NationStates Jolt Archive

It was actually a bad time to be an aristocratic guest at the Urusemal Hotel in Marehalau, Pele. The Senate of Pele was having some sort of convention or other and the normally aristocratic establishment, one of the most refined in the principality, was full of bourgeois and ones in the sort of positions that they couldn't be casually snubbed. All the Danaan aristocrats were correspondingly vacationing in Cook City on the other side of the island but the warning had somehow failed to make it to perspective tourists from abroad. Adding to the unpleasantness, it was pouring down rain outside. Quite a few of the hotel's guests had made their way to the indoor swimming pool for want of anything better to do.

Marie-Isabelle, daughter of the Count of Mont Foix, was one such guest. She was a beautiful young aristocratic girl of nineteen, with long dirty blonde hair, green eyes, and delicate features. Marie-Isabelle soon found herself being approached by the now familiar, elderly, figure of Senator Bernice Menzies. Bernice was in that precise place in society where snubbing her would look embarrassingly improper but socialising with her was still almost as embarrassing. The social frustrations would have been bad enough, but the woman also had delusions that noble-born teenagers from other countries were actually interested in the legislative agenda for the Principality of Pele. "Good afternoon, my lady! Sure is awful out, isn't it?"

And in... Marie-Isabelle reflected to herself. She replied in a French accent. "Yes, it is, Senator."

"There simply aren't enough indoor amusements around here." she went on. "You know, we have considered a bill offering short term tax incentives to companies that build up recreational facilities. We have such a strong tourist industry but it would simply increase exponentially if we relied on something more than the beach and the culture."

"I... hmmm..." Marie-Isabelle started. "That's a good idea. Except... aren't the beach and culture what makes Pele unique?"

"They are. But we could use some more arcades." she said enthusiastically. "Did you know there's only 153 arcades in all of Pele?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about now." Marie-Isabelle shook her head and sighed.

Another senator walked over, smiling to the old woman. "Bernice, could I talk to you for a moment?"

Bernice turned to the young Pantocratorian noble. "You don't mind, do you, dearie?"

"No, of course not, Senator." Marie-Isabelle smiled.

The two walked away. Senator Banks, the one who had come to take the old woman away, gave Marie-Isabelle a knowing smile over his shoulder. She conveyed her gratitude and relief with a half-smile back. Her holiday in Pele had so far been absolutely horrid, and the run in with that interminable old bat who thought it was perfectly acceptable to call the daughter of a count 'dearie' had made her mind up for her. She was going back to Pantocratoria at the earliest possible time. She'd call the travel agent as soon as she got back to her suite.

It was around that time that one of the handsomest men she'd ever laid eyes on walked into the pool. He was well-built, with a dazzling smile and typically Italian features. He looked around the pool with a half-ironical smile. He carried himself with an absolute sense of almost casual command over everything and everyone around him. Marie-Isabelle was surprised at her instant, undeniable attraction to the stranger, and found herself catching her breath. She straightened herself out, unwrapped the towel around her waist and lay it down on the pool chair, revealing her long, gorgeous legs, before reclining on the chair in the hope of attracting his attention without seeming needy. Never-mind the fact that there was no sun to recline under around the indoor pool.

Some of the other men and women in the pool room bowed as the man walked past. He waved off such formalities with a friendly gesture of his hand. He blew kisses to the women who bowed, of whatever rank, with the air of a rich man throwing coins from a car. If he noticed the young Pantocratorian, he gave no sign as of yet. Frustrated, she sat up straight in the pool chair, adjusted her hair so that it fell over her shoulders, and then tried to make eye contact with him across the room. He saw her and blew her a kiss with the same casual air. Smiling, he started to slowly unbutton his shirt, revealing a rather well built chest. Eventually, he slipped down to his swimming trunks, tossing his clothes aside.

She sighed. It was obvious that she wasn't going to lure him into coming over and talking to him. She'd have to go over to him. She didn't know why yet, but she knew that she had to talk with this man. She rose from her chair and approached him, confidently at first, but with the last few steps her confidence melted and she became shy, to shy to say anything. So she just stood there, trying to think of what to do next while no longer able to make eye contact with the man.

He turned, looking at her with a charming smile. "Hello there, young lady. I'm afraid we haven't met."

"No, monsieur, we haven't." she replied, her accent even thicker than usual. "I'm... umm... Marie-Isabelle de Mont Foix."

"I'm Cesare." he said, taking her hand and planting a gentle kiss on the back of it, a real kiss, not stopping just above the skin as every Danaan man she'd ever encountered before had. "I am most charmed, mademoiselle." he said in perfect French. "You are Pantocratorian, then?"

"Oui." she answered a little breathlessly, blushing and not withdrawing her hand.

He let it linger a bit longer before releasing her hand. Around this time, Senator Beatrice Turtledove, the President of the Senate came over, bowing. "Your Highness... I had no idea you would be here."

"I'm talking a lady right now." Cesare said offhandedly, vaguely gesturing Beatrice away with one hand.

The Senator looked like she really had no idea how to react. She was hardly used to being spoken to like that, not even by men of rank, especially in favour of such a minor noble. After a stunned moment, she did turn and walk away, looking embarrassed as though the fault had been hers.

"I'm sorry. We can talk later, Your Highness." she said quietly in parting.

Marie-Isabelle had of course assumed that a man who carried himself like Cesare was a noble, but now she new he must be a prince. In a couple of seconds, she realised he must be the Prince of Nerise.

"Your Highness? I had no idea, pardon my poor manners, monsieur." Marie-Isabelle apologised, blushing.

"You were the model of propriety." he reassured her.

"Thankyou, monsieur." she replied.

"So are you enjoying Pele so far?" he inquired.

"Yes." Marie-Isabelle replied without thinking, but then corrected herself. "Actually no... well, I am now, I think... I..."

She sighed, frustrated with how she had managed to make a fool out of herself so effortlessly.

"The weather has been terrible, and all the bourgeoisie and politicians..." she offered.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with the bourgeoisie. Every society relies upon all of its members, each in his place, to function." He seemed to speak with a certain measure of restrained conviction, making the statement barely sound like a lecture.

"I know but some of them just don't know their place..." Marie-Isabelle blushed. "Ugh, I sound like a conceited little girl, don't I?"

"No, no, not at all." he said, turning to survey the crowd with a mischievous glint in his eye. He bent down and spoke quietly to her. "Now who here has been naughty to their betters?"

"Umm..." Marie-Isabelle murmured, feeling quite absurd. "Senator Menzies... and that large man over there, who doesn't seem to realise that he doesn't need sunscreen indoors, Leono, a bank manager from Sanero."

Tiago Leono had the audacity to hit on Marie-Isabelle in the bar the night before, as if the slender young aristocratic beauty would be interested in a fat middle-aged man with a bad toupee.

"Oh..." he said, sounding a little disappointed. "Anyone else?"

"Ummm..." Marie-Isabelle wondered, detecting Cesare's disappointment. Her mind raced, trying to work out what he wanted her to say. "Senator Turtledove?"

"Oh?" he asked curiously.

"Interrupting you like that." she explained.

"Oh, she didn't really interrupt me." he said. "She was properly respectful. I was just busy speaking to someone more important."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Marie-Isabelle started. She had only one other guess. "And... I have been."

"Hardly. Getting to speak to a beautiful woman is never an imposition."

"You flatter me, monsieur." she said, blushing and smiling at the compliment.

"No. I was speaking plainly. If I were seeking to flatter you, I would lament that the sun is likely to ever rise again, for how could she show her face after being so out-shined by your radiance."

"Oh..." she said, her delicate face turning bright red.

"Or perhaps I might say that had you been in place of Helen of Troy, the gods would not have toyed with the affairs of Paris and Menelaus merely but would have themselves torn the universe asunder in war over which of the Great Olympians had the right to enthrone you as his queen."

"Now that's too much, stop!" she pleaded, desperately embarrassed.

"Well, it's not my fault the gods are so warlike!" he protested.

"No, the flattery." she said, managing to smile at the obvious joke.

"Very well, but you must promise that I shall see you again soon." he answered her. "I do need to get my laps in."

"Oh... I'm sorry..." she said. She couldn't just let him go with only a vague commitment, she wanted to see him again soon. "What about tonight?"

"Very well. I shall be at the hotel bar."

Marie-Isabelle anxiously sipped her martini at the hotel bar, keeping her eyes out for Prince Cesare's arrival. She was dressed to impress in a slinky black dress. The place was rather crowded and people continued walking by and pestering Marie-Isabelle. Captain Antonina O'Higgins, a raven haired beauty of a naval captain, seemed to think the young woman needed her advice.

"Good evening, my lady." she said with a smile.

"Captain." said Marie-Isabelle, pleasantly enough, although she didn't reciprocate the smile. She wanted this woman gone before Cesare arrived, she found herself nervous about the potential competition.

"Have you seen Senator Turtledove today, by any chance?" she asked with a pleasant smile.

"Erm..." Marie-Isabelle wondered. She remembered the woman interrupting her and Cesare. "Yes, I have."

"Oh?" the captain inquired further.

"Listen, Captain, I'm waiting for somebody..." said Marie-Isabelle a little impatiently.

"I see..." O'Higgins said with a slight frown, walking off.

These impertinent bourgeois! Marie-Isabelle fumed a little to herself. Senators and officers approaching her and talking with her as if she were on their social plane! The idea was absurd.

Cesare finally walked through the door, smiling. He stopped and talked to O'Higgins for a few minutes, although Marie-Isabelle couldn't hear what they were saying. Marie-Isabelle made a tiny squeak of frustration as she saw Cesare stop to talk to O'Higgins despite her attempts to dispose of her. Feeling defeated she turned back to her martini and took a long sip.

After about ten minutes, he walked over to her and kissed her hand with the same charm he had shown earlier that day. "And how is the most lovely girl to ever grace Pele?"

"I'm much better now." Marie-Isabelle smiled in delight over her martini.

"That's wonderful to hear." he said with a grin. "I get the impression you aren't much enjoying anyone else's company."

"It's not that I..." Marie-Isabelle tried to explain, but she couldn't really. "I enjoy your company, Your Highness."

"Yes, yes, I know, but I don't want to have to waste any more time which could be spent in your radiant presence calming drole people who seem to have accidentally taken offense to something or other. I do want to make sure the Resurgent Dream remains...favorable to you..." He smiled knowingly, just barely hinting at his possible future intentions.

"Did that officer complain about something I said to her?" Marie-Isabelle asked, offended at the idea.

"She did." Cesare confessed. "Don't worry. I dealt with it."

"I didn't say anything which could possibly cause offence!" Marie-Isabelle protested. "All I did was tell her that I was waiting for somebody, as if I wanted to talk about senators..."

"Be that as it may...I cannot afford to have her offended at you." He picked up a menu, looking through it casually.

"Why, monsieur?" asked Marie-Isabelle curiously.

"Because she is a rather influential woman in circles that I find of particular interest." He smiled innocently, ordering the finest dishes for her and himself as the waiter passed by. Marie-Isabelle didn't press things further, and smiled as Cesare ordered her dinner.

"That dress makes you look even more beautiful than usual." he commented to the younger woman.

"Really?" she giggled, smiling with delight. "Thankyou, monsieur. You look very handsome this evening, of course."

"Why thank you." he said with a broad smile. "So how was your day?"

"Asides from speaking to you at the pool, it was boring." Marie-Isabelle answered honestly. "I had briefly contemplated leaving Pele and returning to Pantocratoria..."

