Author's note: this story, written on occasion of Wild Mei Ling's birthday (Gefeliciteerd!), is an alternative for last year's birthday gift "Love without a lamb" where Philippe broke up a relationship so Amelia, then a six year old, might stand to inherit the Genovian throne one day. His decision disappointed his mother and Wild Mei Ling stated: 'I, too, had hopes for him and Emma.' Let's see if things work out very differently this year.

Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair

- The Queen consort -

A month from now. Three weeks, a fortnight. Seven nights… Philippe got increasingly itchy. Glancing at his reflection in a window of his office he tried to decide how he came across. Would he be considered sympathetic? Kind? Fatherly? He extended his hand, then opened his arms a bit so she might feel invited to hug him. Was it too early for that? Probably. His hands fell back to his sides. A letter a year wasn't enough to be a parent, especially not since she'd had a step-father for two years now with whom, according to Helen, she got along very well.

When he saw another reflection in the window he turned around. The sight of his wife lifted his spirits. Emma stepped into his embrace and kissed his cheek.

'Right now she's very likely counting off the days just as you are,' she said.

From very early in their relationship Emma had known what was going on in his mind. There had been a time when he'd thought himself capable of letting her go and he put his arms around her slim body and kissed her head out of gratefulness of having her with him.

'You think so Em?'

'After reading the essays you wrote her?' Emma asked teasingly, placing her hands against his chest. 'Of course she is looking forward to meet you.'

'Amelia isn't of an age to need a father anymore.'

'Nonsense. I still need mine and you miss yours.'

'True. But to Amelia I'm a stranger.'

Emma wasn't the type of person to contradict that. 'You'll have to get used to each other but that doesn't mean you won't be able to bond.'

'You think so?'

'I know so. You're a loving father Philippe. Give it time and she'll come to realize that.'

'Oh Em.'

They stood in an embrace until a sound in the corridor made Philippe think that he'd better leave the cuddling for another time. After inhaling the sandalwood scent of his wife's hair, he asked her to help him select pictures to show to Amelia.

Emma's own desk was always neat but she never criticized his way of working: a small writing space aside Philippe's large desk was covered in piles of paper, books, framed pictures, a little statue made by his mother-in-law, an antique ink-stand, his father's huge ashtray that now contained walnuts, a book-stand holding information on the upcoming visit of the Tunisian President and a pile of pictures.

Philippe nervously watched as his wife went through the selection, biting his lower lip when Emma, on seeing a picture that was dear to him, smiled. She set aside a picture of Trish with her eyes closed and her mouth open in what might be a scream of sorts. Philippe had selected it because their daughter sat on the same swing Pierre and he had often used, but he didn't object to his wife's decision.

'I'm not sure about that one,' Philippe commented another picture.

'It's sweet!'

'It's got my mother on it.'

'She's hardly disgracing the photo,' Emma said with an amused smile. 'But you fear Mia might be jealous?'

Philippe nodded against her shoulder.

'She gains a father and half-sisters but also a grandparent and an uncle. Wouldn't you be curious in her case?'

When Emma placed the next picture on the no-pile, Philippe retrieved it. 'And she gains a step-mother,' he said.

'The woman who replaced her mother in your good graces,' Emma pointed out.

'Nonsense. Helen remarried herself. How could Amelia object to me doing the same?' Philippe replied, adding the photo to the yes-pile.

'I hope she didn't read too many fairy tales,' Emma commented.

- The heir and the spare -

The girls were talking in Dutch. Emma had taught them her language but Philippe only had a modest Dutch vocabulary and it was difficult for him to understand his rapidly speaking daughters.

'Are you exchanging secrets maiden?'

'Maiden? Ha: meiden dad!' Claire said.

'Wij hoeven geen Nederlands te spreken om geheimen te bewaren,' Trish said. Claire glanced from her sister to their father, anxious to learn how this would work out.

'You're referring to Amelia,' Philippe made an educated guess.

