Do I have to say it again? Alright. I don't own The Princess Diaries books or movies, or anything related to them. They do, however, seem to own a significant portion of me, as I spend entirely too much time thinking about them.

This is way angst-y, at least for me. It does end with some silliness (and I did take some liberties with the movie in order to accomplish that), but the rest is rather on the wretched side. I promise my next story is shaping up to be all sweetness and light.

I am grateful to Little Obsessions for reading this through and making a very important suggestion. I took your advice and am so pleased by the difference it made; I hope you are, too. Thank you, thank you!

ONE

For Joseph, 6:30 wasn't that early in the morning. So it wasn't the hour that made the knock on his door ominous.

If he had stopped to analyze it, he might have realized the time was important in a way. Since he was almost ready to leave his room and report to work, the fact that someone couldn't wait another fifteen minutes or so meant it must be urgent. Then there was the knock itself: loud enough and long enough to be heard, but still tentative somehow, as if the person on the other side of the door didn't really want to be there.

But he didn't stop to analyze it. He didn't have to.

He just knew.

TWO

The storm had had been a wicked one, taking in a great deal of territory. It had been especially damaging to winding roads through wooded sections of the mountains, swelling the streams and cracking the trees. A large truck - almost too large to pass through on a clear day under ideal driving conditions - would certainly find that the standing water on the roads and the debris lurking around the sharp bends had made the area treacherous, even for a driver who was well-rested and alert.

The bodyguard in the front passenger seat of the luxury sedan, as well as the rider in the back, were killed on impact. The driver was in critical condition, and though he was in and out of consciousness, he was aware enough of what had happened to wish he hadn't survived. It would take months of assurances that circumstances had been entirely out of his control, urging from palace staff to seek counseling, unquestionable support from a sympathetic public, and several visits from the Queen herself, before he could begin to emerge from his depression.

THREE

Mrs. Kowt would inform the staff. Charlotte was going to the PR office once she called Pierre and after she stationed extra footmen on either end of the corridor leading to the private wing where the royals resided. Shades was going to coordinate with the Pyrus Police Department to bulk up security around the perimeter of the palace grounds before heading out to see the family of Prince Philippe's bodyguard; and to make sure the injured driver was guarded in the hospital. On hearing this last assignment, Charlotte made a note to call the hospital and see that he received the most private room possible after coming out of surgery.

No one needed to say what Joseph would do. He took a deep, shaky breath, nodded his appreciation (for which there were no words, anyway) to his second-in-command, and strode out of the room. Everyone was silent and still as they listened to his quiet footsteps making their way toward Her Majesty's suite.

Just as Shades was about to dismiss everyone, the police chief stepped forward. Shades had not thought it possible that such a hellish day could get any worse, but the look on the officer's face told him he was gravely mistaken.

He cleared his throat. "You see, there is one more thing we must do to make the official…" He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. Shoving it back into his pocket, he closed his eyes and spoke softly. "We will need someone to make an identification." He opened his eyes and waited for Shades to respond.

Shades saw the room swim before him, and he thought he might be sick. He hid it well and stayed admirably upright. "The ring, of course -" he tried out of desperation.

"Yes, he was wearing the ring with the royal crest. However, in a situation like this -"

A voice came from a corner of the room. "I will go."

Shades spun around to face the older man. "You will not," he said. His tone was kind but firm, and brooked no arguments.

"I will, Shades. This much I can do for the family. I will go," Victor replied.

"I cannot allow -"

"Please," Victor said. He was steady, but a hollowness crept toward the edges of him and threatened to swallow him whole. Shades opened his mouth to argue. "No, don't fight me on this. I have been with the prince since he was born. I would be with him now - should be with him - if I weren't too old for anything other than watching monitors in the security hub." Mrs. Kowt and Charlotte turned away, in danger of breaking down at the depth of dedication implied by his words. "My whole life, I spent protecting him. This is the last thing -" his voice broke, and he made a stoic recovery, not wanting to risk being denied. "This is the last act of service I can perform for him."

Shades had never felt so helpless in his life. If Joe found out he let Victor do this…

Victor understood. "There is no choice for you. I am not asking. I am telling you." He turned to the police chief. "Lead the way, sir."

"Then I'm going, too." Now all eyes on were on Antoine, who had lost his royal charge to the priesthood. Through the years of watching over two brothers, they had become as close as brothers themselves. They had been on every family vacation, seen every school play and music recital, mediated arguments, played basketball. They were as much a pair as Pierre and Philippe had been. "Victor is right, he should go. But I will not let him go alone."