"That would certainly be an irreparable loss to Pele!" he exclaimed in horror.

"Well, the weather has been rather foul..." Marie-Isabelle offered.

Over the next few weeks, His Highness continued to romance the young noblewoman. While there were a number of instances where he was rude to other women, mostly bourgeois senators, he was always the perfect gentleman to her. Other ladies seemed quite interested in his presence, yet he publically put them off in her favor many a time. It was one night, after quite some time in this fashion, that he invited her to his yacht. Naturally, Marie-Isabelle accepted the invitation at once. She had been going mad waiting for just such an invitation to spend an evening with Cesare since the day they first met.

His yacht was anchored in a special cove well away from the other boats. While the area was easily accessible by land, it was understood that none were to do so uninvited. When she arrived, he was sitting out on the deck of the docked yacht, waiting for her. The boat itself was fabulously long, elegant rather than gaudy in decoration, sparkling in the moonlight as the waves lapped against its streamlined form.

"Permission to come aboard, sir?" she asked from the wharf with a bright smile and a hopeful twinkle in her eyes. She was wearing a slinky black evening dress with a slit down the side which revealed most of her left leg, a tasteful but suitably expensive looking necklace, and very uncomfortable looking high heels.

"Permission granted." he said. His eyes drifted to her exposed leg with a faint smile of approval.

It took all her self-restraint not to loose an excited purr as she came aboard. Walking across the deck of the yacht in high heels was more difficult than she had expected it to be - even at anchor, the yacht gently rocked on the water surface - but nevertheless she move more or less gracefully over to Cesare.

He took her gently in his arms and kissed her, the night and the sea making it seem like the dreamy cover of some harlequin romance. He then pulled away, once again the charming gentleman, and walked towards the table, set with a white tablecloth, two glasses, and a bottle of champagne. "A drink, fair lady?"

"Yes please." she replied breathlessly, practically smouldering with lust after his kiss.

He poured her a glass and handed it to her, before pouring another for himself. Smiling, he raised his in a toast. "To passion."

"To passion." she replied, holding her glass to his, her eyes meeting his.

He took a sip before sighing heavily, walking to the rail and looking out over the sea. "I'm not sure I'm comporting myself honourably, Misie."

Marie-Isabelle thought she would scream in frustration, but didn't let out a peep. Instead, she followed him over to the rail, and hugged him from behind, pressing herself against his back.

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

"It's just..." He let out a long breath. "I am older than you and it's only been a few weeks. I am not normally so rash, I swear. It's just... well, I don't feel like the confident prince with you. I feel... I feel like a schoolboy in love for the first time. I've never felt that way about anyone else. I shouldn't have asked you out here alone, not unwed. I should have spoken to your father. I... I just can't control myself around you. You don't deserve the company of frumpish, bourgeois senators. You deserve... you deserve to be a princess."

"Are you worried you're going to take advantage of me?" she replied in a low whisper.

"A man can only resist so much beauty." he said in a low voice as her body pressed against his.

"I want you to take advantage of me." she replied in the same tone, her voice dripping with desire.

He turned suddenly and kissed her fiercely, lifting her body physically from the deck. He ran his hands over her as he carried her down to his cabin, exploring her young frame. She kissed him back passionately and offered no resistance to his explorations, wrapping her hands around the back of his neck to help him carry her below.

The next morning, Cesare saw her back to her hotel, first thing. He didn't visit her the rest of the day. Or that afternoon. Or that evening. That night, she was again alone. By morning, it was likely she was growing rather anxious, but she knew where his yacht anchored. Dressed for a trip out to the beach, she made her way to the private cove, hoping to see him. The yacht was still anchored there. It seemed quiet. The lights were off and the curtains drawn. She hurried along the wharf, holding onto the beach towel wrapped around her waist so that it didn't blow away, until she got to the yacht.

"Cesare?" she called, softly at first, then a little louder.

There was no answer from the yacht. She swallowed nervously, and then gingerly stepped off the dock onto the yacht. She adjusted the little string bikini she was wearing carefully, and adjusted her hair, wanting to look her best before she knocked on the cabin door. Then she started to softly knock on the door, although the knocks didn't say soft for long as her need to see Cesare again took over and she began to practically panic.

The door opened to her knocks. Beatrice Turtledove, the President of the Senate, old enough to be Marie-Isabelle's mother and about ten years older than Cesare, opened the door. Her hair was mushed and she was wearing just one of his button down white shirts and her panties, leaving most of her legs bare.

"He's asleep, m'lady. Should I tell him you were here?" she asked politely.

"Wha..." Marie-Isabelle mumbled, her mouth agape. "Bu... What are you doing here?"

She sighed a little. "I'm sorry. I knew you had a crush on him but I had no idea you were serious about it."

She sounded slightly apologetic, speaking in the same tone she might use dealing with a schoolgirl who had a playground crush on her boyfriend. Marie-Isabelle felt absolutely crushed. It was the most devastating thing which had ever happened to her. She gasped wordlessly for a few moments, before collapsing against the doorframe and sliding slowly down it to her knees as she began to cry.

Turtledove frowned sympathetically. "Can I get you something, m'lady?"

She shook her head, although it wasn't clear through the anguish on her face whether she had comprehended the question at all. She whimpered and wept pathetically. The older woman sighed and stepped back into the cabin. She returned briefly with a box of tissues, gently handing one to the Pantocratorian girl. Marie-Isabelle accepted the tissue and ineffectually dried the tears on her cheeks, which were soon replaced by fresh ones.

"Can't I see him?" she pleaded in distraught squeak.

"I'll wake him up." she answered, heading back inside. A few moments later, Cesare stepped out in just a pair of pants.

"Hello, Misie." he said softly. "Is something wrong?"

Despite her misery, and despite the fact that Cesare was its cause, seeing him made her smile through the distraught tears. Marie-Isabelle looked up at him, clearly hurt and miserable, her adoring eyes filled with tears.

"I..." she mumbled. "Sh... why?"

"It's just business, love." he said gently. "In adult politics, sex is politics. The President is practically a Bolshevik. If she didn't sometimes get overwhelmed by personal feelings, my affairs in Pele would not go nearly so well. It's politics, just like my marriage. You know I love you, though."

"Really?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course." he said, leaning down to kiss her lightly. "What do you care what I do with other women? It doesn't change anything between us."

"I... I was just... scared... you didn't call me or see me at all yesterday. I needed to see you... and I thought... I'm sorry." she replied, her crying slowly down as he reassured her. She wiped tears from her eyes, and then took Cesare's hand, kissing it passionately. "Can you help me up?"

He smiled softly as he gently helped her to her feet, holding her close and kissing her softly again. "Would you like to come in?"

She leaned into his chest, crying out the last tears as she regathered her wits about her.

"Yes, very much." she replied. "I'm sorry."

"It's OK. Now you have to try not to tell the President about last night. It's hard on a frumpish old lady being around someone so much younger and prettier than her. We can keep it between you and me that my heart is absolutely and entirely yours."

"OK." she replied with a smile. "I don't care what you do with her or anybody else, so long as I'm still yours. I love you... I... sorry, I don't want to start blubbering again."

"I could never love a woman of that class, you know? They're more like... pets of a sort. You, you're a lady." he continued to reassure her.

"So long as I'm yours, I don't care whether I'm a lady or a pet or anything else." she said, leaning in to kiss his mouth passionately.

He kissed back. "You're a lady. Don't ever say otherwise again." he ordered.

"Yes, captain." she replied with a playful twinkle in her still-red eyes, hinting at the nautical names she had called him the other night while they were making love on-board the yacht. He took her by the hand and led her into the cabin.

Cesare took Marie-Isabelle on similar dates over the next few weeks. Now that she was aware of his philandering, he shamelessly allowed her to meet all of his mistresses in Pele. Many of them were politicians and the rest were mostly society women. A few of them were other mens wives. Whenever Marie-Isabelle grew upset by all of this, Cesare held her, reassured her, told her that she was the one he loved.

After the next week, however, he headed back to Nerise. He left her an address and plenty of hope but with no solid connection to him and no solid promises of specific future meetings. He also left her with a new life growing inside her.

Marie-Isabelle had been home for several weeks in Mont Foix when she started feeling a little unwell in the mornings, quite tender, and positively lethargic. She was lying in one morning in her fairly plain little room, feeling particularly tender. The room was originally built as a maid's quarters, back when the line of the Counts of Mont Foix had been wealthy and they had been able to afford a palatial home with a large staff. Now the family only employed one servant, who only worked part-time, and couldn't afford the vast expense of actually living in the original living areas, which now cost too much money to constantly repair and maintain, heat, power, and so on. The advance of a modern economy and a few generations of bad business decisions had forced the Mont Foix family to abandon the stately rooms in their ancestral home for the humbler but far cheaper to maintain servant quarters when Marie-Isabelle was a little girl. Asides from one or two of the smaller rooms from the stately part of the house, they now only used the other rooms on special occasions.

Despite all her pretenses in Pele, Marie-Isabelle's family was nowhere near as well off as most of the "bourgeoisie" at whom she had looked down her nose on her holiday. They weren't exactly poor, but by the standards of their social class they were practically destitute. Their income from the Mont Foix estates was not insubstantial, but was almost entirely consumed by the expense of maintaining their ancestral home and of being properly attired for their obligatory appearances at court. The expensive holiday to Pele had, itself, been an investment of sorts - an investment in attempting to find Marie-Isabelle a wealthy husband. So no servant found Marie-Isabelle lying in that morning, instead her mother, Madame la Comtesse herself, thought she'd wander upstairs to see what had stopped her daughter from coming downstairs to eat the breakfast she had cooked herself for the family.

"Misie, it's nearly eleven o'clock. Are you not feeling well?" the Countess enquired as she entered the bedroom.

"Mmm... no, I've been feeling sick the past few days, maman." Marie-Isabelle replied, sitting up in her bed to answer her mother.

"Sick? How so?" asked her mother, as she strode across the room to open the blinds and let in some light.

"I've just felt very tired these past few days and... occasionally dizzy or nauseous when I get up..." Marie-Isabelle said. She didn't tell her mother that her breasts were sore - that symptom was relatively new, and she wasn't sure if it was related.

"Well, I think you had better see a doctor if it has been going on for a few days." the Countess declared. "I'll call him, you lie back down and rest, dear. I'll bring you up some plain toast and water... if you've been feeling nauseous it's best to stick to simple foods I think."

"Thanks, maman." Marie-Isabelle replied as her mother left the room and she reclined in her pillows.

***

The doctor's examination had been relatively brief - he had her go get a blood test that afternoon and other than that told her to get plenty of rest and to avoid alcohol, cigarette smoke, and caffeine. The next afternoon, Marie-Isabelle drove down to the doctor's surgery for a follow-up appointment. She was always dreadfully embarrassed about going to appointments like this, sitting around in waiting rooms with commoners, the occasional confusion that was caused when a receptionist asked her for her name and didn't believe, or drew attention to, the answer. This time the receptionist was expecting her, since the appointment was pre-arranged, and caused no trouble. Marie-Isabelle spent only a few minutes flicking through a women's magazine whose cover promised photographs of the Despot of New Constantinople's lovechild - such vicious rumours, as if the Despot would be so careless! Moreover, as if his mistress would be so stupid as to allow herself to fall pregnant! - before the doctor emerged and beckoned her to follow him into his office for her appointment.

"Mademoiselle, please sit down." he said, indicating to the chair across from his desk.

