And, no, it wasn't the fact that Waldo was definitely nowhere to be found.

No, she thought, slowly rising in shock as the full realization of what she was seeing sank in, it wasn't that at all. It was that Daisy, her Daisy, was no longer wearing her necklace.

Bonita saw everything.

Bonita caught up with Daisy, whirling her around by the shoulder, just as the younger woman was about to hold Prince Philip to the earlier promise of a dance. The Duke, however, did not mind finding himself allowed to slip off the hook so easily, seeing as he still had quite a number of things to get over.

For example, he had to get over the fact that Daisy had refused to eat any of the meal that he had so thoughtfully prepared for her a few weeks back. He also had yet to get over the fact that he was still in a foul temper, the bagpiper having miraculously survived the summer as had the nonet of annoyingly resilient, blasted yapping corgis. Not to mention, come to think of it, that his wife was still undisputed head of a country, while he was not.

He stalked off, having forgotten his resolution to try just getting over it. No, there wasn't a whole bloody lot to be celebrating with bloody dancing in his life.

Bonita, for one, was glad to see him go.

"Don't you think you're getting carried away just a little bit, Daisy?" she asked, her desperation showing, the rare triple whammy in the realm of personal address laying naked, through verbalization, the depth of her concern.

"What are you talking about?" Daisy asked, only half paying attention. She was watching the retreating form of the Duke, sorry to see him go. She had been intending to work on his personality some more.

"Do you know who you are?" Bonita asked, trying in vain to reclaim Daisy's ear.

"Of course," Daisy said. "I'm Daisy," she added, leaving out the most important part.

"Do you know where you come from?" Bonita asked, her expression one of the gravest intensity.

"Is this some kind of a game?" Daisy asked. "I came here from my room in the castle," she said, just a trifle impatiently, indicating with a vague gesture of her hand the vast expanse of the rest of the granite structure, beyond. "Look," she continued, "I don't have time for this right now. I have to go find Charles."

And she hurried off, leaving a stunned Bonita behind.

Eventually, drastic measures would probably have to be employed. But, for now, she would merely sit back and watch.

For the time being, she really was too shocked to do anything else.

At the Ghillies' Ball, as with any truly great party, there was a second party, even better than the first, which was going on below stairs, as it were. And the Prince and Daisy had just put in an appearance.

It was an annual tradition with the servants at Balmoral, the ones whose presence was not absolutely required in the Grand Hall, to hold their own celebration of the harvest on the lanterned lawn of the grounds, just out of sight of the castle itself. In previous years, the late-night attendance of Prince Andrew had become the norm, looked forward to even as one of the highlights of the fete, especially by those partygoers with a more pro-randy mindset. But, the unexpected and unannounced arrival of his more staid elder brother, well, that was quite another thing again.

The Prince was about to learn that, if the best part of any New York City party could always be said to take place in the kitchen, then the best part of the Ghillies' Ball could be said to take place with the kitchen help. In contrast to the fairly lively, if wholly uninspired and yawningly expected, national music that was being played in the Grand Hall, here there was a much more animate-if just a tad bit raw-rock combo playing. As the Prince made good his entrance, with Daisy on his arm, the band had just swung into a rather raucous imitation of the Stones' version of an old standard, and Charles-who strived in vain for the first couple of minutes to behave in the prescribed, wire-hanger-still-in-the-jacket form-found that he could no longer resist the toe-tapping beat. Before he even knew what he was about, he found himself leading a greatly surprised Daisy on a merry dance.

"Shall we show them how it is done, DeeDee?" he enquired, taking her in his arms.

DeeDee? Daisy thought.

"This chap does a fine Jagger. Don't you think?"

I'm gonna tell ya how it's gonna be;

You're gonna give your love to me...

If this whole second party business impressed Daisy as being just a little bit Alex Haley's Roots on tartan steroids, complete with tribal kilts, she didn't let on. In fact, the impression that was made on those present was not what one would normally have expected.

Ashes, ashes and all fall down...

It was agreed upon later, by one and all, that the Prince was really quite a fun sort of guy, much more free-spirited than one would have been led to believe, and one hell of a good dancer. His little friend, on the other hand, had seemed nice enough, though she did seem-by comparison with His Royal Highness-to suffer just a wee bit from a case of the old stuffed shirt.

Love to love ya, not fade away.

4.

The following morning found Daisy-or, DeeDee, as her larger friend was now intent on calling her-feeling a little bit under the weather, not herself at all, really. On the previous evening, she had plied herself with one too many glasses of the local Rhenish, and had allowed herself to be sung to and had danced to more songs from the seventies than her sore brain cared to remember. It would appear that she, the Prince, and the little people had partied long into the night.