'Ja.'

'Would you sit with me?' Philippe said, gesturing at a spare bed in Trish's bedroom that served as a couch. 'I'm too old to sit on the floor and I'd like to talk to my maiden.'

Claire got to her feet first, making fun of her father's pronunciation once more. Trish was the last to seat herself on the bed and she didn't curl up next to her dad like her sister had done.

'Do you understand why I didn't mention her before?'

Claire good humouredly nodded.

'You were afraid we'd tell others,' Trish said. 'Children sometimes do that, so it makes sense.'

Philippe eyed his heir who sat there with perfect posture. His little diplomate. He inclined his head at her. 'Thank you. It was my decision and your mother and grandparents agreed not to mention Mia either.'

'Like they also didn't say Sinterklaas doesn't exist, when we were little,' Claire said.

Philippe nodded. 'I imagine it was a shock to learn that you have an older sister.'

'Half-sister,' Trish corrected him.

'Yes, you're right darling. She's you're half-sister.'

Trish cocked an eyebrow to comment his attempt to soothe her. Philippe needed a moment to think of what to say next.

'It's fun,' Claire said. 'Ish. Sort of, you know?'

'Grammar,' Trish reminded her sister.

'That's for Mia to say now. You're not my eldest sister anymore,' Claire playfully said. 'I'm glad she's not younger, for it would be weird if I became the middle sister.'

'Doe niet zo stom!' Trish burst out, startling her father once again. 'If we had a younger sister it would mean dat hij mama ontrouw was geweest!'

'Oh yeah! You didn't do that, did you dad?'

'Never,' Philippe said, understanding what Mia being the younger sister would say about him.

'Good. For in that case we'd be angry with you.'

'You're not now?'

'Nee hoor.'

'Beatrice?'

'I thought about how it was like for you, not being with your other daughter.'

It didn't escape Philippe that Trish hadn't given him a straightforward reply, but her empathy moved him. He tried to make eye-contact with her but was distracted by his youngest punching his leg and exclaiming: 'I didn't think of that. Did you miss her dad?'

Philippe was pleased to see Trish smile a little at her sister's antics. 'I did. It sounds strange perhaps, for I've only lived with her for three months and she was a baby then.'

'So why did you leave?' Claire asked.

'For several reasons. Her mother refused to move to Genovia. I couldn't but return though. And we'd discovered that falling in love is easy, but building a relationship isn't.'

'She didn't want you to bring Mia with you to Pyrus?'

'No, she stated that a child needs a mother and that to Genovia Mia didn't exist anyway.'

Philippe cast a glance at Trish, who stared at the floor, but who was keenly listening. Emma had pointed out to him that Trish seemed insecure about her position and that he'd better address that.

'She was right. I'd not asked Parliament for permission to marry her and therefore a child from our marriage did not stand in line to inherit.'

'That's what grandmère said too,' Trish softly commented.

'You didn't believe her?' Philippe tentatively asked. He wasn't surprised that his daughter had sought his mother's council: they were two peas in a pod.

'I knew she wouldn't lie to me but…'

'You thought she might want to spare you bad news right BB?' Claire helped.

Trish nodded and when Philippe gestured her to come closer, she snuggled against him. Philippe put his arms around his daughters.

'There was a time, before I married your mother, that I felt Mia ought to be my heir. I could see the difficulties though. For one I had an agreement with Amelia's mother that I wouldn't visit until she was eighteen. That meant that when at last I could meet her, far-away Genovia wouldn't mean anything to her and she might not want to become a queen. Another issue was that Parliament might never accept the daughter from my secret marriage. And last but not least I'd fallen in love with a Dutch princess…'

'What was her name?' Claire asked, trying to keep a straight face and failing.

'Flapdrol,' her sister fondly said.

'Prinses Flapdrol? Ha!'

The girls got a fit of the giggles and Philippe felt happy. When his daughters had recovered, he continued: 'After thinking things over I came to believe I ought to let Mia live her American life.'