"Mon Dieu, is it that serious, doctor?" Marie-Isabelle joked in a nervous voice as she sat down.

"Well..." the doctor said, sitting down after her, clearly wondering how to put it just right.

***

Pregnant. Marie-Isabelle was terrified. She had no idea how she had managed to drive home - she could barely remember the drive at all. Her hands trembled carrying the results of the bloodtest which confirmed the presence in her blood of human chorionic gonadotropin - the pregnancy hormone. What was she going to do? She wandered into the house, and to her dismay her mother was standing in the kitchen, just putting dinner in the oven. The Countess closed the oven door and looked over to Marie-Isabelle and frowned.

"Misie, you look terribly pale!" her mother said in concern, taking off her oven mits. "What's wrong, my dear? What did the doctor say?"

"I..." Marie-Isabelle stammered, standing there in shock. She shook her head, her dirty blonde hair falling about her shoulders as she did so. "I'm not sure... really..."

"Oh?" the Countess frowned and made her way over to her daughter. "Well, let me see, maybe I'll make sense of that medical mumbo-jumbo..."

She reached for the bloodtest results Marie-Isabelle was carrying. Marie-Isabelle suddenly snapped out of her daze and shook her head as her mother took the paper out of her hands and unfolded it.

"No!" she exclaimed, without explanation, and tried to grab the blood test results back. Her mother turned around so that she couldn't, and read them.

"...gonadotropin has been detected... presence of this hormone indicates..." her mother muttered as she read the letter. She frowned and her face turned dark as Marie-Isabelle stood back in silent horror. The Countess spun around, her face twisted into a mixture of anguish, disgust, and despair, and she slapped her daughter across the face. "Slut!"

"Ow! Maman!" Marie-Isabelle squealed as she rubbed her cheek and scurried backwards a few steps.

"You're PREGNANT!?!" the Countess yelled. "This... of all the... you unspeakable little strumpet! Who will want you now? Some... oiled up poolboy in Pele, no doubt, well I hope your little diversion was worth the ruin of our family, putaine!"

"Maman!" Marie-Isabelle began to cry. "Please, I didn't mean... it was an accident!"

"Oh, so you accidentally parted your legs while a man accidentally..." the Countess fumed.

"Maman!" Marie-Isabelle shrieked. "It wasn't like that!"

Her mother slapped her again, her face still curled up with rage, before putting her hands on her hips to try avoid hitting her daughter a third time. Marie-Isabelle sobbed and rubbed her other cheek while her mother's mind raced desperately.

"You'll have an abortion." her mother finally concluded. "Yes, an abortion, while they're still legal."

Marie-Isabelle cried but didn't answer, still in shock at finding herself pregnant. She nodded quietly after a time, not really thinking through the implications of what her mother had suggested.

"Good, that's settled." her mother decided.

"You won't tell Father, will you?" Marie-Isabelle asked mournfully.

"No, you will, right now." the Countess decided spitefully, her voice still angry. "He'll be very disappointed in you, young lady."

"But maman!" Marie-Isabelle pleaded. She loved her father and hated the idea of him thinking of her in the terms her mother had just described her.

"No buts! He's in the garden." the Countess declared, grabbing Marie-Isabelle roughly by the elbow and dragging her ouside and around the large building to the garden in the courtyard behind the house, where the Count of Mont Foix was tending to rosebushes. Gardening was a great hobby of his. "Charles, your daughter has something she needs to tell you."

"Oh..." the Count replied, seeing that it was serious by the angry look on his wife's face, the distraught look on his daughter's face, and the way his wife was holding Marie-Isabelle by the arm. He put his clippers aside, took off his gloves, and got to his feet. "What's wrong?"

"Tell him." the Countess ordered Marie-Isabelle, letting go of her daughter's arm and shoving her forward.

"Papa..." Marie-Isabelle started in a quiet, regretful voice. "I'm... I'm pregnant."

"What?" Charles asked in surprise.

"I'm pregnant, papa." Marie-Isabelle sobbed.

"What? How did this happen?" Charles de Mont Foix gasped.

"Well she wasn't visited by an archangel, Charles." the Countess said sarcastically.

"I know that!" the Count scowled at his wife's harsh tone, and put his arm around his daughter's shoulders. He pulled her in and hugged her. "When did this happen, Misie?"

"In Pele, papa." Marie-Isabelle cried into her father's chest.

"Putaine." the Countess spat.

"Who's the father?" the Count asked in a gentle voice. He was crushed, but he was determined not to show it.

"Do you even know?" her mother raged.

"Yes!" Marie-Isabelle protested. "I know!"

"The surprises keep on coming today!" the Countess declared.

"Who was it, Misie?" pressed the Count.

"It was... His Highness, Monsieur le Prince de Nerise." Marie-Isabelle replied.

Her parents were both shocked into silence. Her mother's demeanour changed visibly, and her father's finance-obsessed mind raced thinking of the possibilities.

"Are you sure?" the Countess asked. "Positively sure?"

"Of course, he was the only one I..." Marie-Isabelle replied, but didn't finish the sentence.

"You better not be lying to us, girl, this is serious!" the Countess cautioned.

"I'm not! And I know! Cesare... the Prince of Nerise... is the father." Marie-Isabelle insisted.

"Well... this... this might..." the Count of Mont Foix thought out loud. "This might be the answer to our prayers."

"What?" asked both women.

"Well, Monsieur le Prince may wish to come to an arrangement..." speculated the Count. "Misie, do you have anyway of contacting Monsieur le Prince?"

Cesare rested a hand gently on the towering neo-classical column, one of dozens lining the great interior courtyard of the palace, his eyes moving to the marble statue of the Prophet Samuel which had recently been added to the prestigious collection of fine statuary which adorned his courtyard. Prince Cesare was a particularly avid collector of portraits and statues of Old Testament Biblical figures. He had, of course, seen the statue many times before. He had seen it in the sculptor's workshop when he made a final inspection of the work before placing his seal on the purchase. He had seen it when it was unveiled before his court. He had seen it, in passing, at least seven or eight times since it had first been placed in the courtyard. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that it looked somehow different. Perhaps it was the plants around the statue. Cesare walked over and ran his hand through the small green plants around the statue's base. They seemed the same as they had always been. Shrugging in confusion, he turned on his heel and walked back into the halls of the palace, smiling politely at the courtiers who bowed and scraped as he brushed past.

Marie-Isabelle would've written to Cesare, if not for her mother's insistence that a written letter could be used later to prove that she had been pregnant if, finding Cesare not forthcoming with some means of financial support, she needed to get an abortion. She couldn't help but resent just a little the way her parents seemed quite content to treat her life like a business opportunity, but she didn't object to being packed off to Nerise in the Resurgent Dream in any event. She loved Cesare, after all, and no doubt, he loved her too, and would do whatever he could to keep her. Sometimes, late at night, she would entertain the idea that he would somehow put aside his wife and marry her, but most of the time Marie-Isabelle was more pragmatic, and simply hoped that if she was to be kept as Cesare's mistress, it would be done with discretion, although there was a certain prestige which went along with being the openly acknowledged mistress of a great man to which she wasn't necessarily adverse.

She arrived at the address Cesare had provided with a modest suitcase, dressed in a gorgeous, but not immodest outfit, wearing a hopeful smile on her pretty face.

The address Cesare had provided was, of course, not exactly one to some private residence. Marie-Isabelle had to pass through a security checkpoint at an entrance to the central plaza in downtown Acinra. After that, she found herself in an open plaze filled with sparkling fountains, elegant bistroes, Neo-Classical palace, a great Cathedral, and another palatial Neo-Classical building which was marked as a bank. The area was crowded with people, all dressed in light but fashionable clothes, most chatting casually. Among the crowd, some were obviously tourists, others Nerise officials, and some elegant courtiers of His Most Esteemed Highness. Many seemed to be singers, poets, or writers and Marie-Isabelle overheard quite a few snippets of conversation indicating that the speakers were seeking the prince's patronage for their artwork. The Nerise guard seemed omnipresent but quite laid back. The officers moved among the crowds, chatting pleasantly in uniforms more designed for fashion than combat with ornate firearms at their sides.

Marie-Isabelle soon found her way to the prince's palace, the largest in the plaza. There was a bench going all the way around the palace on which petitioners of all classes and both sexes were sitting, waiting quietly for an audience with the prince. As Marie-Isabelle approached, one man sitting near the door was beckoned inside by a servant.

Marie-Isabelle frowned as she walked past parts of the long bench of partitioners. For some reason she had hoped, almost expected, that she would be granted immediate entrance. After standing around for a few minutes looking suitably too important to be kept waiting as a petitioner, in the hope that a passing page would see her and realise from her bearing that she was in fact a noblewoman, she sighed, set down her suitcase, gathered up all the aristocrat within her and walked in the door, looking for someone to whom she could speak. When she saw a likely fellow, she approached him directly.

"Pardon me." she said in heavily-accented English. "I am Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de Mont Foix, daughter of the Count of Mont Foix."

The statement implied some expectation that she would be admitted into the princely court of Nerise as a result of that introduction, although her aura of noble self-confidence was slightly undermined by a quick glance back to her suitcase outside.

"Oh, hello, my lady." answered the lady she addressed, a plump, nicely dressed woman in her early fifties. "I'm Addolorata Abalardi from the Lay Catholic Charitable Foundation of Nerise, just here to meet with someone from the Court about a possible donation from His Highness to our work over in Marlund. My husband and my oldest boy are stationed over there so this is my way of showing my support for them. Are you new to the court? You don't really have to wait just to go in the palace, only if you need an audience with His Highness personally. Once you get past security for the plaze, people are generally at liberty to move about here. His Highness says that getting to be among his people is the greatest joy of the Throne. He's even been known to take a minute to speak to common tourists who expected just to watch court from the gallery."

"Just don't make the mistake of confusing informality with tolerance for insolence." added a man, coming up behind the two. "The Court is so approachable by His Highness's grace, not by your right. When people forget that distinction..." He trailed off ominously.

"The young woman is a high born lady." Addolorata pointed out.

"Even so." the man said.

The stranger looked like he was about to say something when a familiar voice called out "Misie!" Cesare, who had just appeared through a doorway, walked swiftly towards the Pantocratorian with a broad smile on his face.

*bump*

Marie-Isabelle, of course, hadn't addressed a plump woman in her fifties clearly unrelated to the goings on of the palace at all, she had addressed a fellow who looked like he could help, but, interrupted in her conversation with him, she blinked with surprise as the woman introduced herself. Before she could respond to the older woman, she was cut off by a very rude man interrupting them. She was going to reply to him in turn when she heard Cesare's voice, smiled and turned towards him. As he walked towards her, she turned to the impertinent man beside her.

"You need not worry monsieur, tolerance for insolence isn't something I would confuse. A point you would do well to remember should ever you see me again." she remarked to him, although her tone wasn't as biting as she had initially intended it to be on account of the fact that she was so glad to see Cesare.

She left the rude pair and the person whom she had actually approached, and took a few steps over to Cesare, smiling hopefully, looking unsure as to how exactly she would be greeting. She wondered whether he would hug her, or even kiss her, here in front of everyone, or whether he would greet her more formally.

Cesare gently took the young Pantocratorian ladies hand in his and bowed over it, planting a lingering kiss on her soft skin. "Welcome to Nerise, my lady. To what do I owe this most unexpected pleasure?"

