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                "TASHA," SAID PARIS. "I AM SO GLAD YOU'RE HERE."

                 The girl looked to be about twelve or thirteen. Her eyes were sunken, downcast. Her glossy brown hair was tucked away in that pink beanie, and she looked away.

                 Paris's eyes flicked down to the chart. Acute myelogenous leukemia. 

                 Her heart clenched almost painfully, throbbing in her chest, when she realized that the glossy, cocoa-coloured hair was a wig.

                 Evelyn Tribeca said, "Thank you so much, Doctor Young. Thank you for taking her."

                 "It was the least I could do," Paris said.

                 Even if the board fired her, Tasha Tribeca would remain a patient. And that was worth it—this young girl was worth it.

                 Evelyn Tribeca kissed her daughter on the cheek, whispered something in her ear that made Tasha's shoulders tighten, and then she was off: speed walking towards her car in the heavy snow outside.

                 Tasha had become rigid.

                 "What did your mother say?" Paris asked, as she led Tasha towards her new room. Across the hall from Dhonielle—and Rory.

                 "She said I was a dirty fucking whore and that if I let anyone know I was a repulsive homosexual, they would throw me out of the hospital and I can be homeless."

                 The tone of Tasha's bleak voice hadn't even changed. She seemed entirely too calm, her steps stiff and slow.

                 Paris stumbled to a stop. "She said—she said what?"

                 "A dirty fucking—"

                 "No, I . . . I heard that part," Paris said.

                 Tasha had stopped, too. Frozen—she waited, entirely still.

                 Waiting—she was waiting.

                 If I let anyone know I was a repulsive homosexual, they would throw me out of the hospital and I can be homeless.

                 She was waiting for Paris to throw her out.

                 "No," Paris said. "No, why don't we . . . why don't I show you to your room?"

                 She was trembling with anger. With self-restrained fury.

                 Room 316, across the hall from Rory and Dhonielle, she let Tasha settle herself in.

                 Her hands shook as she asked, "Tasha . . . has your mom ever said anything like that before?"

                 There was a familiar nothingness in her eyes. A sharp chord of misery that hummed in tune to Paris.

                 "Yes," Tasha whispered bleakly. "Every day."

                 That was it. Paris couldn't take it.

                 Forcing a smile out, she said, "I'll see you for check-up soon, okay?"

                 Tasha's beanie slid lower over her eyes. She nodded.

                 Paris backed away from the room, thinking of every single thing she would say to Evelyn Tribeca—none of them pretty—until her knees hit something warm. Solid. 

                 A wheelchair.

                 Her arms sprung out, trying to balance herself, but it was too late.

                 She fell right back into Rory's lap.

                 "Well, Doc, if you wanted some alone time, I would be more than happy to oblige," said the princess's voice in her ear, her arms snaking around Paris's lap.

                "You can't—this is—improper—"

                Paris sputtered, trying to stand, but Rory's fingers slid over her hips and pulled her securely onto the warmth of her thighs.

               "Rory, you—"

               "Oh, so finally you call me by name," breathed the princess against her jaw.

               The hallway was empty, but it wouldn't be for long. At any moment, a nurse or intern or doctor would catch a glimpse of this—this inappropriate behaviour. 

              And not only that—the door to Dhonielle's room was open.

              Paris knew just how big of a spy she was.

              "You have to let go of me," Paris hissed, although her body reacted to Rory's touch the same way it had back in boarding school.

              With warm, flushed pleasure.

              "And what if I don't, Paris?"

              "This is inappropriate. I'm a doctor and you're my patient, for God's sake!"

              "'For God's sake'?" Rory said. "I didn't know you were so devout when I knelt between your—"

              "You can't just do this, Miss Preston."

              "Do doctors and patients usually have a shared history?"

              "No, and usually one of their hearts wasn't once broken," Paris shot back. "Let go of me, Your Highness, or I'll—"

               Rory released her, and although Paris jumped to her feet, she immediately missed it—the aching warmth of Rory's fingers burning into her waist.