All things taken into consideration, then, it hardly seemed surprising that, while preparing to dress for a day's salmon fishing on the River Dee with Charles-to be accompanied by the Q.M., who had muscled an invite for herself, under the guise of there being a grave necessity for a chaperone; and, to be followed by a go at grouse hunting with Phil; afterwards to return to the castle, for a final intimate dinner with the immediate family and an evening of games-that, in her haste, Daisy never even noticed the discarded Star of David where it lay, offering mute accusation, still upon the counter of the bathroom sink.

"Coming, Charles!" she shouted through the door when summoned, hurrying out to meet him.

In fact, our girl was so busy now-on the verge of becoming such a social centerpiece, really-that her failure to see the chain is perhaps to be understood and forgiven.

Or perhaps not.

November

1.

November had finally come to the city of London. Along with the naturally inevitable maturation of the seasonal calendar, the time came for rolling up the shirtsleeves and getting down to brass tacks, for acting one's age, for getting serious.

Well, sort of.

Elizabeth II, Queen of England, Defender of the Faith (what did that mean exactly?), Leader of the Commonwealth, blah, blah, blah, was on her way to the House of Lords in Westminster. She had a date with Parliament.

She was traveling by state coach, clip-clopping along the Mall, doing the equine version of the proverbial snail's pace, in order that the faithful (perhaps those whose fullness, her job description demanded that she defend?) who had come out early to line the roads might be rewarded with a glimpse of Her Majesty in all of her glory. This was the only time of the year that the Queen had occasion to wear the monarch's traditional robes and crown, and those who still held the monarchy dear to their hearts, as being a viable and even essential part of British life-not to mention, those who liked to play with color, or those with a fondness for black leather and metal spikes on Saturday night would never miss the chance of witnessing this ultimate display of THEM finery. If the United Kingdom could be said to represent one united Us (with the exception of THEM) as opposed to a divided Us and Them, then it could likewise be argued that that Us was clinically described best as a schizoid personality.

But why quibble? Besides, there were really only a couple of rabidly anti-monarchist bad seeds who actually threw things at the passing carriage, the tomato (pronounced with a distinctly long American "a" sound) being the favored weapon of revolutionary fervor.

All dysfunctional relationships aside, the Queen's planned route had been designed in advance. Like Orion in winter, or the anal retentive itinerary of a cheap Caribbean cruise, her course had long been carved in stone. Her path would take her along the Mall, escorted by the household Cavalry. It would convey her to parliament, there to be greeted by the fanfare of trumpets. Her ultimate goal, of course, was the reopening of that august governing body, which, inbreeding the House of Commons with the House of Lords, liked to go under the single, more simplified-if no less unified-heading of Parliament. Thus, it had always been, and thus, it should always be. Ho-hum.

Contentious bills, infighting, filibustering, snoozing M.P.s bored out of their faithfully elected skulls-all could be safely expected to appear upon the docket within the coming year.

But what of change, what of progress, what of flies in the ointment?

Undoubtedly, these would crop up as well, although no mention was made of such possibilities in the Queen's restrainedly upbeat opening speech. But, then, when christening a ship-even the Titanic-it was customary to employ Champagne, as opposed to, say, Raspberry Vinaigrette. Suffice to say that, in the year to come, it was to be expected that there would be a healthy dose of cynical idealism and childish rumor-mongering as well; all the better to ensure that the wheels of government did not grind too smoothly, nor lead the populace to believe that its leaders might be relied upon to act their ages.

In the interests of keeping awake 650 M.P.s in the House of Commons-not to mention, all of those dukes, archbishops, barons, etcetera, ad nauseum, and that stick that kept coming into contact within the House of Lords-who knew what new and titillating names would have to be bandied about within the debating chambers? Who knew what scandals would need to be unearthed? Who knew what lengths these individuals might go to in their collective relief that it wasn't themselves who were caught out "dropping trou" this time?

All that one could indeed be certain of was that Daisy Silverman's second, soon-to-be cruel stepsister had finally reawakened following its summer slumber, its perversely reverse hibernation. And that, before long, the roused beast, stretching its arms out and yawning a hungry hello to the world, would once again need to be fed.

2.

The Second and Third in Line to the British Throne were enjoying a rare tramp around the grounds of the palace in the company of their father, the man who-through genetic entitlement and the purported will of God, if not through personal inclination-was still referred to in some circles as being the Next in Line.

"So," the Next began, drawing an enormous breath for fortification, and almost swallowing a bee, which had absolutely no business being around the flowers at B.P. this late in the season but, what with the unseasonably warm weather-what with all of the global warming and ice caps melting and all of that other terrifying rot-what was a future monarch to do?

"What do you boys make of Daisy?" was the question that the Next finally succeeded in spitting out, placing the issue squarely on the table.

"Well," replied the Second, hesitating, one eye on some sort of ground animal that had just scampered off under the bushes, the other eye, as ever, firmly focused on a diplomatic future. "She's not exactly like our mother, now, is she?"