"It's a long story, actually, monsieur." Marie-Isabelle said, vaguely disappointed that he hadn't flung his arms around her and had instead defaulted to a more formal greeting even though he had already called out 'Misie' when he had seen her standing there. "Could we go somewhere more private?"

She looked back to her suitcase outside, and motioned towards it with her head.

"Could you have one of your people look after my bag, monsieur?" she asked quietly.

"Your bag will be taken care of, m'lady." Cesare answered, not feeling the need to specifically order anyone to take care of it. Things just sort of got done. In all honesty, Cesare only had the vaguest of ideas how his day-to-day affairs were actually handled.

"Walk with me." he said, offering the young Pantocratorian his arm as he headed for the interior courtyard. He walked her out among the statues and, as far as she could see, they were alone.

"Go ahead."

Marie-Isabelle snuggled up against Cesare's side as they walked out among the statues. She looked up at him with her big green eyes as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Hold me!" she entreated. "I love you, I missed you so much. Tell me you love me, like you did in Pele!"

It was obvious from the noble girl's tone that it was very important to her, and that she was about to tell him something which was even more important to her.

Cesare patted the young woman gently on the back, smiling down at her in a rather bemused fashion. "Yes, yes, Misie, of course I still love you. But whatever is the matter? You seem quite flustered today and I'm rather confused as to why."

He walked the girl over to a stone bench near a statue of the Prophet Obadiah, sitting down with her. "You know, this is widely considered the finest collection of Old Testament statuary in the Resurgent Dream and one of the finest in the world. We have a statue of practically everyone." He gave a slight laugh, gesturing towards a statue over in the corner. "We even have Prince Tibni over there. His Highness was..." Cesare trailed off, both because he realized that, despite having the statue, he had no idea who Tibni was and because he could feel his attempt to evade having a serious conversation through making small talk about the courtyard failing.

"Look, Misie, I know that I haven't exactly kept in touch but...it is nice to see you again. Now please tell me what has you so flustered." he said.

Marie-Isabelle remained silent as Cesare tried to explain the courtyard's statues, thinking it a little odd of him to start talking about a bunch of boring old statues when she had only just arrived. Surely he should be gushing over her, telling her sweet nothings, or something at least. When he gave up that conversation path and asked her why she was so flustered.

"I love you." she repeated, her tone serious. She paused for a few seconds. "I'm pregnant."

Cesare suddenly wished he hadn't stopped rambling on about his statues. He really did. "I'm sure it wouldn't be that hard to look him up though, Tibni that is. We wouldn't have to search through a Bible. There's computers here that we could simply have someone type it into and the information would come up. Of course, most of my statues are less obscure than that. I have all the best known figures: Moses, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Joseph...not the Earthly father of Our Lord, of course, he's a New Testament figure. I mean the one with the bright colored coat who..."

Cesare sighed, resignedly turning serious and sitting down next to Marie-Isabelle. "You'll have to get married. The child will be born in wedlock and he will be your husband's child as far as anyone else is concerned. When the child reaches the age of thirteen, he will be sent to my court as a fosterling and will be raised with the other noble forsterlings until he reaches the age of majority. I can ensure that you marry well and to a man of both quality and discretion. At least a viscount, if not a duke."

"What?" Marie-Isabelle gasped. She was quiet for a few moments after the surprising coldness of his reply, before she simply hung her head and started to weep piteously. "I... I can't believe... I don't... I want to be... how could you be like this with me?"

She cried inconsolably for several minutes, sliding across on the bench away from Cesare, and accidentally fell off the bench. She slowly scampered backwards until she came up against one of the statues, and then she stopped and sat still, her legs tucked up against her chest, crying into her knees.

"I... I want to be with you, Cesare..." Marie-Isabelle finally said, her voice trembling as she looked back up at him. "Not with some... viscount... you said you loved me! I thought... that you wanted to be with me too. I thought..."

She trailed off as her lips quivered and she struggled to fight back a fresh outburst of tears.

Cesare looked at her for a long moment in silence before he got up, walked over to the young woman, helped her to her feet, took her in his arms, and kissed her fiercely. "Of course I love you, Misie. But neither the Church nor the law of the land allows for divorce and, even if they did, a man in my position could not afford to take such a step. I have to remain with Her Highness."

He walked her back over to the bench and helped her to a seat again. "I'm trying to take care of you. I don't want you to suffer a scandal or to have to give up your child. I don't want you married off to some Pantocratorian ogre by your father. That's why I'm going to ensure that you have a good life and one where I can see you as often as possible. I'm not sure...I'm not sure what else it is you want me to do, Misie."

He fell silent, giving her some time to calm down and respond. He wrapped an arm around her, hugging her gently and idly stroking her hair.

"If it were me, I wouldn't let those things stop me!" Marie-Isabelle pleaded. "I'd do whatever it took to be with you... please, I just want to be with you, Cesare..."

She looked miserable as she let him hug her and calm her down. She thought through the options available to her. She didn't want to marry another man, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Cesare would see her often. If he really did intend to see her often, that was...

"I could get an abortion." she offered quietly. "I could find some clinic far away from Mont Foix where they would have no idea who I am, give a fake name... I don't have to settle down with somebody for appearance's sake."

"I'm asking you to, Misie." Cesare said firmly. "I love you but I need you to trust me to know what is best. These aren't just private matters. They're matters of state. Can you trust me, Misie? I need you to."

Cesare stood up, looking increasingly agitated. He took a few minutes, not saying anything, just pacing back and forth with a look of unhappy concentration. After about five minutes, he sat back down next to Misie, placing a hand over her belly, gently pressing. "Misie, this is our child. It's the culmination of our love, of everything we feel for each other. This is the only way we can ever have a child together. Our child. The union of our hearts brought together in another real human being. I'm not willing to give that up. I'm not. And I won't let you either."

He rose slowly. "I'll find a husband for you. You don't need to worry. In the meantime, you're welcome to join my family and I for dinner."

"I trust you Cesare, but..." Marie-Isabelle answered quietly but urgently, no longer crying. Her eyes followed him up as he got off the bench, and followed him as he paced back and forth. "I don't want a husband, Cesare, I don't. I want to be with you. I don't want to have our child unless you can be there to be a father, unless we can be a family. I'm nineteen, for God's sake, I don't want to have a baby, the only way I would want to have one is if it were yours and we could be a family, together!"

She got up and walked behind Cesare, hugging him from behind and resting her head on his back.

"I want to be with you, together, forever." she whispered as she squeezed him.

Cesare looked down for a moment, frowning in consternation. He let the young Pantocratorian hug him from behind for a long moment, not saying anything. He reached down and gently stroked the back of her delicate hands. "Marie-Isabelle, I've told you what needs to happen. It really does need to happen. I know that it's hard. But are you willing to do this for me? It's the only way we can ever see each other again. I can't take much more time getting to dinner. I need your answer."

"Cesare, please!" Marie-Isabelle frowned and pleaded. "You can't possibly ask me to make a decision like this on the spot, with no time to think about it! I love you and I want to be with you, but I don't want to marry some courtier of yours... pretend he's the father of our child... and I don't need to, not for appearance's sake. I need time, Cesare, I need more time to answer the question."

Cesare nodded slightly. "Someone will see you to your room. You can rest up for dinner."

"Cesare..." Marie-Isabelle sighed, dissatisfied with the way he had dealt with her. She shrugged nevertheless. "Thank you. Cesare... nevermind, I'll see you at dinner. Thank you. I love you, you know."

She gave a faint, forced smile, wiped the tears off her cheeks, and then she left the courtyard.

Dinner was actually a fairly private affair. Cesare was not dining with his entire court, which made Misie's invitation to dinner something of a personal courtesy. When the time arrived, the young Pantocratorian was ushered into what would have been a large, formal dining room in almost any other home but, in a palace, gave the impression of being a cozy family room, with only a single butler, a fine oak table that seated ten, and fine but simple silver. As she was led into the room, the staff member showing her in pointed quietly to the other guests, whispered that this man was Pietro, Cesare's son; that woman Plautilla, his wife; that woman the Princess of Carasia, visiting at the time; that woman an intimate friend of the family, and so on. All in all, it was a dinner of ten, counting Misie and the Prince.

"Thank you for joining us, lady." Cesare said as Misie entered the dining room.

"Your Highnesses, mesdames, messieurs..." Marie-Isabelle replied, curtseying and nodding to each of the guests in turn, in order of rank. "Thank you so much for having me to dinner."

Marie-Isabelle was seated next to Prince Pietro who turned politely as she sat down. "My father says he met you while he was vacationing in Pele. I had actually been hoping to go myself but father insisted it would be an unacceptable break in my education. I told him that we could simply take the tutor with us..."

"But you wouldn't have spent half an hour a day with him." Plautilla chided her son. "You know your father likes to vacation alone. Complaining about the head of your family is hardly a proper topic for conversation in front of guests."

"So how is Pantocratoria?" Cesare changed the subject. "I've never actually been although I have quite a few relations who speak well of it. I don't suppose you've ever met Her Highness, Princess Sarah, Lady Marie-Isabelle?"

"I'm sure she has. She is a lady of rank, after all." argued a prim but lovely woman who had been pointed out as Miss Lavinia Abalardi, one of the women described as intimate friends of the family.

Marie-Isabelle opened her mouth to answer Cesare's question about Princess Sarah, but Lavinia Abalardi answered for her. She closed her mouth and blushed faintly. She hadn't, of course, met Princess Sarah, although she had seen her at a distance once at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator. Unfortunately, Marie-Isabelle was, relatively speaking, an absolute nobody in New Rome court circles, and certainly wasn't introduced to foreign ambassadors. The only way she would've met Princess Sarah would've been if the two had met each other by chance in the palace's grand halls and ornately decorated salons. The chances of that were reduced even further by the fact that staying at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator, living there in the fashion expected for a man of his rank, and maintaining his wife and daughter as was appropriate, and employing a retinue of sufficient size, was an incredibly expensive proposition for the cash-strapped Comte de Mont Foix, so Marie-Isabelle and her family made the bare minimum number of appearances in New Rome.

"Actually, mademoiselle," Marie-Isabelle piped up, sounding a little embarrassed, although she was determined to pass off her reasons for not attending court enough to have met Sarah as being distinctly more noble than they were. "I'm afraid I've not had that pleasure. My father prefers our ancestral home of Mont Foix to the busy city of New Rome and its glittering court. I'm afraid I'm a simple country lady, and alas, those few times I have been to court, I've never had the pleasure of making Her Highness' acquaintance, although I have seen her there."

She smiled at Pietro in response to his earlier remarks, not wanting to appear rude to the boy by responding to the adults and ignoring him. Cute boy, she noted, Definitely Cesare's son... and I'm pregnant with his brother. Or sister. Oh God, he's not much younger than I am... Her look turned vaguely alarmed for a second or two, before she looked back to the other guests. Her gaze settled on Lavinia Abalardi.

"Mademoiselle Abalardi, have you ever met Her Imperial Highness Princess Marie, His Majesty's Ambassador to the Resurgent Dream?" she asked innocently, although the question was actually conceived from a desire to cause Lavinia the same discomfort her remark had just caused Marie-Isabelle.

Cesare arched a brow amusedly as Misie made her comeback. "Ladies, ladies, I really do not think either of you has cause for complaint with regard to whom she has or hasn't met. You are, I might remind you, dining with two princes and two princesses, after all."

Marie-Isabelle blushed fiercely at being called on her juvenile behaviour. What could she say? She started it? Well she did... Marie-Isabelle noted, but knew it was something best left alone now that Cesare had pointed it out.

