I've said this before, but it bears repeating: I don't own The Princess Diaries.

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This happened sometimes. Not often, but it did happen – a distressingly unavoidable part of a political existence.

Four days ago, intelligence had unearthed a credible threat against the Crown of Genovia. Although it was investigated quickly and essentially ruled out, the palace had gone on lockdown. Until a full and exhaustive report rested in David's hands, the Head of Security would keep activities at the royal residence discreetly, but severely restricted.

Joseph, as his second-in-command, agreed whole-heartedly with David's decision to proceed with more caution than seemed necessary because when it came to matters of national security, there was actually no such thing as more caution than necessary.

At least, that's what Joseph used to believe.

All security staff had been working long hours, redoubling their efforts at vigilance. Breaks were few and far between, but David insisted they not be missed. An exhausted, adrenalin-fueled team would crash and burn, and that was not an option for the people responsible in matters of life and death.

So Joseph retired to his room at some point each night, ready for the sleep he knew would come too hard and fast to last long enough. And it never failed: just as he began to slip into oblivion, his phone would ring or someone would pound on his door.

The most inexperienced of the security team were living in a state of hyper-awareness; or to put it another way, the rookies overreacted to the least little suggestion of an incident. Time and again, he was dragged from the edge of sleep to investigate questionable shadows on the monitors in the hub that turned out to be, well, shadows. Once he was summoned to the kitchen over a suspicious package. He arrived to find a knot of young security guards, brows furrowed and gazes intense as they considered how to handle the unmarked brown paper bag in the center of the table. Joseph prodded it warily, opened it carefully while the other guards held a collective breath, then pronounced it to be somebody's lunch. Someone picked it up sheepishly – but still gingerly – and put it in the refrigerator.

Other members of the palace staff found their way to his apartment as well. Strange noises rattling the maids, the grocer's usual delivery guy showing up in a new car and sending the kitchen staff into a panic – there was no doubt the threat had everyone on alert.

On the fourth night, David received a complete, watertight report from the intelligence committee that documented top-notch investigative techniques and cleared the royal family of danger. When he met with Their Majesties in the morning for their regular debriefing, David would officially take the palace off high alert.

Joseph made his way to his room slowly, feeling the effects of the high wearing off. He loosened his tie as he pushed open his door and headed straight for the sideboard, where a very fine bottle of scotch was waiting for him. Just as he tipped it over the rim of the glass, he sighed. Better not, he thought. Yes, they were likely out of the woods, but he didn't want to take anything for granted, and during times like this, he never considered himself to be completely off-duty. He set down the bottle and the glass, and opted for a shower.

The showerhead propelled the hot water in thin, forceful streams onto his neck and shoulders, and he felt his knotted muscles relax for the first time since the alarm had sounded. He stayed as long as he could stand it, letting the water beat the stress from his body and the thoughts from his mind.

He wrapped a towel around his waist as he stepped out of the bathroom and cast one more longing glance at the scotch. He was beyond tired, and needed to wind down before he could sleep properly.

He started across the studio apartment to his dresser, stopping to switch on a lamp. Only then did he realize he hadn't done that when he first arrived. It finally registered with him that the space was sufficiently lit by moonlight to render the lamp almost unnecessary. He turned the light off again and changed course, heading through the kitchenette to lean against the low window sill and stare up at the full moon, nearly as bright and radiant as the midday sun.

The wide window afforded a stunning view – silver-coated rose gardens and white-washed pathways and dark lawns rolling into wooded hills. The sea was beyond his window's view, but not far off, and he knew what it would look like on a night like this, fragments of the moon's reflection rippling on the waves.

His was a not a life suited to just anyone, but he liked it. His small apartment in the servants' quarters was just big enough to house his neatly organized belongings. His work could be dull as dishwater or heart attack-inducing intense, and he loved it in every form because it was always important.

And her. Of course, there was her. He had had a hell of a week, but he would endure anything for her.

He had sworn an oath to defend the Queen, with his life, if necessary. But if it ever came to that, it would not be for duty that he made the ultimate sacrifice. If he died for her, it would be because he loved her more than life itself.

He pushed away from the window to go in search of clothes. After selecting some loose pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, he picked up his guitar from where it leaned against the dresser. He returned to the window, using his free hand to hook the back of a chair from the small table in the kitchenette. He set it down by the window, then sat and propped his feet up on the deep sill. He hoisted up the guitar and strummed it a bit to start tuning.

The other reason he cherished this view? She had the same one from her suite, just a little higher up.

She occupied his every waking thought and saturated his dreams. She was the focus of his work and the beat of his heart. Naturally, as he played his favorite songs, she waltzed in and out of his mind, until it was criss-crossed with the bittersweet trails she left behind. He wondered if she was looking outside right now. He wished she were seeing the view from his room.

He sat for a long time, weaving Clarisse into melodies through the strings of his guitar, until there was a knock on his door. He stopped playing at once and closed his eyes, knowing he had no more patience for agitated servants. The words, dark as the night, were rumbling toward his mouth before he could even see them in his thoughts.

to be continued...