"That is a last-ditch plan," Starling said. "I was goin' for givin' you enough time not-married to establish yourself as princess or whatever until they're too afraid of losin' you to say 'boo' about you bein' married or not." He gave her a pleading look. "Trust me?"

The girl bit her lip, then nodded. "If it doesn't work, I'll just come with you, back," she said quietly. "I'm-- I can do the princess part. I can't do the marrying a stranger part."

"See, I think your idea of queens and my idea of queens don't match up, is the problem. You don't dare tell the Queen what to do back home. Tradition or not, she'll get you." But he nodded. "I'll do me best."

Sylvie threw her arms around the boy, hugging him tightly. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and scrubbed the back of her head before setting her down quickly. "And stow that in front of people unless you want to end up hitched to me for real," he warned her. "Your da' gave me a nice talkin' to on that front and I don't know how much of it was bullshittin' me and how much wasn't."

Sylvie grimaced. "It wasn't," she answered. "You screw somebody here, they consider that good as married." She let out a groan, then swatted his sleeve. "But you've got to be better than some strange African boys who've never been out of the village."

"Oh well, now, that changes everything, don't it?" Starling rolled his eyes. "Good to know I'm high on the list. Hell, if I'd only known 'not a village boy' was all it took . . . "

She thumped him in the rubs. "I've met some damn cute village boys," she answered. "But they were French."

"I can be French!" Starling protested, rubbing his side. "See? Bonjour! Veuillez me diriger vers la pension. Non, je ne connais pas cette dame agee."

"That made absolutely no sense," Sylvie said, amused, and she flicked at him. "I suppose that's very much like the French. And I thought you didn't want to be on the top of the list."