"I beg Your Highnesses' pardons." Marie-Isabelle said in her accented English. She returned to Cesare's original question. "I think it depends on where one goes in Pantocratoria, the opinion one has of it. New Rome is a beautiful city, no doubt, but there is so much to Pantocratoria outside of the cities, and yet most visitors only go there. It all depends on what you enjoy. The weather's awful though, much nicer in Pele."

Princess Candace nodded slightly as she listened to Marie-Isabelle speak. The Princess of Carasia was a woman in her late twenties. She had dark brown skin and wore her hair in elegant braids. "I've always been curious about the Exarchate of New Jerusalem/ Have you ever been there, m'lady?"

Prince Cesare smiled slightly as the conversation moved on. He gave a reassuring smile to Miss Abalardi who colored faintly and gave him a rather shy, almost girlish smile back. Prince Pietro scowled at Abalardi and took another bite of his food. He then turned his attention to Marie-Isabelle. "New Jerusalem? That's where the indigenes live, is it not?"

"The Indians?" Marie-Isabelle clarified what Pietro meant by 'indigenes'. "Yes, monsieur, they do, for the most part, although some live in some of the smaller islands and some have immigrated to the mainland." she turned to the Princess of Carasia. "And not since I was a little girl, Your Highness. I don't remember very much about it I'm afraid."

She glanced back to Lavinia for a moment, and remembered something. Alabardi... there was some tedious bourgeois woman who introduced herself to me on the way in... working for a charity... I wonder if she's any relation?

"Why do they call them Indians, anyway?" Pietro asked. "Columbus called the American aboriginal peoples Indians because he thought that he had found the Indies. I can't imagine the Knights of the Pantocrator thought the same thing, did they?"

"Pietro is always interested in things like that." Cesare said. "He a very curious young man. It would hardly do for him to have a career, properly speaking, of course, but I am hoping that he might be to anthropology what Princess Diana is to classicism. He's still just a child and he was already telling me the other day about Gabbiadini's studies about...What was it, Pietro?"

"Hermaphrodites sexually misidentified at birth." Pietro said eagerly.

"I'm not sure that sounds like the best topic for a meal." Plautilla commented. "Perhaps you could discuss it later?"

Marie-Isabelle surpressed a grin at Pietro's inappropriate remark and at Plautilla's reaction. She let the moment pass and moved on with an answer to his question.

"I'm not sure." she answered truthfully. "I think it was the sailors who called them that, not the knights."

"I suppose that makes sense, then." Cesare said with a light shrug. "So how was your trip, lady?"

"It was a pleasant enough flight, if one likes flying, monsieur." Marie-Isabelle answered. "Nerise is very pretty, what I've seen of it, anyway."

"Moreso than Pele?" Cesare asked her with a slightly wry smirk. "The lady and I first became acquainted in Pele during my vacation there several months ago." he continued, informing the rest of the table.

The rest of the dinner past in idle small talk. Princess Candace spoke of affairs in Carasia. Like most of Danaan Ambara, the legislature of that principality was exploring new anti-terrorist security arrangements. Plautilla spoke mostly of her family. Pietro mostly flirted with Misie. Cesare merely followed what others were saying, seeming somewhat disinterested in the conversation.

After dinner, Misie was invited to go riding with the prince. Of course, as the palace was in the center of town, there were no adjoining grounds and they had to be driven out to the countryside where His Most Esteemed Highness kept his stables. As he and the Pantocratorian settled into the back of a limousine, he smiled slightly at her. "So what do you think of the family?"

"I don't want to do this!" Marie-Isabelle insisted through clenched teeth now that they were finally alone again, sitting in the back of the limousine. "I'll be impossibly miserable with one of your courtiers, you can't seriously want me to go through with this! Mother of God, Cesare! I'll go mad!"

"It's the only way we can be together." Cesare explained.

"Stop saying that! There's got to be other ways, you're just not thinking hard enough, Cesare, please!" Marie-Isabelle insisted at a squeal. "You can't really expect me to just accept that I have to marry some friend or hanger-on of yours, you really can't!"

"I expect that you will either do so or give up on me entirely. One or the other." Cesare said harshly. "There really isn't anything else. I've thought about it. It would be too much to have you become a nun or something of that sort. Even I am not that irreligious."

He paused and put a hand on her shoulder gently. "I'll make sure it's a nice man, one not especially interested in the ladies. I will see you everyday and we will be together as often as possible. And, of course, I will look after the child and arrange a beneficial settlement with your father."

"Cesare!" Marie-Isabelle wailed. "That's horrible! I don't want to be married to some man who is not only uninterested in me, but in women generally! It's like you want to marry me to one of your courtiers just so that I'm accessible to you, but you don't want to share me. You want me to be some... convenient lay... I thought you loved me! I love you, and I couldn't do something like that to you..."

She slumped into him, crying as she tried to make her mind. She really did love him, and it was really shattering to find out that he didn't mind doing this to her. She sobbed for a few minutes, not having any more coherent words to say, before finally wiping her eyes clear and looking back up at him.

"...OK..." she whispered, defeated. "If you... if it's the only way we can be together... I can't believe I'm doing this... you can see how much I love you..."

"And I love you too." Cesare said, taking Marie-Isabelle in his arms and planting a firm, long kiss on her lips. "I'm so happy that we can be together still. If you don't want someone uninterested in women, I can arrange for a more virile man. I have quite a few options available."

As the car finally pulled up by the stables, the driver walked around to the back door and opened it for Cesare and Marie-Isabelle. Cesare stepped out first and then gently helped the Pantocratorian to disembark. "You will never have to worry for anything again as long as you live. I promise. I will keep you in the finest gowns, the nicest cars, the most modern fashions, the most sumptuous table ... I'll take care of everything. I promise. You just have to trust me. You do trust me, don't you, my love?"

As he walked with her to the stables, he paused. "Speaking of your wardrobe, would you like to change for the horses? I know that some more traditional ladies prefer to ride sidesaddle in their gowns but I always felt that that was more a cumbersome habit than a graceful one and one that made a vain show of false modesty. There's a place for you to change if you'd like and some riding clothes for a lady."

The Next Day…
Outside Cesare’s Palace,
Downtown Acinra’s Central Plaza

Niki Callé flicked a lock of hair out of her eyes as she sat on the petitioner bench, waiting for her audience with His Most Esteemed Highness, Prince Cesare of Nerise. Niki was a cute yet tomboyish women, 27 years old, five feet nine inches, mercilessly short (yet rich) brown hair, lovely and intelligent, albeit common, brown eyes, and a light healthy tan.

She was dressed rather plainly, lose beige docker pants, a simple creamy off-white buttoned down short sleeved shirt, black cotton jacket (draped over her shoulder), and a pair of well worn brown shoes. These were by far Niki’s nicest clothes, free from rips, tears, and stains. The trendiest item she wore was a pair of rimless glasses (the frames tinted brown), considered very chic in Amestria. On the ground besides her was a large (and heavy looking) square suitcase.

Niki was an artist, a painter and illustrator, desperately in need of patronage. She was hoping to convince the Prince to sponsor an exhibit of her works and, like everyone else on the bench, lend his name to bring her publicity…something that had consistently eluded the South Amestrian.

Except for the various bureaucrats she had lobbied at the Amestrian Ministry of Culture, who were paid to listen to her tell them why her art was indeed worthy of State support (for all her trouble she received a few trifling grants, enough to make ends meat), and a few close friends, no one in her country had paid her the slightest bit of attention, especially those elitists in Ardenne. They had been loath to notice some “Southern provincial” from that “uncivilized backwater of Bas-Poitou.” Disgusted with them all, Niki had decided to search for meaningful support abroad, intent on making a splash and eventually returning home to triumphant acclaim. The Resurgent Dream, with its many courts and countless idle royals, had seemed the most promising place to start.

She had been in Acinra for two weeks now and so far nothing. If she failed to find a sponsor and attention in Nerise she would have to try another principality…and she was almost out of money.

Lost in thought Callé sighed, feeling tired and in need of a drink. The bulky suitcase she used to carry her canvas was heavy to tote around and she hated waiting in line, hated having to ask for charity…but there was no helping it, beggars and artists depended upon charity, without it they would starve.

A servant then beckoned to her to come inside. Niki got up, took her great suitcase with both hands, and entered the palace.

The young man in the uniform of the Palace Staff showed Callé through a number of corridors before finally opening the door to an elegant study and announcing her before showing her in. Behind the oak desk sat a lady in a dark blue courtly gown. She was young looking and, while she couldn't be described as ugly, attractive would have been too strong a word. Her face was best described as good-natured, rather round but unmarred. Her hair was dark and was worn naturally and to a middling length. She was overweight but not grossly so. "It's good to meet you, Miss Niki Callé. I understand you're an artist?"

Niki set her impressive brown suitcase down on the floor, licking her dry lips as she did so. Carrying that heavy thing and waiting outside in the sun had made her thirsty.

“Yes,” Callé answered upon catching her breath. “I’m an illustrator, painter, sometimes photographer. I’d like to thank you for seeing me Miss…” Niki trailed off as her eyes searched for some sort of placard or name plate identifying the young lady.

The still unidentified woman just gave the young Amestrian artist a half-playful smile. “Thank you for coming. I understand you’ve been here for two weeks. They really shouldn’t have put you on that dreadful bench. It isn’t supposed to be for people with appointments, just unannounced audience seekers. There must have been some kind of mix-up. Would you believe Ce…His Highness actually thinks that that bench makes him more accessible and friendly to the average person. I imagine it must actually be a bit…I don’t know. You must be thirsty. Let me get you something to drink and then we can have a look at your portfolio…”

She rose from her seat and moved over to a rather distinguished looking oak cabinet which she opened to reveal a quite modern looking minifridge, camouflaged, as it were, by the deceptive oak façade. “We have orange juice, milk, water, grapefruit juice, some sort of sports drink, lemonade and ginger ale…What would you like?”

The woman glanced over her shoulder at Nikki with a good-natured, almost naïve smile as she hunkered down in front of the hidden minifridge. Her every movement seemed to have a sort of unaffected innocence about it which was likely not shared by anyone else in this building. As Nikki had doubtless already discovered in her two weeks of inquiries, most of the people attached to the court at Nerise seemed to combine the worst traits of what she considered to be the elitists in her own country with the worst traits she might have expected to find in Danaan aristocrats. They possessed both an aristocratic sense of entitlement and an intellectual elitism, especially when it came to the arts. The latter was perhaps more galling for not being entirely without foundation. The courtiers here were men and women well-educated in the humanities and with very refined aesthetic sensitivities. The woman conducting Nikki’s interview, however, did not seem to be like the others in character, personality or background.

The still unidentified woman just gave the young Amestrian artist a half-playful smile. “Thank you for coming. I understand you’ve been here for two weeks. They really shouldn’t have put you on that dreadful bench. It isn’t supposed to be for people with appointments, just unannounced audience seekers. There must have been some kind of mix-up. Would you believe Ce…His Highness actually thinks that that bench makes him more accessible and friendly to the average person.”

Despite the fact that she had yet to tell Niki her name, the woman’s ‘unaffected innocence,’ apparent good nature, and general down to earth attitude helped to put the artist somewhat at ease. Still, Callé remained wary. It could all be some sort of trick…

“Well, I reckon ma’am thar is the hope that 'neath the pavin' stones lays the beach,” Niki replied cautiously, wincing inwardly at her painfully obvious Bas-Poitou accent.

