i.

The cameras at the foot of the grand staircase went off all at once, in a bombard like an exploding star, as HRH The Princess of Wales appeared at the top of it, gowned in a stunning floor-length custom Dior, blonde hair swept into an intricate braided updo and her great-great grandmother's priceless Cartier tiara nestled atop it. She wore a matching diamond necklace and earrings, white evening gloves, Louboutin pumps (every detail of her outfit would be tweeted, criticized, praised, and pored over within the next fifteen minutes, and dominate all coverage of the benefit gala) and just an elegant hint of makeup. This was Emma Charlotte Victoria Elizabeth Windsor's first appearance since becoming the first royal daughter in history to hold the title of Princess of Wales, heiress to the throne, in her own right, and not merely as consort to the heir in waiting, ever since the required assent from the Commonwealth countries made gender-neutral primogeniture the law of the land. Great Britain had watched its princess grow up for sixteen years, in gossip magazines and official publications and carefully released photos, when (surprising themselves as much as anyone) the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh had another child – a son. Ordinarily, that meant he would have leapfrogged his older sister in the line of succession, but there was a massive public outcry against the idea of England's sweetheart having to give up her position due to silly old medieval requirements, and the process to change the law started accordingly.

Now, six years later, it had finally ground its way through the Government gauntlet and actually been enacted. Emma would succeed to the crown, as had always been planned and prepared for, and her baby brother, Prince Neal, would function merely in the career of supporting royal. (He called himself that because none of his actual names – Nicholas Edward Arthur Louis – are to a six-year-old boy's taste, hence N.E.A.L. Emma hoped it didn't stick. By a nasty little coincidence, that was the name of the boy who broke her heart, freshman year at St. Andrews. Left her gun-shy about ever dating another commoner, after the scandal splashed out across the red-top tabloids, recording in gleeful detail how Neal Cassidy had taken advantage of his connection to the Princess to rake in cash, favors, exclusive access to luxe Mayfair nightclubs, field-level Premier League tickets, and more. Then when she cut off the gravy train, he dumped her.)

Not even the example of her own parents had thus far questioned Emma's resolve. Queen Mary Margaret (Queen Mary III, officially) had been blessed with a true fairytale in her consort – Prince David was nicknamed "Prince Charming" in the early days of their courtship, for his dashing blonde good looks and devotion to his bride. And he actually was a commoner – not some blue-blooded scion of the gentry prepped his entire life for a royal match, but the son of a solidly middle-class English family – when he and the then-princess met and fell in love. He had served with exceptional faith and loyalty ever since, in the fishbowl of the royal household. Emma wanted to be closer to her mum, to really talk to her about what it would mean, this strange business of being a queen, but she was still deeply a daddy's girl at heart. Whenever something or someone hurt her, he was the one she went to.

Now, as Emma reached the bottom of the grand staircase and stepped into the heady whirlwind of the soiree – "On Behalf of the British Library" placards propped up on golden easels, white-aproned waiters tempting with trays of exquisite hors d'oeuvres, black bowties and couture gowns every which way – she had to resist the nervous urge to adjust her dress and jewels. This wasn't her usual style; she was an outdoorsy, sporty tomboy, a fact which led to approximately half a thousand Daily Mail women's columnists speculating that she subconsciously felt the pressure and wished she was a son to live up to the crusty expectations of a hidebound, sexist institution. Emma didn't think so, really, but tonight was going to be scrutinized enough. No need to add grist to their mill.

Across the way, she caught sight of her bodyguard, Captain Liam Jones, looking tall and handsome in his dress Navy uniform. He was quite a bit older than her – thirty-five – and still not over the tragedy that cost him his ship and led to him being reassigned here, to stand in corners while she went about her life. It had to be a step down. Nonetheless, he'd never complained, and as he was the one person with her day and night, who knew all her secrets and understood her struggles, she had found herself developing a bit of a thing for him. God knew why. Likely because pining over her attractive older bodyguard from afar was the most relationship she felt up to attempting; she hadn't dated at all in the four years since Neal. Sometimes she wondered if her brother would inherit the throne after all, by virtue of her dying a childless spinster. No matter her family's wealth and power and worldwide fame, her own position atop every list of the 25 Hottest/Best/Brightest Under 25, completely alone.

That was an incredibly depressing thought, and Emma forced it away, papering on a bright smile instead. She waded into the chaos, shaking hands with the Prime Minister and a few Sir This-or-Thats with their bejeweled trophy wives, some important professors from Oxford and Cambridge, and the British Library senior staff. There were a thousand photo-ops, expertly rehearsed soundbites, and other diplomatic wheel-greasing, and by the time she was halfway through the rounds, Emma was bloody parched. She excused herself to the bar, ordered a glass of soda water and Grenadine, and was just turning around to return to the zoo when she (rather literally) crashed into serious trouble.