'I think she'll like that,' Claire said.

Philippe nodded at her. 'I'll tell her that according to the king, the constitution and Genovia, princess Beatrice is the rightful heir to the throne.'

'See?' Claire said, bending forward to look at her sister.

Hearing Trish swallow hard Philippe reassuringly pressed her shoulder. 'I'm sorry for not having made that clear straight away darling.'

'What if she's more suitable?' Trish said in a small voice.

'She can't be!' her sister confidently said. 'And besides, it's beside the point. If you were a crazy girl who tortured animals you'd still be the crown-princess. En waag het niet in een klooster te gaan!'

'Girls…'

'It is your fault dad, you could have learned Dutch,' Trish said, all confident and poised again.

'Yeah! Kom zus! Let's watch another episode of De Zevensprong.'

His daughters kissed his cheeks and were off, singing a Dutch song.

Philippe remained seated for a moment, glad to have taken away his daughter's anxieties. He took in the room. It was bigger than most children's rooms, or so he imagined, and it had antique furniture, but all in all it was modest. His heir didn't care for the rococo style of the castle and her room had a northern simplicity to it. Claire's room was colourful and looked as if a bomb had exploded there. She was very much like him and despite the fact that he'd come to accept and even appreciate his position, he was glad for Claire's sake as well as for Trish's that Trish, young as she was, did not resent the future that lay ahead of her.

He pictured Mia walking around here. Would his girls get along? From what Helen had written him Mia resembled Claire in being cute and clumsy, even at eighteen. Eighteen! Three more days and he'd meet her.

- The Queen mother -

Queen mother Clarisse had been a regent for her ill husband several times and Philippe was more than willing to learn from her experience. He didn't consult her as often as he had in the first months after his father's death, nearly two years ago, but he still sought her advice and not merely to make her feel useful.

He was about to enter her office when he heard laughter. Male laughter. He knocked, waited for a reply and then entered.

His mother looked amused and her bodyguard, rising on seeing him, was grinning. They were having tea.

'Joe.'

'Your Majesty.'

'Hello darling,' his mother said meaningfully.

'I'm sorry Mother. Good morning.'

Seeing her eye her watch he asked whether she had a meeting. It turned out she was to leave in half an hour to travel to a village in the south of the county to see how it had recovered from an avalanche in January.

'I'll keep it short then. There's something you might help me with. Politics.'

'I'll check the preparations for the visit. Sir. Ma'am,' Joe said. Philippe nodded and his mother graced the man with a smile.

'You don't keep him around out of pity, do you?' Philippe asked. He was looking at the door through which the guard had left and didn't see his mother's thoughtful expression. 'A man his age in his line of work…'

'In case Joseph is no longer a capable guard, he'll be the first to resign,' the queen mother said, gesturing for him to have a seat. 'But I'm very fond of him and he's an excellent mentor to the young guards. Besides: with me not being out in the public as often anymore, his job is less demanding.'

Something his mother had said nagged at Philippe's mind. Thinking it would come to him he asked his questions and received helpful replies. He was about to rise when his mother asked him if he was nervous to go to San Francisco.

'Very,' he admitted.

His mother smiled at him lovingly and he felt safe somehow.

'Give it time. Allow it time. Don't expect a Hollywood reunion.'

Philippe replied that he didn't but deep inside he did hope for it. Hugs and I love you's.

'I've got her something: a folder made of lace containing the letters I wrote to her for Christmas. If you think it will help you, you may bring it with you. Darling?'

'You wrote her letters too?'

'Actually I wrote Beatrice and Claire letters too.'

To his shame it was the first time that Philippe truly understood what it had been like for his parents not to see their eldest grandchild grow up. His father would never…

'Darling?'

'I'm sorry,' he said, his excitement and joy about soon seeing his daughter forgotten for now.