“I imagine it must actually be a bit…I don’t know. You must be thirsty. Let me get you something to drink and then we can have a look at your portfolio…”

“We have orange juice, milk, water, grapefruit juice, some sort of sports drink, lemonade and ginger ale…What would you like?”

Niki smiled. “Jus’ water thank you, with some ice please if you have hit.”

The Amestrian then motioned to her suitcase. “Should I jus’ tump out my sac?”

The woman poured her guest a glass of water and handed it to her, pouring a juice for herself. She seemed completely oblivious to Niki's accent, although whether this was some gracious absence of prejudice or merely an inability to tell one Amestrian accent from another was open to question. She sipped her drink politely and glanced towards Niki's case. "Yes, let's see what you have for us today."

The woman poured her guest a glass of water and handed it to her, pouring a juice for herself.

Niki took a long sip, drained about a third of the glass, and gave a contented sigh.

She sipped her drink politely and glanced towards Niki's case. "Yes, let's see what you have for us today."

“Yes ma’am,” the Amestrian replied, a little puzzled by the implied familiarity.

Let's see what you have for us today…today… this is my first time here?? Niki thought to herself as she set the water glass aside and bent down to open her suitcase. She was beginning to suspect that the woman’s friendly manner, her innocent expressions, her levity, was all a careful and deliberate act. How the woman had so smoothly avoided giving her name had also not escaped Callé’s notice.

What she playing at? Niki wondered as she turned her attention to the presentation of her portfolio. She had a very broad selection of her best work with her in order to reduce the chance of leaving the palace empty handed.

As Callé held up her first painting, the woman noticed that there was a scar on each of the Amestrians wrists.

The painting was entirely of eyes. Some were painted realistically and seemed to jump out of the canvas, others were more cartoonish, and they floated together. There were those that were human, those that were animal, and those that were something else. They looked out in every direction, at each other, and, it seemed, directly at the viewer.

“This is one of my latest,” Niki began, somewhat nervously. “Right now I’m calling hit Lack of Perspective.”

The Amestrian unpacked another frame. There were four shrouded figures huddled closely around a fading fire. There was no moon and no stars. The expressions on their faces are pleasant, amused, and jovial as they shared a bottle sprits and a large tasty sausage. However, their eyes, illuminated by the firelight, betrayed a distrust and unease that seemed to leave their grins grotesque, empty, and waxen. The first man filled a cheap clay pipe with tobacco as he nervously watched his companion cut the sausage with a knife. The man with the knife in turn, out of the corner of his right eye, kept track of his friend’s sheathed sword. The man with the sword glanced longingly at the man with the clay pipe’s coin purse. The fourth man was different. His smile was just like the rest, but he just watched the fire slowly burn its life away in sad resignation. It was ironically titled Friends around a Fire.

Her third canvas was dramatically different; dark depressed blues and strange grays combing together in an ocean of swirling twisting chaos. The brush strokes though were not random, there was a tortured pattern. The woman thought she had mastered it, got well underway to following it, than she lost it. It seemed as if one could reach into the canvas and that doing so would cause one’s hand to be torn away. There was something vaguely threatening about the painting, as if it resented those who looked upon it and wished to draw them into it, towards their deaths. It was called The Eye of a Hant.

“This is based off a dream I had,” the artist stated. “A bad one… I do believe this is close to what looking into the gaze of a nether critter would be-it like.”

Callé then moved onto several hand drawn illustrations of individual children, each drawn as if viewed from an obviously first person prospective. The children were at first cute and even vulnerable, their wide eyes filled with what appeared to be sleepy eyed irritation, annoyance, or puzzlement. Then it was noticed that each brandished a weapon, knives, a rock, a shard of broken glass… It then became clear that each child’s eyes in fact held accusatory looks, fear, or even undiluted expressions of hate.

“I intentionally drew these to be-it an assault upon the narrer viewer,” Niki explained. “For the daft will wander about, glancing at the most obvious bits and pieces. I drew each so one cannot see hit the one way without immediately seeing hit the other.”

Callé spoke with an air of perverse exhilaration. “I actually hope to repulse people, I wan’ them to jump back for fear of being stabbed and then be-it disgusted. My plan would be-it for these drawings to be scattered among other drawings, peaceful drawings of young-uns, so they jus’ jump out all of a sudden. You could call hit violence by other means.”

Each illustration was apparently titled after the first name of the child pictured.

“This here is Aimé, he’s Emil, Eugène, Julian, Julia, Nathalie, Patrick, Vanessa… For the observant, for those who wish to take on the role of the person whose eyes are being looked through, I leave clues. Notice the bruise on Eugène’s arm and the tear in Vanessa’s little skirt…it is thar, you tell me why?”

She spread the illustrations along the top of the desk, and recognizing the threat her unfinished glass of water posed, moved it to the nearest convenient surface. Now fully relaxed, the Amestrian felt much more animated and had become truly engaged. She fished from her suitcase a large laminated volume.

“I call these broken moments,” Niki began. “They are the moments of profound distress when a person is forced to ponder things of great importance to them, when their whole perspective of reality, of their existence, of their future, has suddenly shifted. They remind me of a broken down mechanical doll, the gears become jammed and hit cannot continue along in hits familiar repetitive routine. Hit is the realization that hit is impossible for them to continue thinking of their lives along the same lines as they have done in the past. Of course the events leading up to such a moment can be significant or trivial. Hit is relative to the person. These moments are fleeting, very difficult to capture, you blink and you could miss hit. I’ve only rarely been able to get them on film. Often I have no other choice then to set the moment down on paper from memory. My plan for an exhibit would have them blown up…”

Niki held out her arms to emphasize her point, “…every detail becoming clear, so one can reflect on the emotion and meaning without having to squint and labor.”

She then, one by one, showed the woman such photographs as Eyes of a Girl that has lost her Toy and Eyes of a Young Woman covered in Mud; and then such sketches as Eyes of a Young Person with a Disease, Eyes of a Person who has failed to achieve their Life’s Dream, and Eyes of a Man who has suffered loss. Some, like the photos Eyes of a Newly Married Woman and Eyes of an Expectant Father to be, were happier, the moment being one of euphoria rather then distress. All the photographs and sketches were in simple black and white.

The final photograph was that of a middle aged man’s eyes and eyebrows. Their expression was one of desperation…pained, tortured. The eyes seemed to gaze out at everything and nothing…two disembodied orbs of pure anguish.

“The Eyes of a Dying Man,” Niki began. “He was fatally stabbed in a knife fight, and was laying with his back against the wall, staring strait in front of him, his life ebbing away. You can jus’ see that he does not know how to accept hit. This is the only photograph of a dying person’s eyes that I have been able to collect.”

She did not explain how she had managed to take that one photograph. After setting the volume aside, Niki, having run out of space on top of the desk, leaned three canvases upright against the front of the desk.

“Here are a few of the historical pieces I have done about my own region and my people. I have always been fascinated by lone events, petit récits--small accounts, and the emotions and ideas they convey, rather then narratives. The more unknown, the more submerged, the better. They are more legitimate and pluralistic, their significance left to the individual. Faithfully conveyed, such accounts can truly embody an aspect of a people.”

The Amestrian motioned to one of the canvases. In what appeared a barn, dimly lit by three or four lanterns, sat a rural gentleman leisurely smoking a bruyère tobacco pipe. With his rustic hat, rich auburn beard, and soft smile, he had a friendly good natured demeanor about him. On the table before him was an incomplete game of Patience, a half empty liquor glass, and a flint lock pistol. Off in the corner were several barrels of gunpowder, pistol and powder contrasting starkly with the supposedly harmlessness of the gentleman. It bore the title Marcel Lefort Playing at Solitaire.

“The past is often not so much recollected as guessed at. We know that thar was an obscure 19th century Bas-Poitou revolutionary named Marcel Lefort, that he plotted to blow up Führer Bradley, and that he was caught before he could make his attempt. As hit happens nothing else is known about the man, thar is not even a clear description of what he looked like… Jus’ a name on a death warrant that was afterwards saved from the far by being accidentally mislaid. Hit was not uncommon in those days. This is my recreation, my imagining, of him.”

Callé then turned to the next painting. The setting was that of a medieval village. A crowd had formed and at the center sat a brutalized man, obviously condemned. His shirt and face were bruised and blood stained; his lips were swollen and bleeding, having been sown shut with rough thread; his right hand was missing, its absence poorly concealed by a simple kerchief; he was barefoot and his souls had been shredded...a pitiful sight. Two heavily armed and armored guards flanked him. Directly behind the prisoner was a strong gnarled oak. Nailed to the oak’s base was a severed hand and on the oak a hanging noose was being prepared. The crowd appeared silent and solemn…some where clearly saddened. A little ways away from the crowd a smiling stranger had discarded his own worn out shoes and was trying on a fresh pair. Before the condemned stood a short, pale man with coal black hair, decked out in noble finery. He was clearly a person of some importance, barking orders and pointing at the prisoner, as if uttering some final judgment at him. The bloodied man merely gazed up at the nobleman with a look of pure defiance. The frame read The Punishing of Raymond Cale.

“Raymond Cale was a Barbâtre baker. He done chucked a brick at the Honorable Charles de Vigny, Barbâtre’s Baron, almost striking him. As punishment for such a grave offense Cale was sentenced to have his property seized by the Crown, to be-it bored through his tongue, to be-it marched barefoot across pizen thorns, his lips stitched shut, his right hand hacked off and nailed to the village’s cursed oak, from which he was then hung, assuring that he would go strait to hell and be-it eternally maimed.”

The third historical painting was that of a peaceful wooded creek in a valley between two rolling hills. Quiet, serine, the sky was clear and several geese were flying over. It was the very picture of tranquility itself. In bold at the bottom of the frame ran Count Eberhard’s Massacre.

“With this piece I subtly invite onlookers to imagine the bloody scene or dwell upon the meaning of the title and complete the painting. Hits one more my friendlier works, one is invited in rather then ambushed. This was not painted with the intent of being shown within Bas-Poitou, for Bas-Poitouns the reference is obvious, thar is no mystery. Only the irony is apparent and by hitself hit is empty.”

Callé then showed the woman photos of the various personal portraits she had been hired to paint. They appeared, at least in the photographs, to be exceptionally well done. Niki casually explained that they had been sold to those who contracted them and she had no copies for display, the photos being a mere record of her work. It was an unsubtle indication that the South Amestrian would be willing to take a commission as a portraitist, if such an opportunity were available.

Last was a series of simple landscapes, done by pencil and charcoal, some with a hint of color and some plain. The landscapes pictured were all somewhat alike, mountainous with thick forests, and each one featured an ancient castle. Despite their similarity there was an intriguing distinctiveness about each one of them.

“These are various castles I sketched in Bas-Poitou. Bas-Poitou has many such fortresses, they were built by the Northerners to help conquer and subdue us. If you can find a high enough place you often can see more then one…”

She pointed to one sketch. It was done in charcoal and showed a bird’s eye view of three castles in a neat row. The parapet of a fourth could be seen just over a distant hill.

“I was climbing a high mountain when that jus’ rose up before me and knew I had to capture it. If you ever have the chance you should visit Bas-Poitou, it’s a really beautiful country.”

Having finished unpacking and introducing the art, Niki surveyed the room. Her work was scattered along the top of the desk, along the sides of the desk, leaned up against her suitcase, and perched on nearby chairs.

“Well ma’am, that’s all I came here with. I hope hits enough.”

