Jesse shouts after me, but his words are cut off by the speed at which I throw myself out of my chair abandoning my shoes on the marble, and pelt towards the stairs. As ungraceful as it makes them look, my father and mother are close behind, with Jesse and Asher on their heels.

Completely unaware of what's happening, agents are flying up the stairs behind us, shoes slapping the ground and the sound of radios cackling as they try to work out the reason for my unplanned escape.

We pass Lars and a maid on the staircase carrying my sleeping siblings up to their room for the night. Startled, he calls after my mother who shouts that she has no idea where we're going, but she'll be back soon. By the time we reach the top floor, all of us are panting, the men's suits ruffled and mum and I's dresses pulled up to our knees so we don't trip.

In a mismatched bundle of weird family, we spill into the ballroom, so long out of use, with only a tiny piano in the corner and a chandelier that only gives out small gentle glows of orange light. The piano is smaller than the one downstairs, and the lid, for some unusual reason, is tightly closed.

I approach it slowly, as if it were a bomb, expecting my hopes to be crushed any second. I press a delicate ivory key with my index finger, and a clean note rings out. My heart sinks. As Jesse begins to understand what I'm doing, he hooks his hand under the lid of the piano, struggling under its weight. With absolutely no clue what's happening, Asher puts his hand just underneath a slight chip in the paint and begins to push the lids above their heads.

'God I hope there isn't a dead puppy in there.' Dad groans.

'What?' Asher says, his surprise turning his voice into a shout.

His hand slips and the lid of the piano clatters onto the floor, bursting our eardrums but luckily not breaking anything else. Jesse and Asher go to massage their sore hands and in doing so, move away from the exposed piano. I'm a few feet away, not daring to move an inch in case this was all some beautiful coincidence.

But my dad being a foot taller than me gasps and puts a hand to his mouth in surprise. I step forward silently and peer over the side, directly looking at a little Santa sack with uneven edges where our presents are hidden. Jesse steps back, almost understanding what he's just found. He doesn't know that they're our Christmas presents from the year Chris died, but he knows Chris has been here and left something for us, and it's enough to excuse himself from the room, wishing us a Merry Christmas.

He takes a second to whisper the situation to the agents that followed us, and they all back quietly and respectfully from the room under Jesse's instruction. I look at him, almost desperate for him to stay, to save the room for being so painfully silent, but also thankful that he knows exactly what this broken family needs right now.

I stand, frozen, staring at the broken piano. Dad moves first, gently rocking the package from side to side to slide it out from between the panels of hand carved wood. Something clinks and we exchange a look. Asher sits on the stool a little out of the way and watches us in silence as the three of us, what's left of our family, just me, mum and dad sit around the bag dad lays down.

Mum takes my hand and I can already see tears on her cheeks, whereas dad's face is stern, his jaw locked as if trying to keep his composure. I don't know that I'm holding my breath until my head starts spinning.

I reach out my hand and untie the knot holding the bag closed, and as I do, small wrapped parcels spill across the tiled floor, red and gold paper with bows awkwardly covering all sides. I smile because Chris was hopeless at wrapping gifts and there's shiny tape everywhere, rips in the paper and apologies written in wonky handwriting in what I imagine was my silver gel pen from when I was nine.

Seeing his handwriting is bittersweet. I don't recognise it because of the deformed lettering from the uneven surfaces underneath, but I know he wrote it. I wonder if this is the last time he ever wrote my name.

'This is for you mum.' I say, picking up a long, square package with the wonky words 'to mum' scribbled on the side. As I pass it over, a small envelope falls and skids across the marble towards mum. She settles the present on her lap and with shaking fingers, gently and carefully opens the envelope. Her eyes skim the words just before her brain can make them form in her throat.

'Dear mum,' She swallows, 'Merry Christmas. It took me a really long time to figure out what to get you for Christmas this year. I asked Gram and Grandpa, and the only thing they suggested was an apron for all of the cooking you do. They told me off for laughing at that suggestion considering the last time you cooked us a meal was the week before never.'

'That's not entirely true,' I chuckle, 'You pretty much perfected microwave meals when you first moved out.'

'You're both so funny.' Mum says with a face that does not reflect her amusement before she continues to read, 'I looked at some kitchen appliances for you, but I didn't think buying you a whisk would be such a good idea considering how clumsy we know this family to be. So, I talked to dad-'

'I remember that.' Dad smiles, realising that a seemingly insignificant conversation to dad might have meant more to Christopher.

'-he wasn't very helpful.' Mum finishes.

'Yeah, I remember that too.' Dad laughs, 'I told him to get you a voucher.'

'I even tucked my tail between my legs and asked Lars. As usual, he was a dick with absolutely nothing helpful to say.' Mum doesn't laugh at her husband's expense, but I can tell she wants to as she remembers Christopher's not so fond relationship with Lars, 'I promise I'll try to get on better with Lars this year, if he promises to stop being such a wanker.'

I laugh out loud, a little belly laugh, far too inappropriate for my mother reading her son's final words to her, but he's right, Lars was a dick even when we were kids. I wonder if he would think so today, or if maybe he'd come round like I have. One thing we can never fault Lars for, is his limitless ability to be a good father.

'Eventually, I came up with the perfect present idea all by myself because, well, I am the perfect son.' Mum sighs.

Mum takes a second to fully accept that he's completely both wrong and right at the same time. I know I don't remember the bad things about Chris, only the times he made me laugh, and never the times he shouted at me when he was angry, or made me cry when he was frustrated. I know my mum is the same way.

