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                PARIS DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO FEEL.

                Furious was a start.

                Last night—up until the clock struck twelve—Paris had debated actually going.

                There was probably a rule against ice skating in the middle of the night with one of her patients. There was probably another rule against going out on that frozen lake in the middle of winter. 

                And there was definitely a rule against falling in love with one of her patients.

                Paris had waited outside.

                After hours of thinking it over—and arguing with Alec—she had gathered up every ounce of courage she had, and she had gone outside.

               The moonlight had gilded the snow in silvery light. 

               The sky had shone as black as wet ink against paper.

               Bundled against the cold, Paris had shivered. Leaning back against the glass wall. Alone as the clock ticked to midnight.

               She had waited.

               But Rory had never shown up.

               Paris didn't know how long she had waited there, looking out at the glittering lake. But her fingertips were blue and her hair was crusted in snow by the time she went back inside.

               Rory hadn't shown up. 

               She had asked her out on a date . . . or whatever that had been . . . and she hadn't shown up. 

               Paris should have felt angry. Righteous.

               But last night, she had only been tired and so, so cold.

               Falling into bed, dreaming—it had been a mercy. Even if it had only delayed the inevitable, because now Paris was awake.

               And she was mad. 

              What had Rory been thinking? Had it all just been an elaborate set-up? 

              Maybe she had been trying to see if Paris would do it. If she would go outside. If she would wait there, in the freezing cold, for a girl who wouldn't even show up.

             Maybe she wanted to see if Paris was still that same, stupid girl who had said, I love you. 

             And Paris had gone. She had waited.

             Maybe she still was that stupid girl.

             Why had she thought this time would be different?

✺✺✺

             THE ON-CALL ROOM WAS CROWDED with other doctors and surgeons and nurses who had decided to stay for the next seventy-two hours during the power outage. As Paris shrugged on her white coat, she caught sight of Alec sauntering down the corridor and talking to another nurse.

            When he saw her, he swung her by the arm.

            "Paris," he said. "I have delicious news."

            "If I hear one more thing about how the frosting on your cake wasn't the only white thing that made a mess in your kitchen, I'm going to quit my job to avoid you."

             "No," Alec said, pure delight flaring in his blue eyes. "It's about Rory." 

             "Well, unless she somehow singlehandedly solved world peace in a matter of eight hours, I—"

             "It's better," Alec chirped.

             "Better?"

             "Better," he said. "This morning, an intern found her sleeping on the piano in the rec room."

             That . . . was unusual.

             Paris tried—and failed—to hide her bewilderment as she asked, "Why was she sleeping on the piano?"

             "I don't know," Alec said. "But isn't it delicious?"

             "I think we have a different idea of the word delicious."

             "I hope you find out." Alec's eyes were twinkling now. "You better let me know every single luscious detail."

             Paris rolled her eyes. "I'm not planning on finding out."

✺✺✺

             "WHY ON EARTH WERE YOU SLEEPING ON A PIANO?" 

              Rory glanced up from her bed. There was something in her lap that she quickly shoved beneath the blankets, and her fingers began to dance over her sheets as she said, "You heard about that."

             "Yeah, I heard about that."

             "Listen, Paris, I want to—"

             "Was it to laugh at me?" Paris asked quietly. "Did you just want to see if it would work? If I would go? Well, surprise, Rory. I went. I waited for you. Where were you?"

             There had always been something about Rory that lit Paris on fire. Sparks that sang in tune to hers. Something that made her feel . . . alive. 

             And, boy, did Paris feel alive right now.

             She felt so alive she was ready to commit murder.

             Rory opened her mouth, but Paris was already continuing, "Seriously! For the love of all things holy—and don't even make a joke about that—I waited. I knew I shouldn't have trusted you. I knew this would end badly. Again." 

             Paris let out a scoff, but there was no denying how hurt she felt now.