               Somehow, the thrill of being touched by the princess was something Paris had never been able to forget.

               And no one else—none of the boyfriends or girlfriends in the past five years—had been able to equal it.

               Paris had forgotten what it felt like. This sensation.

               But the moment she stood, she remembered her fury.

               A dirty fucking whore—

               "I have to go," Paris said, balling her hands into her fists.

               Rory's hazel eyes glinted. She was so beautiful it wasn't fair—that sleek but rugged perfection, honed to a striking blend.

               The way she leaned back, so arrogant it made Paris want to throw a punch for the first time in her life.

               The way her left cheek dimpled, so charming it made Paris want to grab her face with both hands and kiss her until she saw stars.

              "You can't go anywhere like this," Rory said.

              "Like what?"

              "Angry. Emotional."

              "You don't know—"

              "No, I don't know," Rory said. "I don't know what's wrong, but whatever you're going to do . . . wait until you're level-headed again."

               "I'm not you," Paris snarled. 

               "No, you're not," Rory said simply, as though she wasn't offended. "So don't make the same mistake."

               Was that . . . was she talking about them?

               Was she talking about what had happened between them?

               Mistake. 

               The word clanged through her. Hollowing her insides.

               Paris refused to let herself think of what that meant.

               But Rory was right about one thing: she was too emotional, too angry right now, to do anything good. Helping Tasha wouldn't be accomplished by insulting her mother. 

               Paris had no idea what she was doing, but . . . Rory was right.

               Not that she would ever admit it.

               "So tell me, Doc," Rory said easily. "What do you say—let's check out the cafeteria food. I want to try Canadian maple syrup."

               Paris scowled. "All maple syrup is Canadian. Whatever you tasted before this can not be called maple syrup." 

               "Sensitive, aren't we?"

               From the doorway next to Rory's room, a small figure peered out at Paris—dark, long-lashed eyes and purple beads that clinked in her braids.

               "Dhonielle, isn't it time for your rest?"

               "But, Doctor, now that you and the princess have finished your alone time, can I join?" She held up a picture filled with crayon scribbles. "This is what I made for you, Princess Rory."

               There was genuine delight in Rory's face as she took the paper.

               Paris's heart skipped a beat. Did Rory have any idea what she was doing to her? Did she know what effect that cocky, charming stare had on her?

               "It's . . . me and the doctor," Rory said, perplexed. "And I'm . . . kneeling?"

               "Yes, because you said you were kneeling between—well, I don't know."

               Paris choked. And shot Rory a glare that promised swift death.

               Rory remained straight-faced, angling her wheelchair towards Dhonielle. "So you drew me kneeling at Paris's feet? Making her a princess?"

               "Yes, so you can both be princesses."

               "That's so sweet of—"

               "And then you can make me a princess. Once I banish you, I'll be queen and you can have your alone time in exile!"

                "Oh," Rory hummed. "That sounds . . . nice."

                "Don't worry, though. I'll make sure your exile is somewhere nice and warm and tropical, like Fiji."

                "Well," Rory said lightly, her eyes lingering on Paris. "I've always wanted to go to Fiji."

                "I might have to assassinate you both sometime," Dhonielle continued. "Because if you're still alive, you might be a threat to my throne and—"

                "Okay, that's enough," Paris said, steering Dhonielle back in the direction of her room. "Thank you for the drawing, but Princess Rory has to get a . . . check-up now. And you've been watching the Crown, haven't you?"

                Dhonielle skipped back into her room, still clutching the paper.

                Rory was holding back laughter when Paris turned around.

                "Come on," Paris snapped. "It's time for your physical therapy."

                Rory pushed the handles of her wheelchair, spinning it so they could continue down the corridor. "How old is she anyway?" 

                Paris sighed. "Eight."

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Last update! Whoo! Four! 

Who's your favourite character so far? 

From the moon and back,
Sarai