'We agreed: your father, Pierre and I,' Mother said understandingly. 'Much as we disliked it, but we respected your decision. We all knew that it would be years for Amelia to get to know us. Your father adding a few lines to my letters and Pierre making little drawings was their way to reach out to her.'

'And for their nearby granddaughters they added to your writings too,' Philippe softly said, wondering if by doing so his family had felt their distance to Mia all the more.

His mother's letters to his younger daughters provided a summary of the year that lay behind them and contained unobtrusive wisdom and advice. The girls cherished them and had cried over the lack of lines from grandfather Rupert last year. Would Mia too notice the missing hand?

- The first-born -

Patrick was not as tall and broad-shouldered as he was and his clothes were very likely bought at a Wall Mart. It made Philippe think that he might compare well in Mia's eyes. Then again the loving glances Patrick cast at his pregnant wife might make Mia think that her mother had made the right choice. But then: so had he. He respected Helen for the self-assured woman she was and for raising their daughter, but though he recalled how he'd felt toward her in the days of their courtship, it was clear that such feelings wouldn't surface in the here and now. The three of them chatted along like well behaving strangers sharing a table in a hotel. Philippe inquired after Helen's art and Patrick's classes and wasn't insulted not to be asked after his monarchy: Helen disliked his position and her partner might think he filled his days by opening hospital wings and exhibitions or by being a tyrant to his cowered people. It turned out however that the teacher had a different idea about his professional life.

'Is there still tension where you live?' Patrick asked. 'We don't get a lot of news about former Yugoslavia.'

'Genovia is located between Spain and France,' Philippe replied casually, ignoring the amused expression that had briefly crossed his ex-wife's face. No doubt she liked it that he wasn't the lord of the manor here.

Patrick, obviously embarrassed, replied: 'That's better for business I imagine. Helen told me you're a CEO of sorts?'

Philippe, wondering what the man had made of the guards that had checked the premisses, eyed Helen. 'I meant to tell you Pat,' she said. 'But then I thought it didn't matter much. Philippe is the king of Genovia.'

Patrick smiled in appreciation for his wife's joke but when she said that Philippe had been the crown-prince when they met, he looked stunned, glancing at his wife's ex to once more take in his expensive suit, his perfectly groomed beard and his seal ring.

'I haven't told Mia either. About anything really. I thought it best if you did Philippe.'

'A king?' Patrick said before Philippe could reply to Helen's remark. 'A monarch? What does that mean for Mia?'

Philippe appreciated it that Mia's step-father was worried for her future happiness.

'Nothing,' Helen instantly replied, sounding triumphant. 'Philippe remarried and he has two daughters from that marriage.'

Patrick looked at his guest for confirmation. Philippe affirmed Helen's statement, and was about to elaborate when they heard a voice from outside: 'I live here!'

Philippe rose and so did his hosts. Patrick announced he'd go to his study to check homework assignments. He'd just left when Mia entered. She had a head full of unruly hair and wore thick glasses just like Pierre did. He'd known this from pictures but seeing his first-born in the flesh, eighteen years old, wide-eyed, with parted lips, her fingers nervously caressing the shoulder-bands of her rucksack, made him teary eyed. Helen, rather emotional herself, gestured her daughter to come near.

'Sweetheart, this is your father, Philippe.'

His baby, his little girl, hesitatingly stepped forward.

'I'll get you tea,' Helen said and then it was the two of them.

'Hi.'

'Hello Amelia.'

Dropping her rucksack the girl corrected him: 'Mia.'

'Mia.'

'Are those guards outside yours? Are you a businessman?'

A cat appeared, demanding a caress. Mia obliged. 'This is Fat Louie,' she told him, her question forgotten for the moment. 'I'll get him his afternoon candy. Have a seat.'

So Philippe had a seat. He discreetly wiped his hands on his handkerchief. From the kitchen area came whispering and it didn't take long for Mia to return. She carried a tray and was so focused on not spilling tea that she ignored the floor in front of her. Philippe quickly got to his feet to take over the tray before his daughter would stumble over the upturned corner of a carpet.