She won't remember that he didn't pick up his laundry sometimes, or how he used to eat peanut butter out of the tub with a spoon. She won't play back the arguments they had about mum's new husband, rare shouting matches about how he refused to live with him, and he wouldn't let me or Charlie either. She won't remember that when Adanna was born, it took him three days to come and see her.

I ignore the bad things about Christopher, because I can. I excuse the things that happened, because I know he was a good person, a brilliant person, and the best brother I could have had. I know sometimes I was annoying, and he didn't want to play cards all night. I know he felt abandoned when mum left, and even more pushed out when she made herself a whole new family. He loved Adanna, but it didn't mean he wasn't jealous of her sometimes.

He was not the perfect son, or the perfect brother, or the perfect person, or prince, or friend. But he was a son, and a brother and a friend, and he was exceptionally good at all of those things, even if some days he wasn't. He wasn't perfect, I'm sure of it, but right now, I can't think of any reasons why not.

'Merry Christmas mum. All my love, from your favourite first born, Christopher.' Mum finishes after a second, smiling as her eyes dart to the bottom, 'P.S. God only knows what I'd be without you.'

Mum opens her present slowly and gently, trying not to tear any of the paper with the sellotape that has held it together in a piano for six years. She lets the wrappings fall away, to reveal a vinyl from The Beach Boys, a memory that strikes mum in her chest. She lets out a sob, almost missing the post-it note that asks when she'll finally learn to use a CD player.

'God Only Knows, The Beach Boys from 1966.' Mum whispers, 'It was the first record I ever had when I was a child. How could he have possibly known that?'

'Love Actually,' Dad says softly, 'Your mother came to visit, that Christmas when the kids were watching it, before the fundraiser. That song plays at the end, your mum told Chris and Charlie how it was your favourite song when you were little, and you played the record so much it broke. I'd forgotten, but Christopher must have remembered.'

Mum sits in silence for a few minutes, clutching the record to her chest as if she could somehow substitute it for her son. She sobs so hard I worry about the vinyl snapping in half. When she releases it from her tight hold, she holds the card away so her tears don't damage Christopher's writing. None of us know what to say, until Asher moves his stool slightly so he's sitting in front of the piano.

The three of us look at him. His hands are shaking as they settle on the keys, and after a few seconds, the melody, so familiar to my mother, begins to waft into the air. God Only Knows fills the echoing room, accompanying the warm glow to fill my family up with joy. My mother holds my hand, and sniffs as Asher keeps playing, keeping to himself, but playing us the song my brother wanted mum to hear.

He continues on a loop, the soft notes and beautifully blended chords swirling quietly around us. My mother keeps hold of her card and present, and leans over to my father, resting a hand on his knee.

'Your turn Percy.' She says gently, but my father shakes his head, refusing to look at her. He keeps his eyes so closely fixed on Asher that it looks like he's trying to learn from him. He shakes his head again, not daring to look away.

'How am I meant to open that? How can I read what he wrote?' Dad says, his voice stumbling.

'I'll go next,' I say squeezing his arm.

I turn to the pile and try not to let my lip wobble when I see a present for Adanna but not Tegean or Ansel, a brother and sister he never knew he'd have. I bet Adanna's present will be a kids toy that would now probably only suit Ansel, but she was only three when he died. I hope my present isn't clothes.

I find my name written in awkward letters and pick it up. It's square and one of the only presents that's wrapped okay. I can tell before I open it that it's a book, but I can't think of a book I ever told Christopher that I would want. I can't think of one that I wouldn't have found in our library. Just like mums, there's a card taped to the top with my name, in writing much more familiar when not balanced on the edge of a parcel.

I clear my throat, and Asher starts to press the keys even lighter, so the music feels like it's coming just from my soul, 'Dear Marzia. Merry Christmas! I know this year has been hard for you, and I don't know if you'll remember because of how doped up you were, but I came to visit you when you were in the hospital having yet another surgery on your back.'

'When I came to visit you, dad suggested that maybe I should read to you. I didn't really know what to read to you at the time, but I had this book in my bag from the afternoon at my tutors. It was the only thing I had, so I read it to you. And low and behold, on page I-don't-remember-what, I read you this passage, only to look up and see you'd fallen asleep.' I smile, because he's right, I really don't remember.

'It read, 'I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what'. I know we've grown up with everyone taking a swing at us, but somehow, none of it seemed to faze you.' I continue, trying to place the quote that resonates with me, 'I want this to remind you how strong you are, and how proud I am of you. Love you forever kid, Chris.'

I lay the card on the ground close to my leg and peel gently at the sellotape, trying not to feel guilty when the paper rips a little. The tip of a worn book pokes out the top and as I remove the rest of the wrappings, Harper Lee's famous novel, To Kill A Mockingbird rests in my hands. The pages are folded in places and the spine is cracked and the edges bruised. I realise with a skip of my beating heart that this is Christopher's copy.

I let the book fall open in my hands, to see little specks of highlighter and pen in the margins where he's written his notes. I take a minute to flick through the yellow pages, noticing the way he writes exactly as he thinks. He's written completely unacademic notes like, 'that's not very nice', 'this surely isn't legal', 'Bob seems like a dick', and 'I never thought he was a bad guy'. It must have worked, I remember him getting one hundred percent on his literature exams.