Callé adjusted her glasses with her index finger and waited.

The woman reacted fairly strongly to each painting. Her reaction varied, depending upon the painting itself, but it was always marked. She would smile or grimace or even pale a little. "This is very compelling. It isn't like...it's very compelling."

She paused at The Eye of a Hant, looking at it more closely before pulling away sharply as though almost frightened. "This one is not exactly a picture; I mean it isn't representational. It's very captivating but I don't think I completely understand more abstract works. Could you speak about it a little more?"

After the woman was finished assessing all the pieces Callé had brought, she resumed her seat behind her desk and smiled slightly. "All of these works show a remarkable ability to produce emotions in the viewer. I certainly find them much more moving than a lot of the more classically representational school of art popular in Nerise, although I'm sure that many people would disagree or else those works wouldn't be so popular. However, I couldn't help but notice that a lot of your work is very dark...?"

“I don’ consider hit to be Abstract, as in a non-représentatif painting,” Callé stated. “I do believe hit représentant of gazing into the eyes of a being denied entry into Elysium and Asgard. Hit is perhaps a glimpse of purgatory.”

The Amestrian paused briefly, considered the rest of her response, and then continued.

“Hit is somewhat symbolic; the imagery is not plain or matter-of-fact. Nor is hit absolute, for I had to cast in a perceptible form what I remembered dreaming, and do so quickly before the images faded from my mind. My re-creation is inherently inferior to the experience that inspired hit, the mere shadow of a shadow of a shadow. Thar is also an element of surrealism, given the absence of conscious self-censorship…so I suppose this can be-it considered both my most original and most unoriginal work.”

"All of these works show a remarkable ability to produce emotions in the viewer. I certainly find them much more moving than a lot of the more classically representational school of art popular in Nerise, although I'm sure that many people would disagree or else those works wouldn't be so popular.”

“Thank you ma’am…” Callé replied courteously, smiling.

Hit is popular because hit is popular, the artist thought bitterly behind her smile.

“However, I couldn't help but notice that a lot of your work is very dark...?"

“When I’m painting or, in the case of Broken Moments, recording, I don’ set out to create a dark work…” Niki explained. “I seek to create that which best expresses an emotion, conveys an idea, or provokes reflection. To lighten or darken my work for superficial reasons would not only make hit less effective, hit would also make hit less sincere. I do not believe art can ever be-it morbid. In art one can express anything. I do however believe art can be-it dishonest, such as when hit tries to pander by disguising hitself in a pleasing shape, to better bow and scrape at one’s feet.”

The woman looked rather thoughtful at this response. She paused for a long moment, as though she were considering the situation. At length, she asked "Have you seen the palace's collection of statuary yet?" as though delaying a decision.

Niki blinked. “No ma’am, I haven’t.”

The South Amestrian sighed inwardly in resignation. She was not really interested or excited at the prospect of surveying the palace's statuary, but she wanted to make a good impression.

I’ll just have to grin and bare hit, Callé thought to herself, trying her best to look intrigued.

Marie-Isabelle lay in bed that morning, fairly despondent. She hadn't slept very much throughout the night, and at this point her eyes had been open for several hours. For much of that time, they had been settled on Cesare sleeping beside her, occasionally blurred by tears but more often she had simply looked at his closed eyes and wondered about how the mind behind them worked. Cesare slept fairly late, starting to stir around nine or ten in the morning. When he finally did open his eyes, he briefly glanced over to Marie-Isabelle before readjusting himself in bed. He took her hand almost casually and kissed her gently on the knuckles. Marie-Isabelle didn't make any particular response, she just looked at him kissing her hand, and then looked away.

"I've really made a mess of things, haven't I?" Cesare asked, looking away.

"Yes." Marie-Isabelle confirmed, her tone of voice not sympathetic to Cesare's question in the lightest.

"You're not helping, you know." Cesare said curtly, sitting up and putting his feet on the floor.

"You don't need any help." Marie-Isabelle noted in an injured tone. "Everything is working out perfectly well for you, after all."

"No it isn't." Cesare said, standing up. "What is it you actually want?"

"To be able to be with the man I love." Marie-Isabelle answered, the desperate tone from the previous day returning. "It isn't hard to understand, I would think!"

"What does that mean, to be with me?" Cesare asked.

"It doesn't mean being convenient for you when you could be bothered, and trapped in a loveless marriage the rest of the time!" Marie-Isabelle told him. "You've ruined my life, you know? I am the stupidest woman in the world. I've fallen in love with a man who is perfectly happy ruining my life."

"You haven't answered the question." Cesare said, his earlier sympathy largely gone.

"I want to be married, Cesare, married to you!" Marie-Isabelle replied, pulling herself up into a seated position in bed. "I love you, what do you think I want?"

"I'm already married." Cesare said. "I'm not going to ruin my life for you. You do understand that that's what you're asking?"

"You're asking the same from me." Marie-Isabelle complained, letting herself fall back on the bed.

"If you'd prefer, there are alternate arrangements that could be made." Cesare said.

"What sort of alternate arrangements, Cesare?" Marie-Isabelle asked, her tone quieter and somewhat more hopeful now, as she propped herself up on her elbows to look at him again.

"I can pay your father a generous sum. You can go into seclusion for a time and have the child secretly. I'll then arrange for him to be raised in the Resurgent Dream. You'll never have to be further involved." Cesare said. "And there'd be no need for you to marry."

"You want to just cast me aside?" Marie-Isabelle asked incredulously.

"Your life would be better without me." Cesare said.

"But Cesare, I love you!" Marie-Isabelle told him, getting out of bed now to move over to him. "How could I just go away, give up you, and give up our child? It wouldn't be any kind of life at all!"

"If you love me... Dammit... You don't want to part ways. You already know I can't marry you. What course of action is it you're actually trying to win me over to?" Cesare said in increasing frustration.

"I spent all night trying to work that out, Cesare." Marie-Isabelle told him. "I just know how I wish things could be, that's what I keep coming back to... I just don't know, it's all I can..."

She stopped talking and leaned into him. She really didn't know what she wanted him to do that she thought he might actually do, all she wanted was for things to work out perfectly as she had always been told they would, ever since she was a little girl.

Cesare put his arm around her gently. "My love is a selfish love. If I really cared about you for you, not for me, I would send you away however much it hurt you now, help cover your indiscretion, and let you, in time, heal the wounds I've given you and find a man who would treat you like you deserve. You know that, don't you? In your head, at least?"

"I don't know what I know." Marie-Isabelle replied.

"Well, I know that anyway." Cesare said with a slight sigh. "I know that now that you've... you've forced me to pay attention to what I'm doing."

"What you're doing? To me you mean?" Marie-Isabelle asked.

"Yes." he answered simply.

"I can't go back, my mother wouldn't let me have the baby unless I was married, and I wouldn't want to go away anyway." Marie-Isabelle told him.

"I think my original plan is the only real option at this point." Cesare said. "I'm sorry."

"Well then..." Marie-Isabelle sniffled. "It had better be soon. I don't want to be showing in my wedding dress, and if we leave it much longer my husband will be suspicious when I do give birth. Especially since we've not even met yet."

"I'll arrange for some introductions tonight." Cesare said.

"How will you find a man to marry me quickly enough?" Marie-Isabelle asked. "If we leave it even a month then the baby will be born not even seven months after the wedding. It would be the biggest premature baby anybody had ever seen!"

"I'm a prince." Cesare said as if that were answer enough, kissing her lightly.

The woman escorted her Amestrian guest to the great interior courtyard. There were dozens of statues among the beautiful flowers and greenery. Most of them were fairly large, marble affairs in the Neoclassical style. The characters portrayed were mostly men although there were a few women. Many of them looked elderly and wore long beards. Some of them were young and strong. Some of them even seemed to be crowned kings.

The women led Callé over to a statue of an elderly looking man in what the artist must have considered the be the ancient Hebrew equivalent of robes of state. "This is..." she began, pausing to read the small inscription at the statue's base."This is Abdon, the tenth judge of Israel, preceded by Elon and succeeded by Samson. The statue is by Este Giordano, a native of the principality.”

The woman smiled slightly and proceeded to the next statue. This one portrayed a vicious looking man dressed in royal robes and crowned with a large, ornate crown. He stood with one foot forward and seemed to arrogantly sneer at the viewer. One had the impression of a tyrannous, ill-tempered man. “This is…” the woman paused again, once more checking the small inscription. “This is Baasha, a wicked king of Israel who allied his people with Syria against Judah. The statue is by Nek Rizzo, a native of the principality.”

The next statue was one of a young man in martial garb, athletic, handsome, muscular and brave. He held a sword upraised against an unseen foe. “This statue is of Abijam.” the woman said after checking the inscription. “He was a king of Judah who began his reign by trying to reunite the two kingdoms of Judah and Israel before fighting a war against the Israelites. He’s a son of Rehoboam.”

The woman then led her guest to a carving of a beautiful woman dressed in the garments of a queen. “This is Abigail.” she explained, this time without having to check. “She was the wife of Nabal the Carmelite. She persuaded King David to spare her husband when David wished to slay him. After Nabal died, she wed David and bore him a son named Chilead.”

Callé smiled, nodded, and cocked her head as she surveyed the sculptures, taking stock of their expressions, their poses, and their intent.

Judean characters carved in the Greco-Roman style... all so appropriately conventional, the South Amestrian thought to herself. They stand thar made of marble, saying what has already been said. Thar is no uncertainty, no danger, everything is as expected.

She was familiar with each of them, or rather, who they had supposedly been. There was Abdon, son of Hillel, a minor judge and Pirathonite. Besides him stood Baasha of Israel, nemesis of the worldly Asa of Judea. Next Abijam, who loudly proclaimed his faith in Yahvé to defeat Jeroboam and then failed to destroy the golden calves at Bethel. Lastly was the goodly Abigail, wife of a stubborn fool struck down by the heavens for his bad behavior.

Each revels in the obscurity of an ancient people whilst imitating the greatness of their conquerors.

“Who are Abijam and Abigail by?” Niki questioned, having noticed the woman’s neglect in identifying their creators.

The woman smiled slightly. "They were both carved by Duccio Giordano. He's another local artist although I understand that he's done some work for the Church in Jagiella and the Dominion."

The Amestrian nodded her appreciation.

The woman smiled yet again and moved on to the next statue, a stern looking older man dressed in the artist's interpretation of the robes of an ancient Hebrew notable. "This is a statue of Ibzan." the woman said. "He was the judge of Israel for seven years and had thirty sons and thirty daughters. This was carved by Fernanda Nucci."

She then moved on to a statue of a powerfully muscled man in royal armor. "This is Nimrod, a Mesopotamian king. The Bible only mentions him briefly and calls him a mighty hunter before the Lord. However, I'm informed that the Jewish rabbinical tradition considers him the builder of the Tower of Babel. This depiction is by Daniel Aharoni."

As they slowly went down the line of marble figures, Callé began to sense in them a collective hostility to her presence, an ill will directed towards her. It was if they knew of her dislike and were returning it with an abject hatred. However, rather then repel the artist; their malevolence sparked a fascination that drew her further in. Suddenly in her mind she had an image, an idea for her next painting, yet it was standalone, lacking in title. More of the collection needed to be seen.

“Does his Majesty’s collection include any statues of Hadassah and Ya'el?” Niki asked; her interest now entirely genuine.