'Thanks. I'm clumsy.'

'So was I,' Philippe said as he placed the tray on a coffee table.

'Really?'

'Yes. I've grown out of it.'

Dropping herself on a couch Mia looked pleased: 'So there's hope huh?'

Philippe smiled. 'Thank you for agreeing to see me.'

Mia stared at her hands and shrugged.

'Is there something you'd like to ask me?'

The girl shrugged again.

'Like why I left you and your mum?'

Mia now looked at him. 'You discovered that you weren't suitable partners after all. Mum told me. She always spoke of you kindly though.'

'We were in love.'

'That's what she said too. And last week she mentioned that she didn't care to move to Europe. That's something you wanted for your work right?'

'I needed to return to Genovia, yes.'

'Mum said that if she'd gone with you she wouldn't have been able to be an artist?'

That's one way to put it, Philippe thought, feeling annoyed with his ex-wife who might as well have stated that she simply didn't want to leave her family and friends behind. Mia seemed ready to voice her support for feminism and Philippe quickly said that he'd understood her mother's objections. He added: 'It was incredibly hard to leave you behind and I'm very happy to finally see you again. I got to know you a bit through your mother's letters.'

'And I you through yours.'

Mia's reply sounded, if anything, polite. Philippe heard the voices of Emma and his mother in his head: Give it time.

'I should like to work on building a bond between us.'

The girl cleared her throat. 'Mum sent you pictures. You didn't.'

'There's a reason for that,' Philippe started. His daughter immediately shared her own thoughts on the topic.

'Are you a wealthy businessman and did you fear that if I knew how you looked like I'd come and ask for money or so?' Mia said, sounding offended. Philippe didn't mention that the house she'd grown up in as well as her education and part of Helen's household were financed by him. He kindly looked at his little girl and something in his expression made Mia continued in a softer tone of voice: 'Or were you afraid if someone found out I was your daughter they might kidnap me? Is that why you have guards? That man near the front door looked tough.'

'He is. He used to be a special ops officer in the Genovian army. And he is here to protect his king.'

'So what's he doing in front of our house?'

Philippe meaningfully eyed his daughter, who frowned at him and then looked wide-eyed. For a moment Philippe thought she understood but her cry: 'Oh shoot. Tea!' proved that he had more explaining to do.

'It's got two bags: I hope you like it strong, sorry,' Mia said while filling his cup just a bit too much. 'Oh damn. Sorry, need a cloth?'

'I'll manage. This is exactly how my youngest daughter prepares tea.'

With a bang Mia put the pot on the table. 'I have a sister?'

'Two. Beatrice and Claire.'

'Ha! So we're ABC!'

It had been mere chance. Emma and he had named their eldest after her mother and it equally pleased them to name their second daughter after his mother. Philippe had felt joyous that there was a connection between his daughters if only a superficial one.

'Yes, or MTC, for Beatrice is called Trish.'

'She thinks Beatrice is too grand, just like I think Amelia is a mouthful?'

'It's just a family pet-name. Sometimes her sister styles her BB, for her second name is Benedicte.'

'And Claire's second name is Cindy or Charlotte or so?'

Philippe smiled. 'It's Caroline, after my father's mother.'

'That's a cool name. Mine is Mignonette, imagine.'

'I know. It's my mother's second name.'

'So I have you to thank for that?' Mia said with a playfulness that made Philippe's heart beat a little faster. 'As well as for my hair.'

'Claire inherited it as well.'

'Did you bring pictures of them?' Mia eagerly asked.

Philippe nodded. Thinking that going with the flow would eventually enable him to discuss his family's position, he reached into his briefcase and produced a leather photo book. His daughter seated herself next to him and took possession of it. Emma had arranged the order of the pictures, making sure the first showed her daughters, but Mia, a bit nervous, randomly opened the album.