I say a silent thank you that this gift isn't twelve year old clothes, or six year old food. Christopher has given me a gift that isn't just one of my favourite books, he's given me his mind. He's given me a glimpse of what his brain could do, and did do. Now, I can read these words like he's reading them with me. He's given me his voice, even though I can never hear it again.

'It's To Kill A Mockingbird.' I tell mum and dad. Asher, trying not to disturb us, smiles, 'We studied the book at Thorne when we were fourteen. I've written a hundred papers on it, it's Christopher's copy.'

'Why that book?' Dad asks.

'I don't know,' I say honestly, looking down at the book, knowing all the little notes and damages were at the hands of my brother, 'I don't think he ever mentioned it to me.'

'A book about a little girl and her brother being brave? With their wise old dad, searching for justice in the world, and you don't know why he gave it to you?' Mum says softly, creasing wrinkles as she smiles, 'Maybe you need to write a few more papers.'

I tuck the Christmas card into the book's pages like a bookmark, and look at dad, who has tensed as his turn approaches. I push Charlie and Adanna's present back into the Santa sack, alongside what looks to be presents for Aunt Rosie, Uncle Monty and their boys. There's presents for our grandparents too, right down at the bottom. I place them neatly and tie up the bag, leaving only an envelope for dad. He takes a deep breath, then picks it up.

'Dear dad. Happy Christmas. Your present this year might be a little selfish, but bear with me a minute,' He says, Asher's piano playing blocking out the rattling in his chest, 'This year, my Christmas present to you is a puppy. Just hear me out, okay? I know this big castle has been lonely for you since mum left, and I know it's unbearable when we go to visit her.'

Mum looks down, trying not to look at the pain on dad's face. We all know that dad gets sad sometimes when he's the only laughter in the palace, but we don't talk about it, because he doesn't like us to. I'm surprised he's even saying this in front of mum at all. Asher keeps his eyes on the piano to give my dad some privacy.

'It'll give you some company, and me someone to play with. It's basically win-win dad. I've picked one out at the shelter, and your appointment card is in the envelope. We're going on the thirty-first to get your new best friend, and you have no choice.' I swallow, because their appointment date is so far gone now, 'I know your heart feels empty, but between me and Zeus (that's his name, you have no choice), I hope we can help. Love you dad, Chris.'

Dad slides the appointment card from the envelope with the very date that Chris died. As much as I'm glad Christopher didn't hide a puppy in the piano for six years, I can't help but wonder if dad feels his present is hollow compared to mine and mums. He pauses for a few seconds, letting Chris' last words wash over us, before a wail crashes into the silence.

My father has cried in front of me before, sad silent tears for our childhood or his first born, but I have never seen his shoulders shake like he's the only one in an earthquake and a sound so guttural come from his throat that I didn't think possible of a human body. He stands up furiously, but with nowhere to go, and slams his hands down onto the piano.

Asher's hands shoot up and away from the keys, but a melodic sound comes from the vibrations as dad rests his head on the wood. Asher sits back, giving my father some space and making sure he doesn't accidentally knock the piano to interrupt the noise. After a tense few seconds, he stands up, and on the flats of his feet, walks quietly out of the room.

I stand up with mum, leaving our presents in a careful pile to watch dad helplessly as he unravels, letting out all his heartache and stripping himself of the strength he's pretended to have all these years. Right now, he's not a king or a protector of his family. Right now, he's just the broken pieces of a man who lost his son.

'I just feel so guilty all the time.' He says, crumbling into sobs once more. I walk over and wrap my arms around his broken frame.

'Me too, dad.'

To my surprise, mum comes over and tucks herself into the embrace. Dad lifts his head to look at her, before looping his large arms around the two of us. I don't know how long we stand holding onto each other, but by the time we let go, dad's face has dry tear tracks and mum seems half asleep and dazed with the ease it feels to be near each other.

'It's been a long day, we should all get some sleep.' Mum sniffs, and strokes dad's arm.

Dad looks down and nods, knowing mum gets to go downstairs and hold her husband, and he has to be by himself. Mum kisses the top of my head and sets off slowly towards the door, clutching her gifts to her chest. Dad huffs, giving his heavy chest some oxygen and follows her, carefully carrying his parcel, and the remaining gifts, probably to put them somewhere safe before distributing them tomorrow.

He looks back at me, smiling a sad smile and allowing himself a deep breath, 'Goodnight.'

Then he shuts the door behind himself, and I'm left alone in this big empty ballroom. I walk over to the piano, and lean my head against the wood panelling, protecting my chin with my forearm. I look down at the exposed keys and note the way that the middle ones lack dust where Chris left our presents. In between the bright wooden keys, in the spare dust I write Christopher's name. For the first time in a long time, I feel peaceful.

Is this closure? In some small way, does this mean he forgives me? I breathe, a breath that does not feel so heavy anymore. For the first time since he died, I believe with my whole heart that my brother does not blame me for his death, and wouldn't have wanted me to think so. My brother died, and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but it wasn't my fault.

'Hey,' Asher says quietly, as he lines his arms up alongside me and looks down where I've written my brother's name, 'You okay?'

'Yeah. I really think I am.' I look at him and smile, and his face squints his tired eyes behind his thin glasses as his lips curl up at their ends, 'I know it's not over, I know they haven't caught who hurt him, but I don't feel so guilty anymore. I don't feel so responsible.'

'About earlier-' He begins nervously.

'Don't worry about it.' I say, leaning my head on his shoulder, 'I pushed, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry, I won't mention it again, it's your business.'

