drink, before curtain, for keeping me away from that lovely prince and his stallion."

Francesca sighed unhappily and tugged on Alexandre's arm. "Yes, a drink, please."

He executed a perfect put-upon sigh and led them on.

Jointly written by Mel, Rey and Liz

Copyright © Dana Lea Moore, all rights reserved.