'Posh! She looks like me! That's Claire right?'

Philippe nodded.

'How old is she?'

'She's seven on this photo. It was made three years ago at a dinner party.' Philippe for now neither mentioned that the party had been held on occasion of his mother's birthday, nor that it had been the first time the little princesses had been allowed to attend an official gathering.

'And Trish?'

'She's a year older.'

'That's your wife?' At Philippe's nod Mia said: 'She's a beauty. And regal. Does that sound weird? She's elegant.'

'She was born a princess.'

'No shit! How come she married - ' Mia didn't finish her line, and her cheeks turned beet red. 'I'm sorry. She loves you of course.'

'She does. These days royalty doesn't need to marry royalty. Ours is therefore a un-modern romance.'

After this introduction Philippe told his daughter about his function and how that had impacted both his and Helen's decision to separate as well as his return to Genovia. Mia processed the information in silence and Philippe sensed it was not a good sign. When he was done talking she again glanced at the picture of Emma, Trish and Claire. Philippe wanted to caress her hair, but he felt he didn't have the right to do so.

'Wasn't mum good enough?'

'I loved your mother. Had things worked out differently between us, I would proudly have introduced her to Genovia.'

Mia tilted her head as she studied his face.

'I would have begged Parliament to forgive me for not asking their permission to marry her and I would have asked them to acknowledge our sweet little girl as the next in line to the throne. For several years after I left San Francisco I still thought of you as my heir.'

His daughter looked at him in horror. 'What?! No! No way!'

I might have sat here as a single man, Philippe thought. He could vividly picture the scene and how sick he would have felt at this very moment for both his country and himself. In the here and now he stopped his upset Mia from rising by grabbing her hands and gently making her sit again.

'You can't do that!' she urgently said. 'You live where the buses don't run, do you? I hope you got that heir-thing out of your mind?'

With his distressed daughter looking at him pleadingly Philippe simply said: 'Beatrice is my heir.'

'Really?'

Philippe redundantly asked: 'Do you mind Mia?'

'What? Is that a Genovian sense of humour? Do I mind I won't have to be a queen?'

Mia laughed with relief. Philippe's alternate self would have used every trick in his book to make his reluctant heir change her mind, but his present self was grateful that there wouldn't be a contestant to the Genovian throne. Thinking of how he'd neglected Trish's anxieties, he wanted to put a stop to any bad feelings Mia might get after giving their conversation more thought.

'I want you to understand that it wasn't because I thought you wouldn't be suitable. A daughter of Helen would make a fine queen,' Philippe said.

'So would mum,' Mia loyally said.

Philippe nodded and smiled as if he agreed. There was no point in sharing that Helen had made it clear that she didn't want her daughter to grow up in a golden cage any more than she'd step into one herself and Philippe was sure that with every bedtime fairy tale she'd read she would have stressed that the princesses in it were pampered and dependent.

'The thing was that Parliament might not accept an heir who appeared out of nowhere. And equally important, or rather more so: I could only introduce you as my heir if you agreed to that. You would have been an American for eighteen years, unfamiliar with me, with Genovia and with the workings of a monarchy. You'd have your own plans for your future. If I recall correctly back in those days you wanted to design houses.'

'I wanted to do that one day yeah,' Mia said, sounding pleased that he knew about her childhood fantasy. Philippe couldn't control himself: he caressed her hair. It made his daughter bite her lower lip.

'All in all your refusal to become crown-princess seemed even more likely than Parliament voting against acknowledging my secret marriage to your mother.'

'I'm glad you concluded that. Now we can simply get to know each other without an elephant in the room.'

'Talking about me?' Helen, bringing them cookies, asked.

'Who else?' Mia said while winking at her father. To Philippe the gesture had the impact of a Hollywood hug. While he blinked away his emotions, Mia showed Helen the picture of the three royals.

'Nice,' Helen allowed.