             "And you know what? I really thought you were different," she said. "I thought you had changed. I thought maybe . . . forget it. This was my fault. I don't know why I'm blaming you—I'm the stupid one. I'm the one who believed you."

            Paris began to back away.

            There was something raw in Rory's eyes, but also something hurt, too. 

           Good, Paris thought savagely. 

           She should know what it felt like. 

           To be left alone.

           To be waiting for someone who would never come.

           Paris shook her head again. And although Rory was trying to get out of bed, she didn't wait for an answer.

           In a cold, professional voice, she said, "I'll see you later for your check-up."

           But even after leaving, Paris didn't feel good. She didn't even feel better. There had been something about the way Rory had looked at her . . . hurt and maybe a little angry, too. But why would the princess have any right to be angry?

           "Doctor Young," said Nurse Connie.

           Paris turned to see the face of the old, sweet woman who attended to Tasha. "What is it, Nurse?" she asked.

           "I think there's something you should see."

           Across the hall, the door to Tasha's room was empty. Paris froze. 

           Where was she? 

           But Nurse Connie didn't even blink at that. Instead, she led Paris down the hall to the common area. The rec room.

           There was a crowd gathered inside. Patients and staff alike hovering over the pool tables and the card games and the television.

            Nurse Connie said, "Do you hear that?"

            Paris heard the sound of music.

            Piano. 

            "Who . . . who's playing?" she said.

            It must have been Gloria. She was the only one who knew how to string together something more coherent than Mary Had A Little Lamb—and even then, she was a lot better than most people. Gloria had once told her she wanted to go to Julliard. 

            Paris twisted her way through the small stream of people.

            Who is it? 

            It wasn't Gloria.

            Paris's jaw loosened altogether. The chart in her hand fell clattered to the ground and, dazed, she knelt to pick it up. Still staring at the girl sitting on the piano.

            Playing It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year. 

            Tasha. 

            Tasha with no beanie.

            Tasha with no hair. 

            The glossy, cocoa wig was gone. In its place, there was a fine layer of chestnut hairs growing atop her scalp. Pale blue veins visible.

            But that wasn't what made the tears spring to her eyes.

            It was the fact that Tasha was smiling. 

            Just a whisper of a smile—a silhouette of happiness—but it was there. And from the girl who had once stabbed a doctor because she didn't want to make him dirty, this was . . .

           This was . . .

           "It's all thanks to the princess," said Nurse Connie.

           Paris's mouth opened. Closed. "Rory?"

            "This morning," Nurse Connie began in a low voice, "Tasha got out of bed. She gave me that wig, told me to throw it out. And then she came here. Told me that last night, the princess had taught her how to play a new song."

            "A new song," Paris breathed.

            Christmas music. 

            Nurse Connie nodded towards Tasha. Her fingers swirled over the piano, and the music that sprang to life was high and fun and lively.

            It wasn't like the intricate, classical pieces Gloria played. But it was a different kind of beautiful. It was cheerful. 

            When Tasha finished, Paris was the first one to clap.

            Shyly, Tasha's head dipped towards her chest. 

            "That was beautiful," Paris said, as Tasha stood, running her fingers over the glossy keys one last time.

            "Thanks," she said, looking down. "Rory taught me."

            "When . . . when did she teach you?" Dread grew in Paris's chest, tightening like a knot. She couldn't breathe suddenly. 

             "Last night," Tasha said quietly. "She was teaching me new songs until morning."

             Paris had been wrong. Paris had been magnificently, incredibly wrong.

             Squeezing Tasha's shoulder, she said, "I'm glad. I'll come check up on you later, alright? The nurse tells me your vitals are stable."

             Tasha smiled. A real, rare smile.

             "Yeah," she whispered. "I like it here. Thanks, Doctor . . . Paris."

✺✺✺

             "CAN I COME IN?" PARIS ASKED. IT WAS afternoon, and she stood outside the door to Rory's room. 