"Nor will she ever be," put in the Third, crossing his arms, his fists clenched in a decidedly obstinate fashion. His own training, regarding the fine art of verbal finesse, had been, unfortunately, sorely neglected in favor of his elder brother. "We already had one of those. Ya know?"

"Yes, of course you did," hurriedly soothed the Next. "And that is eminently fair of you to point that out to me."

The Next paused as his ears registered what sounded like a gunshot coming from the general direction of the Duke's quarters, a man who had only ever been in line for the loo.

"When will Father learn not to play with his guns out of doors?" the Next wondered, grasping his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger, and shaking it, in order to silence the ringing.

Turning his attention back to the boys, he decided that it would be most positive to proceed with the negative, crossing his fingers that the worst-case scenario did not, in fact, prevail. "But, it's not as though you hated her, or anything drastic like that, is it?"

"Oh, no," relaxed the Second, vastly relieved that "not hating" was all that was going to be required here. "As a matter of fact," he waxed expansive, "one is rather impressed with the way she never seems to mind falling off a horse."

"Yeah," snickered the Third, just a smidgen nastily.

"Ya know" and "Yeah"? thought the Next. And there ensued a lengthy lecture on the hazards of viewing too much American television via the palace satellite dish.

"And I like the way she never minds making an ass out of herself either," finished the Third, at last receiving the opportunity to complete a thought.

The Next proceeded to tick off the points made, using his fingers to count them, while aloud he verbalized the salient features. "So, what we have here, then, is: 'doesn't seem to mind falling off of a horse'; and, for you," he said, indicating the Third, "'never minds making an ass out of herself either.'"

The Third nodded his head once, decisively.

"Hmm," mused the Next, clearly puzzled by it all as he unconsciously gave his lower lip a chew.

But then his eyebrows lifted, his outlook seeming to brighten considerably. "Well, I suppose that'll have to do then. How about those fireworks tomorrow evening-probably be a simply stupendous show, what?"

3.

Like a misguidedly ethnocentric anthropologist, Daisy was experiencing some degree of difficulty in understanding the British traditional celebration of November 5 as being Guy Fawkes Day. After all, she hailed from a country where just cause for a holiday tended to be more black and white. You waved flags on the Fourth, because you had won the war; you marked December 7 off as a day of remembrance because the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. It therefore seemed downright peculiar to be commemorating a day by, in effect, magnifying the positive within a potential negative; hard to credit one of the most rained upon and reigned upon cultures in the history of the world being possessed of a more optimistic outlook than their American counterparts. But then, there you had it.

Guy Fawkes Day, for the uninitiated, represented the national observance of the 1605 failure of the eponymous malcontent to blow up the Houses of Parliament. This accentuation on the bright side, with its insistently upbeat focus on an event that did not in fact occur, impressed one as being something akin to the Americans creating a Squeakie Fromme Day ("Thank God that little twerp didn't succeed in shootin' Ford. Maw, let's all have us a weenie roast!") or, perhaps, a Day of Bay of Pigs (what with the American propensity for creating acronyms everywhere, it could become known as Do-BoP, which could be kind of cool). Could the Benedict Arnold White Sale be so very far behind?

Yet, if Daisy was having a tough time figuring out how the supposedly grim, stiff-upper-lip Brits had managed to outpace her own people in the lightheartedness department-through their blithely incisive appreciation of the fine art of barely averted disaster-she was finding that she was experiencing zippo trouble in reaping the rewards of the celebratory fallout. For, if the temporarily distant and wholly irrelevant fact that some overzealous sniveler with a bad aim had failed to level, through lobbing as opposed to lobbying, an entire legislative body-and this, some three hundred and ninety years previous-meant that on this day Daisy would be able to stand amid the protective camouflaging of an arbor of trees, while fireworks exploded overhead and her favorite beau stood with his arms about her, nuzzling her neck and snugly holding her from behind, then she was all for it. Damn the torpedoes and try not to drown.

"Fuvrthawtf mm mm mm eed?" enquired the Future King of England, almost drowsily.

"What?" Daisy giggled, shrugging a shiver as he nibbled on one of her earlobes.

"Fsowoodu mm mm mm mm mm mm mm me?"

"What?" she asked a second time, as he proceeded to attack the other ear. It would appear that elocution and romance made for a strange stew. Daisy wriggled out of his embrace and, turning, faced him. "I can't hear a word you're saying when your nose is in my ear," she laughed. "What did you say?"

"I said, or rather, asked, 'Have you ever thought of getting married?'"

"Oh, Charles," Daisy whisper-sighed, supporting her elbow with one hand, while the other hand covered her mouth, in an attempt to either keep the flies from coming in through that orifice or to prevent anything truly idiotic from flying out. "Are you nuts?"

Eschewing military advice, the Prince decided to ignore the question of his temporary sanity for the time being, choosing to proceed without caution instead.