'No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything about Chris. I know a lot of things about a lot of things, but he's not one of them. He's your brother, and I shouldn't have said what I did.' He says, nudging my head up so that I'm looking at him.

'You don't know half as much as you think you do.' I smile and he chuckles, but then looks solemnly towards the piano.

'Do you want the truth as to why I didn't want to find my parents?' I frown and stand up. Asher copies, so that he's looking straight at me, and I nod, 'I'm scared. Zia, I genuinely believe that they're dead, I can feel it in my bones. But I've learned to live with the unanswered question, I don't know how I'd cope if I knew that they could never come back.'

I reach out and hug him, and without reservation, he hugs me back, hands on my back and his head bent so that it rests on my shoulder. All the way up in this ballroom, I can't hear any of the noise from downstairs. The party must be over by now, but I'm sure everything will be packed away by morning, so they'll be busy moving chairs for hours yet, but there's no other sound than Asher's breathing.

'Can you ask your dad if he'll try to find them?' He asks into my ear, and I push him back to check if he's serious. He shrugs his shoulders, 'If he can find their graves, I could go visit them, and if they don't, then maybe we could put one up at Thorne. I spoke to Ursula about it, and she said if that's what I want to do, I can.'

'Ursula?' I ask, noticing the familiarity he's so long been lacking.

'Yeah.' He says quietly, 'Ursula.'

'I'll ask him in the morning.' I tell him, and he nods sadly, but calmly. I shuffle his tie back into place the way I did that very first time in his bedroom, and smile, having finally gathered up the courage, 'You didn't dance with me today.'

'I was told I wasn't allowed to dance with you today.' He tells me honestly, putting his hands in his pockets and smiling. I recognise this boy from school all those days before this began. He's pulled his usual confidence and charisma from somewhere and for a moment, I could imagine the two of us back in those halls, 'What a waste of all our practice.'

I smile, because I can't imagine that girl by the lockers would ever have wanted to dance with him in the first place. But not now.

I step away from him, letting my hand run a little down his chest as I do. He frowns through a grin and watches as I walk over to the other side of the room, where, unknown to him, there's a speaker system for when we learn to dance without having a piano man. He stands contently watching me in his beautiful suit as I find the cable I'm looking for.

'Phone please.' I extend my hand. I've not been allowed mine all day. Surprisingly, despite the incredible (and heavy) dresses Alissa designs, they don't often have pockets. Plus, what could I possibly need to text someone about today? Well, except for calling Emilio, who I haven't seen since about eight this evening when he excused himself to answer his phone to Nate.

Asher pushes his glasses up his nose with a confused look on his features, but hands me his phone, unlocked, anyway. I load up his music app and scroll through, for a song that I know he'll have. When I reach what I'm looking for, I notice Asher has walked into the middle of the ballroom and is looking around at the architecture.

When the speakers in all four corners begin playing the notes I know he'll recognise, he hangs his head, his back facing me and the movement in his shoulders convinces me he's laughing. I take a step back in his direction and he spins around slowly, looking me up and down.

'Are you trying to recreate the careers assembly?' Asher asks me, as Fairytale of New York begins playing, with the depressing lyrics and carnival piano that make him smile, 'Because I still have that speech memorised if you'd like to hear it again.'

'Please, dear God, no.' I shake my head and he smiles at me, 'You told me at the Winter Wonderland that this was your favourite Christmas song, and for my first act as crown princess, you have to dance with me.'

I don't know where the sudden confidence is coming from, but seeing Asher's stupid, happy face reminds me of all the times I would subconciously hope to see him in the corridors around Thorne, just so I could bicker with him, because fighting with him was the only way I could make him smile. I didn't realise, but it's been my favourite smile for a long time now.

'Your Highness,' He obliges, and bows, offering a hand out to me. I take it delicately and he stands and pulls me into him.

I try to remember what it felt like, dancing with him back in the great hall at Thorne Academy. I can't think what his hand felt like, or what he sounds like when he's this close. I just remember making a snide comment about Grace Settlby and he asked me a question about my marriage. So much has happened in a few days that I don't think either of us feel like those kids anymore.

The day has been long, and with the soft lighting of the ballroom and the warmth of being against Asher's chest, my eyelids start to grow heavy and when I blink, I savour every image in case they don't open again. Up close, I notice the little dimple underneath Asher's eyes when he smiles, from a lifetime of wearing his glasses. I don't know how he's the best agent when he can't even see properly, but I'm glad he is.

I can feel the vibrations of Asher's chest as he starts to hum along, smiling whenever the song says something optimistic, because we both know where these lyrics are headed. His humming moves to singing in seconds, with his lips moving only ever so slightly, 'So, Happy Christmas.'

He stops short, as the band continues on the lyrics, 'I love you, baby.' I chuckle at his bullet dodge, when the following line comes up and he continues to sing. He spins me as the bells of the chorus ring and the song slows, just in time for the melody to kick in and the tempo increase. I lean my head back and when the accordion begins, and Asher holds me back a little, gesturing a hand for me to duet with him.

'They've got cars big as bars, they've got rivers of gold, when the wind goes right through you there's no place for the old.' I grin wildly as Asher twirls me, interrupting my singing, 'When you first took my hand on that cold Christmas Eve, you promised me Broadway was waiting for me.'

'You were handsome-'

'That's my line!' I laugh at him as he interrupts me.