'The one with my hair is Claire and her sister's Trish. What's the name of your wife?'

'Emma.'

'She's a princess,' Mia told her mother, not knowing that twelve years ago Helen had paged through US weekly in a bookstore to read about "The royal wedding of the decade".

'From where?' Mia asked Philippe.

'The Netherlands.'

Mia closed the book and re-opened it at the first page, revealing a picture of her half-sisters eating cake. Claire looked naughtily at the photographer as if she were thinking of launching some whipped cream. Trish, unaware of being watched, studied her cake as if to decide where to place her fork. Mia smiled at the sight of them.

'Oh look how proud you look,' Mia commented the next picture. 'Is that Trish you're holding or Claire?'

'It's you.'

Mia, biting her lower lip, showed the picture to her mother for confirmation. Seeing Helen's soft smile and the faraway look in her eyes, Mia inhaled audibly.

'Leaving you was the hardest thing I ever did,' Philippe softly said. 'I've looked forward to this day ever since I returned to Genovia.'

As Helen discreetly walked away Mia cast him a feeble smile.

'I'll be patient Mia. I won't expect you to even like me straight away, but I'd like a chance to be more than an unknown man who sends you a letter on your birthday.'

'I did like those letters.' Mia presented him the plate with cookies. 'The one with the chocolate and the colourful sprinkles was my favourite when I was little.'

The cookie seemed to contain enough sugar to keep a battalion of marines going, but Philippe obligingly selected it.

'It's good isn't it? Do my sisters have a favourite cookie?'

Sisters. Philippe felt hopeful and almost giddy while at the same time it occurred to him that his heir resembled her mother and grandmothers in being cautious. Before he could tell Mia that Claire loved roze koek and that Trish was fond of stroopwafels, his eldest daughter asked: 'Have you told your wife and children about me?'

'My wife knew about you even before we were engaged. I told the girls several days ago.'

'What did they say?'

'They were surprised and excited. I showed them pictures of you and they made you… Hold on.'

Philippe took his briefcase and produced a piece of paper from a leather folder. He handed it to Mia.

'Oh!'

The picture, of Trish and Claire sitting on the former's bed-couch, was very well done. Mia's reaction however had to do with Claire's pink and orange arrow that pointed to the empty spot next to her.

'It says "This is yours!" That's so sweet!'

'You're always welcome to visit darling.'

Mia swallowed hard and mumbled something about college. Philippe told himself not to rush things. What was he thinking letting that endearment slip?

'Beatrice doesn't mind being the heir to the throne?' Mia unexpectedly asked.

'Not at all.'

Mia studied the first photo again. 'She does look more serious than Claire.'

Philippe grinned. 'She is.'

'Did your wife make this drawing?'

'Trish did.'

'Seriously, Trish?'

And that's when father and daughter shared their first laugh. Mia carefully placed the drawing on the table, far away from the cups, and took another cookie. Biting it she flipped to the next new photo in the album.

'From her red hair I'd say this tiny tot is Trish. Is that a sister of yours reading to her?'

'It's my mother.'

'Oh common!'

'Seriously.'

Contrary to Philippe's expectation Mia didn't even grin.

'Do you have sisters or brothers?'

Philippe turned the page. 'That's my only sibling, Pierre.'

'He looks a bit like you,' Mia commented and then she closed the album.

'It's overwhelming, isn't it?'

Mia nodded. To divert her Philippe asked what other cookies she could recommend.

'The triangle has caramel inside,' Mia replied. As Philippe took a bite of said cookie Mia asked whether the people of Genovia knew about her.

'Apart from my family, Emma's parents and sister and the previous and present Prime Ministers of Genovia no one knows.'

'What about your guards?'

'I'm sure the guards will have recognized Claire and myself in you. They won't tell though.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. I would like to tell the whole country that you are my first-born, but only when you are ready for that.'

Mia ate a cookie. Philippe drank his lukewarm bitter tea.