"Highness." the woman corrected gently. "And I don't think so. I'm afraid I hardly have the level of expertise in the Old Testament to recognize those names. Most of these figures are completely obscure, however. His Highness seems to take perverse pleasure in mentioning the names of personages few except for a very few highly specialized Biblical scholars would have ever heard of as though they were common knowledge. I went to a Church school and a Church college and I never heard most of these figures mentioned before in my life." She gave the other woman a conspiratorial half-grin. "I can't imagine they'd exactly be known in Amestria, either?"

She moved along the statues for a few moments looking in vain for the two women Callé had mentioned. Her lips turned downward slightly in a frown as she looked back at the Amestrian. "I don't think we have them. Those sound like rather Hebrew names. Do you know if they're known more commonly by some other name in English or Italian?"

She gave the other woman a conspiratorial half-grin. "I can't imagine they'd exactly be known in Amestria, either?"

Niki smiled in return but said nothing.

"I don't think we have them. Those sound like rather Hebrew names. Do you know if they're known more commonly by some other name in English or Italian?"

“I should have used their common names,” Callé replied, apologizing.

After a momentary pause she continued.

“Hadassah was the birth name of Esther, wife of King Ahasuerus and Queen of Persia. She is the héroïne of the Book of Esther. As for Ya'el, a common translation of her name is Jael and she was the slayer of Sisera, the great general of King Jabin, Book of Judges.”

"Esther..." the woman said thoughtfully "Unfortunately, she is much too well-known for His Highness to have taken much of an interest. For him, the obscurity of his statues is intrinsic to the purpose of the collection. We might have a Jael, however."

A few more moments of searching, however, produced disappointment. "I'm afraid we don't have either. The collection does tend to be dominated by the men of the Old Testament, unfortunately. Abigail and Judith are the only women in the collection."

She let her guest survey the statues for a moment longer, watching curiously as the Amestrian seemed to develop an increasing if some disconcerting interest. After allowing two or three minutes to pass, the woman ventured "I've been thinking about your portfolio. I don't think, based upon His Highness's tastes and preferences, that your work is not exactly what he is looking for as a patron. However..."

"I'm afraid we don't have either. The collection does tend to be dominated by the men of the Old Testament, unfortunately. Abigail and Judith are the only women in the collection."

Niki smiled reassuringly. “Hit does not matter that they ain’t here. I can jus’ simply imagine them.”

The artist gazed intently at the statues, leaning right and left to bring about subtle changes in angle, at one point reaching out her hand to touch the cold marble. To the woman Callé seemed to have been greatly moved from surveying the statues, her whole manner filled with a quiet liveliness… But in reality their malignance now had her deeply depressed. Still, she had managed to place the image in time and space and come up with a title for her painting.

"I've been thinking about your portfolio. I don't think, based upon His Highness's tastes and preferences, that your work is not exactly what he is looking for as a patron. However..."

For all her effort to appear stoic, the Amestrian was clearly downcast.

“However…?” Niki questioned.

The woman smiled ever slightly. "However, if you are willing to accept it, you may have the patronage of the Princess of Nerise."

Princess Plautilla blushed slightly and took a step towards the young Amestrian. "I don't doubt that these statues mean a lot to the men and women who painted them. The Greco-Roman and the Judeo-Christian epics are entwined in the cultural soul of most Danaans as the core of their heritage, however they might actually feel about the beliefs they contain. There is power in that and these men embraced it with a certain ... I don't know. But this isn't an art exhibit, it's just a collection. I want to ... I want to give the people of this city the sort of art that can be a real experience for them. I don't know much about art but I know that your paintings have the power to really move people in the modern world, both to delight and to disturb them. I wanted something interesting, something original. That is why I, if you'll forgive me, poached one of the countless young artists who always come seeking my husband's patronage and usually get turned away for being too unconventional. Are you interested?"

The woman smiled ever slightly. "However, if you are willing to accept it, you may have the patronage of the Princess of Nerise."

Niki blinked. “That would be-it fantastic. Why wouldn’t I accept hit?”

“Are you interested?"

Callé’s face took on a look of dawning realization and then faintly reddened from the praise. By the end of Plautilla’s little speech she was smiling broadly and unbound.

“Yes, very much so…your Highness.”

The Amestrian laughed quietly. “A real follower of the Trickster ain’t you.”

Plautilla laughed lightly as well. "I never really thought of myself as one but I suppose you might be right. I suppose we should return to my office and work out the exact business details."

Princess Plautilla spent another hour or so working out all the petty details with her new artist. She arranged specific commissions for her as well as a general grant and promised to have her work displayed in public galleries, in the palace and in libraries and schools throughout the principality. An opening for Callé’s first show was arranged in two weeks time. Plautille, of course, did not expect any new work by that time, not even Callé’s new idea for a painting about the statues, although she found it especially amusing and was looking forward to it in the future.

After dealing with Callé, Plautilla headed to lunch with her husband and his Pantocratorian 'guest.' Also invited, for reasons Plautilla pretended not to know, were a number of bachelor Peers of Nerise. Abbondio Cabrini, Duke of Abalardi was the most notable of these. Athletic and quite handsome, Abalardi was ostinsibly being congratulated on his ceaseless work with Friends of the Ocean, an NGO dedicated to protecting the oceans and the creatures within them from threats ranging from pollution to overfishing. Maire-Isabbelle was given to understand before dinner that this was by no means an excuse. Abalardi really was a dedicated and hard-working friend of the marine environment, whose wealth and social position were not used to enable a life of indolence but to pursue an ideal in which he deeply believed.

As she left her meeting with Princess Plautilla, toting her heavy portfolio and politely declining any offers of help, Niki felt like skipping. All the financial worries, concerns, and troubles that had plagued her were, at least for the time being, over. Soon her works would be on display throughout the principality…this could be her big break, the splash she had been seeking. No more laboring behind the curtain of obscurity.

Upon returning to her low rent apartment she put her suitcase away, had another glass of water, and, before she forgot anymore of the image she had in her mind, quickly jotted down a page worth of cramped notes and drew a hurried thumbnail sketch. In the margin below the sketch Niki scribbled its title, Hölle.

Then, after a light improvised lunch, followed by a quick drink, Callé went grocery shopping. For the last two weeks she had been intentionally buying poor quality discount produce and camping out at butcher shops near closing time, to better haggle down the price of tidbits they would otherwise have had to throw away. Now Callé splurged on groceries, purchasing organic fruits, organic vegetables, organic milk, a number of pricy organic cheeses, and even a little chevon (goat meat). Her fridge and cupboards would no longer be bare.

Later Niki attended the 6:00 pm Mass at St. Bernardino Cathedral, as she regularly had for the past two weeks. The Amestrian dipped her fingers in the bowl of holy water at the entrance of the church, made the sign of the cross, knelt by the side of a pew, and then took her seat. She listened silently as the Gospel of Matthew was read aloud in Italian, rather then the old Roman tongue still exclusively used by the Amestrian Church. To Callé it all felt loosely familiar yet lacking, a poor substitute. She was ultimately a stranger.

Once the dismissal had been made Niki decided to celebrate the day’s success at The Stuffed Pig, a simple, warm bar and restaurant with really good food that she had had her eye on for quiet a while. There, amidst the soothing smell of cooked food, the murmur of patrons, and the clink of glasses, the artist enjoyed a substantial and lavish dinner of mouth watering roast meats and rich stews. Callé even went as far as to order a dish of stewed oysters. After the Amestrian had eaten her fill she lazily indulged in several glasses of Eau de vie, savoring the pleasant sleepy feeling that slowly washed over her, before finally paying the bill and walking back to her apartment.

Although she felt tipsy, Niki never the less remembered the need to thank Belenus and Bragi, whom she had been beseeching, for her good fortune. With as much care as could be managed she laid her two little wooden figurines and clay bowl out on the floor, burned some incense, and said a short prayer.

While climbing into bed Callé also made sure to remove the worry doll from underneath her pillow and set it on the bedside table. “Sleep well friend, sleep well. I don’ need your help tonight.”

She drifted off with a cheerful smile on her face.

The depressing reality of the arrangement she and Cesare had come to as Marie-Isabelle was introduced to each of the bachelors at the luncheon. The knowledge that she would have to settle for one of these men instead of the man she loved was difficult to accept. Marie-Isabelle also resented the fact that Cesare had so quickly and conveniently organised a luncheon with the bachelors - he had clearly pressed ahead with organising his plan even before she had finally agreed and consented to it. Nevertheless, she attempted to comport herself in as charming a manner as she possibly could, which wasn't easy, as she finished the introductions and seated herself at the table.

Baron Cacadino, a young bachelor who had only recently received a university degree in philosophy, smiled slightly as he took his seat as well. "What brings you to Nerise, lady?" he asked.

"Uhh..." Marie-Isabelle began. In truth, it was a good question, one for which she hadn't worked out an answer which didn't give away the truth. "Well, I met... I'm expanding my cultural horizons."

"The art culture is quite exceptional. The young lady is a great appreciator of high culture." Cesare said.

Baron Abineri smiled a little. "So who's your favourite artist?"

"Well, I am quite fond of Maaki Bayeu's work, I suppose you'd have to say that my current fascination is Arcadian artwork." Marie-Isabelle replied. "But I admire so many different styles..."

"I've shown her our statuary." Cesare bragged.

"I am not usually very interested in classical sculpture, but the collection here is exceptionally exquisite." Marie-Isabelle nodded.

Cesare smiled. "I'm glad you agree."

"Hmm." Marie-Isabelle nodded by way of agreement. She was finding that it was very difficult for her to even look in Plautilla's direction - she wasn't very good at concealing guilt.

"I actually sponsored a new artist today." Plautilla mentioned.

"Really? Whom?" Marie-Isabelle inquired.

"Niki Callé. She's an Amestrian." Plautilla said.

"Sounds Amestrian." Marie-Isabelle nodded. "I'm not familiar with her work though, is she a painter?"

"She is." Plautilla said. "She's actually doing a painting about all of Cesare's statues."

"Oh... heroic style, then?" Marie-Isabelle inquired.

"No." Plautilla said. "It's...something else. It's more...."

Marie-Isabelle listened attentively, although she still struggled to make eye-contact with Plautilla.

"It's what, darling?" Cesare pressed, waiting a moment although he didn't really expect an answer. "In any event, I'm sure it's interesting." he said at length.

As the conversation progressed, Marie-Isabelle was able to garner at least a general impression of all of the men Cesare had invited. In addition to Abalardi, Cacadino and Abineri, there were the Barons Chinetia, Espion, Espovene, Judosus and Myradia.

Baron Chinetia was a man of impeccable family related to numerous peers of Nerise and of the Danaan High Kingdom. He was handsome, well-bred and well-mannered. However, he was also quite poor and rumor had it that he hadn't even been able to keep up appearances at his manor recently. However, he was decked out in fine clothing tonight to attract Marie-Isabelle's attention and the great fortune that came with being the legal father of a royal bastard.

Baron Espion, on the other hand, was a man of great wealth and power but little reputation. Through clever politics, he had gotten himself elected the Mayor of the small town of Espion and the Justice of the Peace of Utacion Parish. He also owned the only bank in town and the only pub. Barons as such did not rule over fiefdoms in the modern Resurgent Dream but, as a private citizen, Espion had secured to himself a large measure of control over the town for which his title was named.

Espovene, Judosus and Myradia were unremarkable men located between the two extremes of Espion and Chinetia. However, it was fairly clear that most of the men at Cesare's table were either in need of wealth or in need of prestige or some combination.