'You were pretty, Queen of New York City, when the band finished playing they held out for more. Sintara was swinging, all the drunks they were singing, we kissed on the corner, then danced through the night!' He ignores my complaining, as we fit into the gender roles of the song, even if he did call me both handsome and pretty when it was definitely my line.

He takes both of my hands to spin me around as the chorus joins our awful singing into one, 'The boys the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay, and the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.'

He pulls me back into him and our slow dance moves to something much faster, and at one point, I have to arch further into him to avoid bashing my back on the piano. We're not paying attention to where we're swaying and I'm glad I left my heels downstairs because he lifts me up and I almost go toppling back down. He's sturdy and strong when he wants to be, but we're too busy laughing to pay attention.

'You're a, what? You're a punk?' I attempt to sing, only now just realising I don't know the words. Asher holds his belly to laugh a second, before his line comes up, but whips me around so his front is pressed to my back and he's swaying us with his arms around my waist and his head tucked onto my shoulder so I can hear his singing closer.

'You're an old slut or junk?' Asher tries, joining me in our confusion. He continues the rest of the line with a mumble, and holds up his hands in defence when I point accusingly at him for laughing at me, before spinning me back around to see my smile.

'You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy-'

'-Don't!' He interrupts.

'I wouldn't!' I defend, 'I'll repeat my lecture for you if you need to hear it again, it's derogatory because-'

'Dear God no!' He laughs, bending down and hoisting my body into his arms, 'The boys of the NYPD choir still singing Galway Bay-'

He spins me round the ballroom, continuing to sing as I scream and shout at him to put me down. I push at his chest and notice that his belt with his gun isn't on his hip anymore, and somehow, being thrown around in Asher's arms, I still manage to feel safe. His chest vibrates on my belly as he laughs between lyrics, and staggers around clumsily.

Eventually, he puts me down, keeping tight hold of my waist so I don't fall, and I thank my lucky stars that I don't trip and ruin this weird moment. His cheeks are bright pink from laughing and there are tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He's sort of out of breath but he still squeezes out the words to his favourite Christmas song.

'I could've been someone!' He sings, loudly, but surprisingly on-key. He throws his hands out theatrically, as if we're actually having an argument.

'Well so could anyone.' I sing back, pushing his chest and storming away from him, 'You took my dreams from me, when I first found you.'

'I kept them with me babe, I packed them with my own,' He grins clumsily, but then takes my hand, and puts the other on his chest, 'Can't make it out alone, I built my dreams around you.'

Something about his last line makes him drop his bravado and his face turns serious. As the lines of the last chorus finish, and all that is left are the bagpipes and accordion that make this gloomy Christmas song, somewhat cheery, I wonder what Asher's dream is, whatever he thought about to make him suddenly concentrate. Surely being an agent doesn't keep him awake at night with quiet, dreamy anticipation.

As the song comes to a close, he pulls me back in again and we resume the slow dance we started off with, it's the same dance I've done today with a hundred different people, who mean a hundred different things to me.

I had to dance with Francesco, who I couldn't wait to get away from. I danced with my sisters, when that's been a silent dream of mine since I left them, and Emilio danced with girls he's spoken to every week on Skype but never had the chance to meet. I danced with the king of my country, my father, and I danced with the monarch who ended his rule today. I even danced with a man who my mum promised would someday feel like family, and today finally did.

My grandmother made me dance with family friends, and members of other clans just so they could say we're still their ally. I didn't know half of their names, and I remind myself that I have to learn more about our royal clans before the next time we're all in the same room together. Today, I should be tired of dancing, but right now, it's the only thing I want to be doing.

When the song ends, Asher flops us both down onto the lounger in the corner and quietly, another Christmas song starts to play over the speakers, but the two of us are breathing too heavily and still laughing to pay attention. On the couch, Asher flips onto his stomach and rests his head on his arm.

'Merry Christmas, Z.' He mumbles quietly, in between his eyelids growing heavy from the entire day's antics.

'Merry Christmas, Ash.' I whisper. He smiles a crooked smile and takes his glasses from his face so he can bury his cheek in his arm. Charlie's watch shines a spotlight on my face and I realise we're way past midnight, 'Actually, technically it's not Christmas anymore.'

'Oh shut up.' He shoves me, 'You're not ruining this moment with your technicalities.'

'This moment?' I ask him.

'Yeah.' He says contently, 'I can't remember the last time I enjoyed Christmas this much. It's usually really depressing pretending with Miss Van Doren that we know each other well enough to get each other good gifts, and having dinner in silence because we don't have any other relatives, and eventually we run out of energy pretending we feel festive, so we just sit in separate rooms and watch some crappy television.'

'Next year you can both come visit. You don't need to have a lonely Christmas ever again when you have this family.' I nudge him but he shakes his head goofily, 'And by next year, I promise I will know you well enough so that I don't get you a present you have to pretend to like.'

'You're going to want to see me next year?' He asks, shuffling his head so he can look at me.

'It depends on how much you piss me off this year, I'll give you a decision by around October time.' I shrug, 'Plus, I feel bad that I didn't get you a Christmas present, but I didn't have time. You came and changed everything in a week.'

'Changed everything?' He asks, propping his chin up on his hand.

My heart flutters a little as his golden eyes pool together with the dimming light and he looks at me, his face not showing any particular emotion, but managing to convey a hundred things at once anyway. I can't explain how this moment is completely different to when we were dancing, but feels exactly the same.