             It had taken her longer than she had thought it would to get here—partially because her office floor had been covered in tiny cups of water that spelled out 'Tis The Damn Season. 

             She would probably have to have a talk with her kids about saying the word damn. But then, she had always loved Taylor Swift so it could possibly be excused.

             She was also impressed with the precision of the rows of cups. And she might have even admired the prank, until she knelt down and spilled one. And they all fell like dominoes. At this point, she was hoping the hospital wouldn't sue her for water damage on good faith. 

            But if Paris was honest with herself . . . 

            That was only a part of the reason why it had taken her so long.

            She could hear the king's words echoing in her ears.

            But it wasn't only his threat—it was the deal she had made with him.

            An offer—an offer for something she had no choice but to accept.

            And she didn't want to be a pawn—not in a king's game, not in anyone's game. But when she was with Rory, she didn't feel like she was playing a part.

            That, more than anything, scared her.

            Rory looked up. Winter sunlight slanted in from the window, sharpening the angle of her jaw, her cheekbones. 

           "Sure, Doc," she said, but it was guarded.

           "I came here to apologize."

           Rory closed a book that had been in her lap. "You're . . . saying you're sorry?"

           "Yes, I'm—"

           "Hold on, can I get that in writing? Where's the paparazzi when you need them?"

           Paris scowled. "I'm trying to say I'm sorry, you idiot!"

           "Have I ever mentioned it turns me on when you call me such beautiful things?"

           "Everything turns you on. You're disturbed."

           "Disturbingly attractive. And you're into it."

           "I am not," Paris insisted. "Your ego is as inflated as a hot air balloon."

           Rory frowned. "Let's go back to the part where you were saying, I'm sorry and telling me how insanely hot you think I am." 

           "I wasn't—" Paris drew in a breath. "What I'm trying to say is I'm sorry. I understand why you didn't show up and I . . . I don't blame you. Actually, I wanted to say thank you."

           "Thank you?"

           "Thank you," Paris emphasized. "You made Tasha smile. You . . . brought a little life into her. She's not wearing her wig today, and that's because of you. So thank you."

           "You're really not mad?"

           "I could never be mad at someone who helps one of my kids," Paris said. "That . . . that means the world to me. You helped her, and I just . . . I wanted to let you know I appreciate it."

           "I wasn't doing it for you," Rory said.

           "I know," Paris whispered, her heart clenching. "And that's why I appreciate it."

           Paris had been wrong. Rory was different.

           She had spent an entire night teaching a girl she barely even knew to play Christmas songs. She had given Tasha a reason to smile for the first time she had gotten here.

           "And about last night," Rory said in a rush. "I swear I forgot completely, I was just so—"

           "No," Paris said. "I understand. I promise."

           When her phone buzzed in her pocket, she pulled it out. Still staring at Rory, her heart beating too fast, because the way Rory was looking at her—the way she was still staring, with clear desire in her eyes—

            "Hello?" she answered. "This is Paris Young, pediatrician at—"

            "You were listed as Evelyn Tribeca's emergency contact, Miss Paris Young."

            Her emergency contact? Why had Evelyn done that? 

            "It's Doctor, actually," she corrected, thinking of the way Tasha's eyes had been empty as she whispered, Dirty fucking whore. 

             "Doctor Young, there's been an accident."

             Paris's hand began to tremble. "What happened?"

             The voice hesitated. "Please sit down, Doctor Young." 

             Paris's blood thinned in her veins. She thought of Tasha. Had something happened to her mother? Had there been a bad accident? 

             But she didn't have to wonder. To think.

             The voice said, "Evelyn Tribeca committed suicide twenty minutes ago."

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This chapter is dedicated to CateLiney and chicken_french_fry. 
I think you know why.

How do you think this changes things?

A few of your comments are hitting the mark close to the storyline, so although I'm not responding to your guesses, just know that I am scarily impressed by the accuracy.

From the moon and back,
Sarai