God, please, if You are there... "Alright." Shades gave a curt nod to the police chief, who silently communicated a promise that they would be taken care of. The staff parted to make way for the somber procession. Mrs. Kowt waited until they were out of sight before releasing silent sobs into her sodden handkerchief.

"We all know our jobs," Shades barely choked out. "Let's get started."

FOUR

Clarisse stood at the door of her balcony. Joseph hated that there was a balcony in her room. "Perhaps we should also put a ladder up, and a flashing neon sign with an arrow pointing to these flimsy French doors? 'Hey! Assassins! Kidnappers! Come and get her!'" Clarisse always rolled her eyes at his occasional and unusually dramatic display. There were cameras all through her suite, but these rooms were not monitored routinely. The camera on the balcony, pointing at the outside of the French doors, was non-negotiable.

The day was dismal with lingering effects from the storm - gray and misty and cold. Without knowing why, it matched exactly Clarisse's internal climate. She pulled her robe around her more tightly.

There was a knock on her door. She knew without a doubt it was neither Olivia nor Priscilla. Her heart beat faster in her chest. "Come in."

Joseph opened the door only wide enough to slip inside, then closed it gently behind him. Once they heard the click, he stood very still and held her gaze silently.

It hadn't even been a year since he last wore that mournful look. And it had been a genuinely mournful look. He still considered himself Spanish, and always would, yet he was Genovian, too. A true patriot who had been saddened by the loss of his adoptive king.

Even then, he had not cried. Set in the grief-stricken look he wore now were eyes brimming with tears, and his jaw worked desperately as he tried to hold them back.

It didn't work. One spilled over and ran down his cheek, and she could see that he despised himself for it. If it had been news from back home, he would have cried without inhibition. Only with her, and it had only been once, but she was certain he knew she was a refuge, a place he could come to when his heart was vulnerable and he needed to fall apart. If it had been news from back home.

These tears he regarded with disgust, his weakness as an act of treason. That's how she knew.

Not news from back home, but news from this home. Not news for him, but for her. For them.

"Oh, God."

"Clarisse,…"

"Just tell me who."

"Philippe."

"Oh, God."

Her heart thudded and she thought it might burst from her chest. White noise filled her ears as her pulse quickened and thumped throughout her body. She was sure it was audible - the pounding of her blood as adrenalin surged through it. She believed he must have heard it because he was rushing forward to catch her before she knew she was falling.

She crumpled in his arms as he slid them carefully to the floor, coming to rest with his back pressed heavily into the wall beside the French doors, both the Queen of Genovia and Clarisse gathered securely on his lap.

FIVE

Charlotte broke the quarantine she herself had imposed. Leaving her office, she went out of her way to walk past the entrance of the private hall leading to Clarisse's suite. The closer she came to the guarded entrance, the more aware she became of the sound of her shoes echoing through the empty halls with all the subtlety of cannon fire. She stopped in front of the guard.

"Is Joe in there?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's been there a while now. And no one else has been by," he tacked on to reassure her.

"Have you heard…anyth-" Charlotte faltered, feeling strangely ashamed. She meant only to check on her employer, but felt as though she were prying in the worst way.

The guard looked at her with concerned eyes. "No, ma'am. I haven't heard a sound."

Just then, a muffled wail - then another, and another - from deep within the suite pierced the eerie silence of the halls. The guard, Charlotte, two maids with their arms full of black tulle, and a few nearby roving security agents felt the keening pierce their own broken hearts as they unwittingly overheard the grief of a mother who had lost her baby.

The sound of Clarisse's agony took root inside Charlotte, its tendrils curling around her soul. And if she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget it.

SIX

Father Pierre destroyed every person in the cathedral before he even uttered a word. It had been rumored he would be a concelebrant for the funeral mass, but it had remained unconfirmed until they saw him in the entrance procession.

No one thought he would be giving the eulogy.

By the time he walked past the pulpit to descend the stairs from the altar, there wasn't a dry eye in the place. He stood at the top of the aisle, poised to begin. First, he looked at his mother. She gave him a nod, and he turned his attention back to the congregation. Whether the exchange meant Clarisse was trying to be strong for her older son, or Pierre was making sure she was prepared to hear him speak, was anyone's guess.

Joseph watched the interaction from his position in the shadows off to the side. His heart broke at the sight of her in the front pew, and he ached to be where her old friend was, to replace Sheila Motaz's arm around Clarisse's shoulders with his own. Clarisse had all but asked him to stay with her, knowing if she said the words, he would not deny her. But he had to be where he could protect her the most. Sitting next to her, stifling sobs, would not protect her body from her enemies, nor the Crown from usurpers.