It – or rather, he – was perhaps three years older than her, twenty-five or thereabouts. Obnoxiously, gut-wrenchingly handsome: tousled dark hair, blue eyes, artsily perfect stubble, in an all-black tuxedo with a BL lanyard around his neck. But for all his vision of masculine perfection, he appeared completely unaware of any such effect, and instead was absolutely mortified that he had just spilled the Princess of Wales' drink down her million-pound dress. "Oh my God! Oh my God… I'm a clumsy arse, Your Highness, I'm so sorry, I didn't – "

Emma accepted the fistful of cocktail napkins provided by a waiter zooming to the scene of the crime, dabbing at the big wet spot on her thigh; oh god, this would be in the gossip rags tomorrow. She was just trying to wave off his well-meant but backfiring attempts to assist, when a familiar voice groaned, "Bloody hell, Killian. You're going to get both of us sacked."

Emma and the young man looked up in startlement to see Liam himself, regarding the confused proceedings and the damp princess with a wryly amused expression. Seeing her staring, he inclined his head. "Ma'am, this is my little brother – who, as you may have discovered, in fact works at the British Library, rare books and manuscript collection. They put him in there by himself because he's crap with girls."

"Oy, thanks a lot, Liam!" the younger Jones spluttered. "Way to throw me under the bus in front of the princess! I've already made a prat of myself, so toss a drowning man a rope, would you?"

Liam stiffened somewhat at that figure of speech, but grinned crookedly. "Killian, the Princess of Wales, Emma Windsor. Princess, Killian Jones."

"Pleasure," Emma and Killian said awkwardly in unison, as he reached out as if to shake her hand and then jerked back – proving that no matter how gorgeous he was, Liam's assessment might not be far off the mark. Much too good-looking for a librarian. On their third attempt, they shook successfully, and Emma couldn't help but admire his smooth, long-fingered hands, the way they fit so well around hers. She looked up shyly just in time to catch him staring at her, then ripping his gaze away and blushing violently. Oh dear.

Liam, clearly inordinately entertained by the situation, nonetheless took pity on them and towed Emma away to make sure her dress was dry before the next round of photos, leaving Killian trying to dig himself a hole in the middle of the Buckingham Palace ballroom. But Liam returned and clapped a brotherly arm around his shoulders, to signify that all was forgiven, and Emma couldn't help biting her cheek. That and stealing glances at him as she got back to her rounds, to see if he was talking to anyone else. But while women continually appeared, drawn by the same reason she was (they had a functional set of eyeballs and a pulse) none of them seemed to get very far. Poor Killian looked as if he was missing a cup of warm milk and an eight-PM bedtime.

Yet when the draped auction tables (offering special items from the Library's collection for sale, through exclusive partnership with Sotheby's) were moved aside and the orchestra (all first chairs at the London Philharmonic) struck up a waltz, Killian gamely joined in the dancing. Emma eyed him over the Prime Minister's shoulder as she revolved past, took a turn with her father and then with Liam, enjoying the way he lifted and whirled her effortlessly, the moments when the steps brought them close. She had also partnered the U.S. ambassador and the Chief Executive of the Library when Liam tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Princess, Killian has been screwing up his courage for forty minutes to try to ask you, and it's getting a bit painful to watch. Do you mind taking just one dance with him, or should I tell him to forget it?"

"What?" Emma, startled, glanced over just in time to see Killian immediately and poorly once more pretend that he hadn't been staring. "What – did he send you to do this for him?"

"What? No!" Liam looked miffed at the suggestion. "All I said is, the poor lad is struggling. I am trying to help out."

"I – no, I don't mind. I'd be happy to dance with him." Emma took a sip of water, feeling her heart speed up for no good reason. "What's the harm in just once?"

Liam grinned, then offered her his arm and chaperoned her across the ballroom to his gobsmacked sibling, who surely was not expecting the Princess hand-delivered to him, especially after their unfortunate previous encounter. But he recovered enough to make a bow, to which she returned a curtsy, offered his hand, and as the music started up again, pulled her onto the floor.

Within a few short moments, Emma was utterly astounded. The tongue-tied, maladroit, bumbling bunny was completely gone when they were dancing. Killian was smooth, assured, confident, almost daring – spinning her, dipping her, spiraling her out and then pulling her back in, until she nearly forgot that the world beyond the two of them – the glittering gala, the journalists, the cameras, the snide editorials waiting to be written if she failed – even existed. She thought he would shuffle and hop like a drunken penguin, step on her toes, but he didn't, not once. Their gazes remained locked on each other's, and she felt a heat in her cheeks that did not come from exertion. When the waltz finished, they were very close, close enough that she was briefly convinced he might try to kiss her, and did not have the desire to pull away. That would definitely be an exclusive photo spread in Hello!, not to mention spawn months of rumors.

But Killian Jones was not so brave as that. He thanked her, blushing – with the music stopped, the spell broken, he was back to his timid, uncertain self – stepped away, said it was getting quite late and he did have to work tomorrow, begged her pardons and, like Cinderella at the ball with the roles reversed (which rather made sense), fled.

Emma did not dance with anyone else the rest of the night.