'Can you guarantee that no one will try to make me your heir?'

'I don't control what my people may do. But I can guarantee that I will fight them so you can live your life here. If it's a comfort: the Genovians are very fond of Trish and Claire.'

Very fond, Philippe thought. Why didn't I just say that they love their princesses? A thought occurred to him and he grabbed hold of it, scolding himself for not having brought it up straight away. 'But should certain people try to appoint you as my heir, you could follow your uncle's example. He is my elder you see and he wanted to be a priest, not a king. He resigned his rights to the throne.'

'Really?' Mia said with a winning smile. 'So no evil genius can force me to become a member of the royal family?'

'You are a member of my family. Just not a member of the royal house and not an heir to the throne.'

'That's having the best of both worlds IMO.'

'Eh?'

Mia grinned. 'In my opinion.'

'Oh!'

Mia opened the album again and paged to the picture of two year old Trish listening to a bedtime story. 'What's her name?' she asked, indicating her unknown grandmother.

'Clarisse.'

Mia nodded as if to say that the name suited the woman. She turned the page and the next one and asked him to comment the remaining pictures. There was one where Emma was teaching Claire to ride a bicycle and another where Pierre and his father were playing checkers. Mia could see the family resemblance and awkwardly offered him her condolences on hearing that her grandfather had passed away. When all photo's had been admired Mia picked up her sisters' drawing and invited him to see her room. Philippe, hearing violins, gladly accepted.

Fat Louie had made himself comfortable on Mia's desk.

'I do get work done,' Mia said, gesturing at the now completely covered surface.

'I know: this is just like my desk and Claire's. My wife calls it chaotic structure. I'll tell her its hair related.'

Mia grinned. 'Where are you staying?' she said as she walked to a magnetic board. 'You'll be here for a couple of days right?'

'I'm staying at the Genovian consulate.'

'They don't mind?'

'No they don't,' Philippe said, thinking how alien a life like his own must be for his eldest, who took a step from the board and tilted her head. After changing pink magnets for blue and then brown ones she nodded and looked at him for approval.

'Very nice,' Philippe managed, moved by the care Mia gave to the drawing.

'I don't draw myself or I would make the girls something. I'll ask mum to make a drawing of me and Fat Louie.'

Philippe produced his pocket camera. 'Or I could make a picture of the two of you?'

Mia nodded and asked if he had a cat. As she unceremoniously picked up Fat Louie he told her about the two family pets: his old spaniel Hound and his mother's poodle Maurice.

'Having a cat might not be the best idea then,' Mia graciously reasoned. She took a position next to the drawing, but her posture said she felt ill at ease.

'Your sisters get a little self-conscious too when they have to pose. I'll tell you what I tell them: you look lovely.'

The cat miaowed.

'And so do you Fat Louie,' Philippe added.

Whether it was his remark or the arrogant way the cat glanced at him, but Mia threw her head backwards and laughed. Hearing a click she held up Fat Louie to cover her face.

'What about a picture as I come down via the pole?'

Philippe had somehow missed the whole construction and Mia giggled at his expression. He went downstairs and took a stand.

'I'm ready Mia!'

Merrily gliding down like one ten years her junior, Mia wasn't at all worried for how she might appear on the action picture. She gleefully grinned when her father told her that Claire would want a pole too.

'Say, did you already have time to go to the mall?'

Philippe wasn't sure that she was making a joke. He didn't have to reply for his daughter continued: 'We're having pizza tonight. Why don't you join us?'

Philippe glanced at Helen, who was reading on the couch. Without looking up from her book she said: 'Still pastrami for you?'

'Yes please. You've turned into a Greek pizza fan again?'

Helen smiled at this reference to her first pregnancy: 'Yup.'

'You stay on that couch: I'll place the order,' Mia announced when her mother was about to rise.

Helen and Philippe watched their daughter bounce to the kitchen.

From this day on I too have the best of both worlds, Philippe thought.