'Yeah, you did.' I reply honestly, wondering what part of my tired, and a little tipsy brain thinks telling him these things is a good idea, 'A week ago, I wouldn't have ever thought about getting you a Christmas present, and I wouldn't have missed you at all when I left London. I definitely wouldn't be laid up here talking to a different bodyguard.'

'I would've missed you when you left London.' He says, rolling onto his back and looking up at the ceiling. I try to pretend like I'm not watching how peaceful his face seems, but I'm glad he's not paying attention, because I am, 'I can't imagine what I would've done when you disappeared from Thorne and I never got to see you again. It would have driven me mad.'

'You wouldn't have even noticed I was gone.' I chuckle, knowing that I could've gotten on a plane and left forever, and Asher would have appreciated the relieved headache, but not really realised why.

'I would, I noticed every day I didn't see you at school.' I twist my head to look at him, but he doesn't move his eyes from the dancing chandeliers, eyes back behind his glasses frame, 'When you didn't show up to our first class in September I was worried you'd transferred, or been kicked out. And then you strolled in twenty minutes late without your blazer, and I was so relieved.'

'You were?' I ask, and finally he turns to look at me. He squints a little putting his glasses back across his nose, but nods and doesn't say anything else, 'Why?'

'I don't know. I couldn't imagine not seeing you around campus. I couldn't picture not arguing with you in the halls. Believe me, I never ever thought you would graduate, but I always thought if you did, we'd have this moment on the last day, in our gowns, where we'd admit that maybe we should've been friends all along.' He says, so tired he almost hums the words.

'Why wouldn't I have graduated? I used to beat all your test scores.' I tease him, and he smiles up at the lights.

'We scored the same, shut up.' He nudges my arm. I slip on the cushion and have to prop myself back up so I don't fall. I shuffle a little closer to Asher and lay back down so we're shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the ceiling, 'I don't remember why we weren't friends.'

He's right, I don't either, 'I wasn't really allowed to make many friends.'

'I know, but why didn't we like each other?' He asks.

I smile, shyly, even though he's not looking at me, 'Didn't we?'

He looks over at me and raises an eyebrow. I don't say anything, and neither does he. He just stays quite still, his hands crossed over his chest and his breathing calm and slow. If it wasn't for the fact that his eyes move between me and our surroundings lazily, I would consider wondering if he was asleep.

After a few minutes of calm quiet, with 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' tinkering in the background, Asher lifts his head a little, looking past me and a grin curling at the edges of his lips. I frown, waiting for him to explain why he's suddenly opened his eyes wide, and started to prop himself up.

'When was the last time it snowed in Alania?' Asher asks, and I furrow my brow, not really understanding his question, or it's relevance, but trying my best to remember the answer anyway. I think back to the last time we thought it was going to snow in that shitty diner, when Christopher was alive, but it never did.

'We don't really get snow here, just frost and hail and ice. We've not had snow in years, I think way back when my dad was young.' I explain, 'I remember him telling us one year that the last time it snowed, it was like three inches and traffic stopped still for days. Must have been like the 80's, I think. Why?'

'I think you believed in Christmas so much, you broke the weather.' He chuckles.

'What?' I ask, turning around to look at what's intriguing him so much.

I roll onto my back and tilt my neck to look at the window. For a second, I think someone must have hit the ceiling with something, causing the plaster to decorate the floors. But the tiles are fresh and clean and the specs come from behind the panes of glass in the doors. I squint, looking at the tiny blurs that are illuminated by a lantern perched on the balcony to light the bench there.

I sit up, dragging the heavy material with me, and feel it tug around my chest to the point that I almost topple backwards. Asher's hand gently catches me and helps to prop me back up, chuckling at my tired and strained attempt.

I look at him, and slowly, he stands up as I do, both our feet sore from such a long day. I shuffle wearily over to the doors and push the handles until they swing open. The cold hits me faster and harder than I expected and for the first time, I regret not having my heels, because my toes instantly feel as though they've turned blue.

But Asher's right, I really must have broken the weather, because when I hold out my hand for a moment, and then bring it back to my chest slowly, there's tiny snowflakes on my pink skin that dissolve in mere seconds. Asher steps past me, ducking underneath a low hanging curtain, to stand under the little hurricane of white wisps.

In the time it takes me to move the curtain out of the way to look up at the sky behind Asher, his hair is covered in snow and already begins curling at the ends, despite the gel, in a style that I recognise as a boy in a school blazer and a tie.

I can't help but let my mind wander back to that day in the corridor before detention, when we fought about our test scores. It had been raining during gym, and his hair was in ringlets around his thin glasses, which were dotted with droplets and intensified by the steam that the cold air had caused.

I remember rolling my eyes when I bumped into him, and I remember him watching the other students kick around my books. He made a comment about my status at the school, and I beat him in the winter finals. Our conversation wasn't any conversation we hadn't already had a hundred times, and yet for some reason, we still enjoyed it.

In the six years that Asher and I had been classmates, we had never shared intimate details about our home lives, we had never asked each other what our plans were for the holidays, we never even discussed a movie, ever. For six whole years, we kept each other entertained with snide comments about appearance, grades and anything else we could think of.

Then somehow, in a week, we've made up for all that time in little conversations that felt anything but snippy. I always wondered what it would be like if Asher knew who I really was, and finally he does, and he's standing a few feet away from me, holding out his hands to catch little frozen raindrops in an evening I never thought we'd share together.