The next day, she was still thinking about him. As expected, the drink-spilling incident headlined the gossip pages, although they did make sure to note that there must have been no hard feelings as "Princess Emma was seen sharing a magical waltz with the handsome stranger." Normally such gushy nonsense would have made Emma's eyes roll right out of her head, but this time it did something different. She dressed casually, in jeans and hoodie and cap and sweatshirt, knotted her long blonde hair into a loose ponytail, and looked at herself in the mirror to confirm that she was indistinguishable from any other City student or commuter. She felt bad about going behind Liam's back like this, as he would probably panic when he realized, but she never got to go anywhere by herself, and it would be awkward to take him along where she was headed. She'd text him. It would be fine.

Disguise completed, Emma successfully snuck out of Buckingham via the staff entrance and headed for the Tube station. It was a surprisingly sunny autumn day, tourists and locals out to enjoy it, and nobody gave her a second glance as she hopped aboard the crowded subway car. The freedom of anonymity, of spontaneity, was thrilling. She was used to the fact that she would be queen one day, that her life and destiny was mapped out for her, but now was one of the times when she felt the cost of it, wished that she had a say, any say, in who she was and what she became. Sometimes it seemed almost too much to pay.

Fifteen minutes or so later, she debarked from the Tube at St Pancras and crossed the street to the handsome, sprawling brick edifice of the Library. Headed inside and up to the manuscript division, where normally one had to apply for access to the collections. Instead she stood there, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous schoolgirl, until Killian Jones appeared. In his native habitat, he was also much less skittish than last night, wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open – which was such a distracting sight that she momentarily forgot why she was there. Then she stepped forward. "Killian?"

He glanced up, smiling politely – then recognized her and almost dropped the stack of papers in his arms. Indeed, he was so flustered that she was the one who had to reassure him it was all right for her to be here, and really she was just in the neighborhood and thought she'd drop by, no trouble or effort. He quickly put the papers down to avoid any more incidents, wiped his hands on his trousers, and immediately apologized for the fact that the drink-spilling incident was the main takeaway from the gala; apparently he had seen the gossip pages too. But she told him that it was nothing, and was attempting to think of something to do or say that would not make her completely obvious, when he blurted out, "Would you – would you like a tour? Your – Pr – Em – ?"

Emma had to smile. "Just call me Emma. And you – you won't get in trouble, will you?"

"Considering last night, I'd hope not." He raised one eyebrow, which should not be as attractive as it was. "But… well… if you had somewhere else to be, of course…"

"No," she said, before she could talk herself out of it. "No, I don't."

They spent the rest of the afternoon together, as Killian led her through the reading rooms and collections archives. Talking about books, he was articulate, confident, funny, and fluent, and there were all sorts of books to be discussed. If you could think of it, it was probably in the British Library, and he showed her where some of their greatest treasures were kept: the Magna Cartas, Gutenberg Bibles, the only existing copy of Beowulf, Leonardo da Vinci's notebook, rich illuminated manuscripts, the prayer books owned by her ancestors, the kings and queens of England, and much more. They were caught a few times by his supervisors, only for them to realize who his special guest was and almost fell over themselves welcoming Emma to the Library, thanking her for last night, and if there was anything they can do. She graciously declined, content with her current company. She could listen to Killian talk about it all day.

At last, the afternoon was over, it was starting to get dark and cold, and to judge by the increasingly frantic chirping of her phone in her pocket, she had better check in with Liam and let him know that she was fine, she was with his brother, before he had a stroke. This she did, only for him to order her to stay there, he was not letting her ride the Underground by herself at rush hour and would come to pick her up with the car; also, he might murder Killian. She made him promise not to do any such thing, then put her phone back to see Killian himself looking guilty. "He's going to kill me, isn't he?"

"No," Emma said hastily. "I talked him out of it."

Killian choked, but the afternoon together had done its work, made things easier between them, and he did not immediately turtle up and go back into his shell. They sat together in the front foyer as the last visitors and researchers drained out for the day, hands almost touching but not quite, until Emma wondered if he was as intensely aware of it as she was. Everything seemed to shrink with him, become smaller and slower and somehow perfect, in a way that she could not even begin to describe, was frightened to. No. Not again. She made a promise. She couldn't.

At last, she saw Liam pull up outside the doors, and got to her feet as Killian did as well. "I – " She bit her lip. "That was – that was wonderful. Thank you."

His eyes stayed on hers. Once more, he was clearly plucking up his courage, but Liam wasn't there to run intervention (yet). "Prin – Emma. May – may I see you again sometime?"

The answer came out immediately, before she could stop or guard herself. "Yes."

They remained mesmerized a moment longer, the word, the promise, the future, the terror of it hanging between them. She couldn't throw him into this world, her world. She had watched her father, watched it crush and weigh on him even for all he has gained. Didn't know if she could do that to Killian Jones.

Didn't know if she could do without.

Their eyes stayed locked. Liam honked the horn.

Emma turned around at last, and went.