H.R.H.

Her first inclination was to say no to him, although she had promised him she would one day. The downside of it was that they would only get more attached to each other, fall more in love, and suffer even more than they already had, when they had to leave each other. And how many times could she do that? At some point, someone would recognize her, the paparazzi would come, and she would become as big a disgrace as Freddy, perhaps even worse since she was a woman, and her country's attitudes about women were so archaic, possibly the most in Europe. She hesitated for a few minutes after she read his e-mail, and then picked up the phone to call him. She was going to tell him no. But the moment she heard his voice, she melted.

“Hi, Cricky,” he said gently. “How's it going there?” She sighed, trying to know how to answer him, and decided to be honest.

“It's so hard. I just had breakfast with my brother. Some things don't change, or not much. All he does is play and party and fool around, and have fun, while my father works like a dog, and I do everything I can to help him. It's just not fair. He has no sense of responsibility at all. He's thirty-four, and acts like he's eighteen. I love him, but sometimes I get so tired of all his nonsense.” And she knew her father did, too. It put that much more responsibility on her shoulders and his as well. She felt obliged to make up for him in every way she could, and was beginning to resent him for it. She had never felt that way about it before Senafe. But she hadn't been in love with Parker then. Before she left, her brother had seemed like a charming, naughty boy who, most of the time, amused her. Now, since she was giving up so much, it was far less amusing. Parker thought she sounded tired, and sad.

“What do you think about Paris?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I'd love to, but I worry that we're just delaying the agony.” She didn't add the words “of pulling the plug,” which was how she saw it. There was just no other solution. At some point, she could try to talk to her father about it, but she had virtually no hope. Given how her father viewed things, a commoner in Boston, even if a respectable young doctor, was not something he would allow. He was not a prince, or even a royal. Christianna being with him violated all her father's beliefs, and hopes for her. He didn't care how many other princes and princesses in other countries were marrying commoners these days. He had no intention of mitigating his opinions or compromising. And for the moment, he had no idea Christianna was in love. And once he did, she knew her father. In the end, he would ask her to give him up, and she would have to. In her position, she could not go against the tides of a thousand years of tradition, or the deathbed wishes of her mother. The currents were just too strong, and eventually the love she shared with Parker would have to die. Realizing that again made her heart ache every time. And trying to explain it to him was worse.

“I'm just trying to keep the patient alive until we find a cure for the illness,” he said, still cherishing his hopes and dreams and love for her. He was not willing to give up, not yet at least, and hopefully never.

“There is no cure, my love,” she said softly, longing to see him. She was twenty-four years old, deeply in love with a wonderful man. It was hard to explain even to herself why she should stamp it out, for a country and a series of ancient traditions, or even for her father, or because her brother was inadequate for the throne. She felt pulled a thousand ways.

“Let's just meet in Paris,” he said gently. “We don't have to solve all the problems now. I miss you, Cricky. I want to see you.”

“I want to see you, too,” she said sadly. “I wish we could just go to Massawa for the weekend.” She smiled, remembering their weekend there. They had had so much fun. Their days in Africa together had been so much easier than these.

“I'm not sure that's the place to be right now. I've been reading about it on the Internet. The border wars are getting worse.” The Ethiopians wanted the Eritreans' ports. They always had, and had never fully accepted the terms of the truce. “I think you got out at just the right time.” Even though she hated being home, she couldn't disagree. It had been wise.

“Have you heard from anyone at the camp?” She hadn't in weeks, not since a letter from Mary Walker, and a postcard from Ushi. Neither had said much, other than that they missed her. They were guardedly waiting to see what happened, and expecting orders from Geneva. Meanwhile they were sitting tight.