It's Emilio's fault that Asher and I stand on this balcony, smiling contently at the weather, and at each other for a brief moment when he puts an arm around my waist and I rest my head on his slightly damp shoulder. Emilio's slip of the tongue to a government agent led to the adventure of a lifetime with the only person I would've wanted to spend it with.

I might have hit him when I found out, but if Emilio hadn't shrugged in an interview about my 'friendship' with Asher, I'd have stood out here alone, with some bodyguard I don't know standing by the door, talking about the security risk of being outside. Not for the first time, I'm grateful that some funny fate led the two of us here.

As if reading my mind, Asher leans his chin on the top of my head and blows out air, silvery white that billows away from us, 'I'm really glad I'm here.'

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything that won't complicate things. Because of our history, and Emilio's mistake, and the stupid romantic weather in Alania, I have to keep my hands by my sides and eyes focused on the clouds in the sky. I painfully allow myself to accept that I really do want to kiss Asher, and my heart will hurt when I don't.

'Let's hope that none of those reporters on boats are still here, huh?' Asher chuckles and I smile, remembering how much patience it took my grandmother to remain calm after that photo surfaced of us in the car together, 'I'm not sure I'll still have a job if another picture of us appears on the front cover of every national newspaper.'

'You did a good job today, you know.' I mumble into his side and I feel him adjust his head so he can hear me better over the surprisingly consuming patter that the snow gathering on the ground generates, 'I'd gear yourself up for some pretty top secret jobs when you get back to London, I've heard the whole agency's been buzzing about you all week.'

'I don't want to talk about London.' He tells me.

'Okay.' I reply, simply. I don't want to either.

'Phineas texted me this afternoon,' He says, moving along the conversation, 'He says he was watching the coronation on TV, and swears he saw my exact double. He said the only difference was that the Alanian agent was chubbier.'

I laugh out loud, because of how smart and yet so obliviously dumb Asher's friends are, 'Where did you tell them you'd gone?'

'I just made up some story about me and Ursula visiting some family up north for Christmas, and they bought it.' He tells me. I wonder why his friends buy this line, because surely they must know that Asher doesn't have family up north, Asher hardly has family at all.

'You're not chubby, it's just the bulletproof vest.' I say, poking at his chest.

'Hey! I'm not even wearing one anymore!' He says, squeezing his fingers to tickle me slightly.

I squirm away from his grip and nearly slip on the sludge caused by the snow melting around my toes. Asher grabs both my elbows and pulls me up against him, making sure I'm properly balanced before he lets one arm go. He reaches up his thumb and brushes a piece of hair from my forehead behind my ear, wiping away snowflakes as he does.

'I wish I had known you.' He says absentmindedly. I tilt my head up to look at him, noticing the way that his eyes are on me, but they're not focused. I know that Asher, in the same way I am, is remembering a girl in jeans and Docs, with a scruffy black wig and a bad attitude, 'All this time.'

'Would you have treated me differently?' I ask him, blinking away a snowflake and trying not to smile at the way that Asher's glasses have collected a beautiful icy decoration to them.

'I probably would have curtsied more.' He jokes.

The tiredness only allows me to slowly shake my head at him, moving a hand up to his collar, fingers dancing over his bow tie. I never realised before how much I like being this close to him. Part of me, selfishlessly hopes that he never learns how to tie his bowtie. I don't know how many more chances to be close to him I'll get, especially given my guest for today.

'Curtseying is for the women.' I smile, 'You would have to have bowed to me.'

'Haven't I always?' He grins, crookedly, the memories flooding through his face, every time that I had him wrapped around my little finger and never even noticed, 'I think I would've treated you differently, you know. I think your constant threats of treason would've eventually deterred me from stealing your clothes.'

I pause for a second, remembering quite how furious I was that day, but how much the emotion wells in my chest now, 'Then I'm glad you didn't know me.'

'Why?' He asks quietly.

'I wouldn't have traded it for the world.' I admit, looking down to his tie so that I don't have to watch him watch me. I don't trust myself to.

'Not even for all of this?' He gestures around, only for his hands to return to my waist only a second later. It reminds me that they're there, and my cold body responds in a way that I don't think I can entirely blame on the temperature.

'Not for anything.' I tell him. I brave looking up at him, to a face that I could never have predicted would mean this much to me, 'Arguing with you over detention was the best part of my day.'

'I'm more than happy to argue with you now.' He chuckles, but I know he wouldn't.

'It's not the same anymore.' I say quietly, furious at myself for the screaming inside my mind that reminds me that Francesco still exists, and so does my kingdom. But what's worse, is that I don't pay attention to it for even a second.

'I know.' He blinks, glancing out over the ocean, so still and serene. I can't think of a time in my life that the waves have seemed to soothed, 'There's a lot of things I would've done differently if I had known you.'

'Like what?' I ask, my hand resting on his chest.

He shrugs a little, looking back over the cove, almost sadly, 'I wouldn't have wasted my time.'

'It wasn't wasted to me.' I let him know, leaning back over to rest my head on his shoulder.

He drops his hand between us, catching the tips of my fingers with his. He doesn't take my hand properly, he just lets the feeling spark the electricity between us. Somehow, through the cold, part of us feels warm.

'I'm going to miss you.' Asher mumbles, filling the space for us.

I bite my lip, trying not to imagine this balcony, this palace, this country without him. He looks down at me, leaning over and pressing a kiss so gentle against my forehead that I have to fight back tears that I couldn't keep hold of the feeling.