She had smiled wanly and said she understood, but he wasn't really sure he had made the right choice.

He lifted his gaze from her, intending to do a sweep of the building. His breath caught as he realized Pierre was looking straight at him. Pierre tipped him a nearly imperceptible nod.

"Dear loved ones," he began. He gave a small smile. "I usually take this opportunity to offer my condolences to the family, but in this case -" he turned to Clarisse "- he is ours, isn't he, Mama?"

She smiled, both at the use of his childish name for her that hadn't been heard in public since he was a young boy, as well as at the memory his words conjured up. So much pomp and circumstance had surrounded the birth of his younger brother, he eventually became irritated and surly. He had hoped for a brother of his own, not someone whom the masses were clamoring to ogle and lay claim to. One day, learning there would be yet another small bevy of visiting, baby-bouncing noblewomen, Pierre had looked up at his mother for clarification. "He is ours, Mama?"

"I am here before you to answer the question, once and for all. He is, and he is not." He paused, looking down at his feet. His lips moved in a prayer for guidance and support that everyone saw, but no one heard. When he looked up, he was smiling again.

"I do not wish to be a priest at the moment. I do not wish to be a royal who was once a prince. Today, I am a man who wants you all to hear about the best brother who ever lived: Eduard Christoff Philippe Gerard Renaldi. Or Philippe, as I like to call him." Another smile.

"Philippe was my only brother, younger than I by not quite three years. For the first, oh, I would say, eighteen years of our co-existence, he spent a great deal of time trying to get us into trouble, and except for a few occasions when I succumbed to temptation, I spent a great deal of time trying to keep us out of it. There are so many stories I could tell you that, believe it or not, no matter what you might be feeling right now, would have you rolling in the aisles, crying tears of laughter rather than sorrow. Yes, irreverent for some, but fitting, for that is how he was.

"He was a Genovian with all his heart, someone who searched for the next great adventure even as he sought to fulfill his destiny, a man who was going to be a brilliant king. But at the end of the day, he was Philippe. He could shake a reporter or a bodyguard with equal ease. Once, thanks to his highly developed evasion tactics, we lost an angry, gun-wielding pub owner through the back streets of a small town in Germany, but that might be a story for another time." Pierre theatrically cast a contrite glance toward his mother, whose face would have been unreadable had it not been for one perfectly arched brow. "He would eat all the ice cream and put the empty carton back in the freezer. He would take swigs right from the orange juice decanter. He would say the wrong thing at least once at every state dinner. And he would say it loudly, just as there was a table-wide lull in the eight other conversations all happening together. He was graceful and despite putting his foot in his mouth with great frequency, he never misplaced it on the ground. This did not mean he had good aim, and there were several incidences where a buffet table at a garden party was very nearly decimated by a soccer ball. He was a gentleman, but a flirt. A scholar, but a goof-off. A prince, but a human being. He was, by birth and experience, a man who belonged to everyone, who fit in everywhere.

"Yet, he isn't here anymore because, as we are so sorely reminded at this difficult time, he did not truly belong to this world. None of us does.

"Ah, but he left some great memories." Pierre smiled again, unembarrassed by the tears that welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. "He knew who he was. For all his faults, his quirks, his obstacles, he knew who he was, and he embraced that person. That flawed and beautiful person who was at once a guy in sweaty clothes, sitting on an antique sofa with his feet propped up on a basketball; and a diplomat who could tweak the wording in a proposed amendment to a legal document so all quarreling parties were satisfied. He could sip scotch with elegantly attired people at formal dinners; he could knock back beers around a pool table with guys stopping on their way home from work. He drove a lot of people crazy, but he would give you the shirt off his back. There is nothing he wouldn't do for his country and for the people in it because he saw the whole picture - big and small. He saw Genovia as a nation finding its foothold in the emergence of a global village, and he saw each individual as a sovereign spirit with a place and purpose in this world. He was special that way, unique.

"And he knew a great teacher when he saw one." His voice became quieter, as though he were taking a moment to address a smaller audience. "He was strong and brave while being the soul of compassion. In that, he was not unique. I know someone else just like that." Again, a look at his mother, ready to stop or proceed at a sign from her. Sheila's arm tightened around her, as though she could physically hold Clarisse together.

He looked out over the pews. It was getting harder; he was getting tired. "So much more I wanted to say, but I don't think I can. Not that it would ever be enough." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, determined to finish for his brother's sake.