I lean into him, letting his arms wrap me up into a hug, pretending like we don't know what we know, pretending for a second like this might happen. The night doesn't get colder, but the realisation sets ino around us and all of a sudden, there's a heartache that wasn't there before. Even with his arms wrapped around me, I can feel the tug of loneliness that I will feel when they're not.

'Are you cold?' He asks, looking straight at me when a slight shiver runs through me. I hum something indifferent to hide the fact that it wasn't the temperature that struck me. He smiles, as I bury my hands together in front of me without realising quite how cold it makes me seem, 'Let's get you home.'

We're home right now, in this castle, within these borders. But in Asher's arms, I couldn't be further away. The princess and the bodyguard don't exist here. Here we're Raine Carson and arch-enemy Asher Thorne. Here we're kids. But here isn't real, here isn't home. Life waits for the princess and the bodyguard back inside, paused for a second, but not slowing down enough to let us hold on.

When he leans away, I don't tell him that this won't feel like home without him here, because I can't take much more aching in my chest.

He takes one of my hands in his and walks the two of us back inside. I can tell he's not holding my hand for warmth, because he only grips one, and his hands are pink with hypothermia too. He pulls the doors behind us on their latch and helps me tip toe across the tiles.

When we reach the big ballroom doors, he drops my hand because he knows he'd be fired if we were seen. I feel the sting of pain and regret that I always do when Asher lets me go. I might have allowed myself a moment to have him, but a moment is only sixty seconds, and ours are up.

We walk peacefully back to my bedroom and the whole time I keep my eyes down, trying not to look at the corners of the walls where I could push him up and kiss him. I don't look at his hands, and I can't look at his eyes. I might have a reckless abandon in me to pull him into my bedroom and lock out agency protocol, but he can't risk his career for me, and I wouldn't ask him to.

I think about the times that I've fallen asleep around Asher, in my bright yellow room, or when he read to me. I think of the times when he's walked with a hand on my back or given me a hug when I needed it. I don't know exactly when it felt like everything had changed, but we can tell it has, because suddenly those little touches and memories stir something in my chest and mean a whole lot more.

When he opens the door to my corridor, I brush past him and for the first time notice which parts of our bodies collide. His hair is wet from the snow and any night before this one, I would reach up and wipe it away from him, but I worry that if I tried tonight, I wouldn't be able to make myself let go.

We stop at my door and he looks me up and down, and I try not to see the want in his eyes. I hope mine don't look the same, but I imagine they probably do. All of a sudden, it feels like someone has hung watches around our necks and reminded us that we're a ticking time bomb.

I think about our stolen glances and our sarcastic comments and realise that I have wanted Asher for as long as I can remember, and when he kisses me on the cheek slowly, agency protocol or prying eyes be damned, he silently tells me that he feels the same.

'Goodnight Zia.' He whispers.

'Night Ash.' I smile softly.

He turns around and walks away, his hands in his pockets and his head hanging low, tiredly. I watch his body until I lose him to another corridor, and I feel my heart disappear with him. I hold the door handle so I don't run after him and embarrass myself, or ruin this imaginary romance that I've denied myself for so long.

I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, knowing that Asher and I can never be anything more than our little touches or intimate conversations. In a week, I became royalty, and he became unsuitable. I silently wish for a kind of time machine, imagining everytime I could have kissed him at Thorne and didn't.

I would give anything for the two of us to put on a tie and carry books and just throw my arms round him in a science lab. I don't want to admit to myself that we have well and truly missed our chance, but my chest knows it and heavily takes me into my bedroom by myself.

Asher told me he would've done things differently, and it feels like a cruel irony that we came to this realisation a blink of the eye too late.

I dawdle in my bathroom, sadly and reflectively cleaning makeup from my face and letting my hair down, avoiding touching the piece that Asher tucked behind my ear, or the cheek where I can still feel his hand. I wrap my arms around my waist to keep myself warm in my cold pyjamas, and try not to remind myself of his touch. As I finish cleaning my teeth, I resolve to stop thinking about Asher if it kills me.

Because if I don't, then it will kill me.

I walk back into the bedroom and realise quite how distracted I was when I came in, because I've missed the present someone has laid out for me on the vanity. At first, I think it's wrapped in unusual (and quite frankly ugly) brown paper, but as I cross over to the window where the desk is nestled, I notice it's just a book.

I turn it round to read the title and my stomach drops.

The Incomplete Works of the 25th Generation of the Castille Clan: Christopher, Charles and Marzia Castille.

It's our book, the incomplete biography of our lives that fits at the end of a shelf in our library. It's the book that was missing, the missing book that scared my father. I sit down heavily, and as I do, a flash of red pokes from the corner of the pages, a bookmark that I don't recognise.

I pull at the page stopper and find that it's a ticket stub for tomorrow, for an event I recognise in East Laumant. It's a gallery for an artist, whose paintings were littered around the castle when mum lived here. There's an address, even though I remember it, and someone has gone to the trouble of circling it so it stands out to me.

I open the book to the last page where the mark indicates and find a scrawl underneath where the summary of Christopher and Charles's deaths is detailed. It's incomplete, because at least one Castille child is still alive, however it's not been updated in six years. The final page documents the countrywide mourning dedicated to the princes and underneath the paragraph that promises a complete edition upon our deaths, there is a short note in handwriting that I recognise.

The Incomplete Works of the 25th Generation of the Castille Clan: Christopher, Charles and Marzia Castille.

25th December 2014: Charlie comes home.