"Today, go home and call your mother. Or father. Hug your children. Eat someone else's ice cream. Skip mowing the lawn. It's much more satisfying to lie on your back in the grass when it's tall, anyway. Make someone laugh. Let someone else make you laugh. If you try to get the phone number of a young woman serving drinks in a pub that, as it turns out, is owned by her overprotective father, make sure he doesn't keep a shotgun behind the bar. But do resolve to be kinder. See dignity in each person you meet. Do these things as human beings. Eduard Christoff Philippe Gerard Renaldi may not have had the chance to take the throne, but Philippe the man - he lived. And it was not in vain. He found his purpose every day, and fulfilled his destiny in every moment. A man like he was should not be honored by nurturing a hole in our hearts, but rather by letting our cup runneth over. So as Genovians, go home and raise your flags from half-mast. Fly them high."

Then he slipped. His face crumpled and his shoulders shook for a few moments before he regained his composure. He laughed lightly at himself. "So much for pretty words, right?" He lifted his face and closed his eyes. "God, I miss you." He placed his hand over his heart. The words were whispered, but resounded throughout the cathedral unmistakably. "Brother and King."

He did not look at Joe. He could not look at his mother. He turned and took his place beside the altar.

SEVEN

Joseph heard the message in his earpiece.

"Alright," he said to the driver. "She's on her way."

The driver waited for the motorcycles to start first, then eased the limousine away from the curb. Clarisse rolled her eyes when the sirens started wailing. "Can we be a little less conspicuous?"

Joseph smiled. "We're not trying to hide, Your Majesty. We're just making an attempt to cross paths a couple times." He looked out the window while discreetly sliding his hand across the seat to grasp Clarisse's fingers. He felt her grateful smile. "Look!" he said. "There she is!"

Clarisse nearly knocked Joseph backward, leaning over him to gawk out the window. "Oh, Joseph!" she gasped. "She's a girl version of Philippe!"

"She is," he agreed.

"What on earth is that thing she's rolling on?"

"It's a scooter, Your Majesty."

"It's an accident waiting to happen. Who allowed her to have such a contraption?"

"But Your Majesty, all the kids have one."

She cast a doubtful glance at him, and when she looked out the window again, saw they were heading in different directions. "Where are we going?"

"To the consulate."

"But she's going that way!" Suddenly, she was talking with the driver. "Turn around!"

"Keep going," Joseph commanded.

The driver kept going, glancing nervously in the mirror at his passengers. Surely, there were times when the Head of Security's orders trumped the Queen's, but he had no idea how to determine when. He noted that the Queen did, indeed, look angry. Judging from the direction of her glare, he was satisfied her ire was aimed at Joseph, not at him for his failure to comply with her request.

"Joseph -"

"Your Majesty, we cannot have the procession doing u-turns in the middle of the street to follow a child who is on her way to school. You will have to settle for glimpses for now. I've done the best I can to map out a route that will offer those."

He seemed completely unfazed by her glowering, so she tried pouting. "Joseph," she said, her pleading eyes and sultry voice causing inappropriate stirrings within him.

"Do not start," he warned her in a low tone.

His response confirmed that pouting was the right way to go. "Joseph, it's been fifteen years," she reminded him, pushing out her bottom lip the teensiest bit - just enough.

His voice lowered all the way to a whisper. "You are not nice, do you know that?"

Her volume dropped to match his. "I am though, Joseph. Very nice."

"Good Lord, woman -"

"Oh, there she is again!" Clarisse was suddenly perched on the edge of the seat. "And there she goes. Wait! There's someone with her. Another girl on one of those death traps with wheels." Joseph chuckled. "I wonder who she is." She slumped wistfully into a terribly un-queenly posture. "I should know who her friends are. But I wouldn't have even known her if you hadn't pointed her out."

"You would have known. You've seen her pictures. And as you said, she is the spitting image of her father." He winced inwardly. It was one thing for her to have blurted it out while caught up in a moment of excitement. He wasn't sure how she would react to hearing it from him.

To his immense relief, she gave him a gracious smile. "That's true. Lord, she looks just like him. I thought that would hurt, but it's rather…wonderful."

He smiled back and resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her. "Her friend's name is Lilly Moscovitz."

Clarisse's eyes lit up. "Lilly? Are you sure? How do you know?"

"It is a myth that the maids know everything. I know everything." His mouth twitched as he suppressed a pompous smile.

She laughed indulgently. "I don't doubt it for a moment, Joseph." From the way she looked at him, he knew she was having to resist the urge to touch him, too. A deluge of emotions washed through him.

She would come back - slowly, and of course, she would not be the same. But she would come, and he would be waiting with open arms.

Thanks for reading! I hope the wretchedness was worth it in the end.