"Again," Freddie murmured softly, "I am so sorry about tonight."

"What for?" Veronica chirped. "I've had a lovely evening." And John nodded in agreement, grinning.

I tucked my arm in Freddie's. "As have I."

"You're too sweet. It's just, um- I know this is hardly a substitute for the-"

Quietly I laid a finger across his lips. "Freddie, don't say another word about it, or..."

"Or what?" He arched an eyebrow.

"Or I eat your egg roll."

"Hey, you can have it, darling, I'm finished."

"And then I drink your wine." I reached for his glass.

"Now, that's a step too far," Freddie laughed. Thunder boomed almost straight over our heads, the walls of the flat trembling with the sound. "See? Even your Boss thinks so."

"Besides," I said quietly, tapping Freddie's chest, "if anyone should be apologizing, it ought to be me. There you were, with big plans for writing songs and then, because of me-"

"What, you think I didn't write anything?" Freddie scoffed. "Darling, now don't you be absurd. I finished one song and wrote another today. I'll show you later if you remind me. You'll like them- for different reasons."

The five of us were sitting comfortably round John's living room, tipsy with cabernet and full of takeaway fried rice and chow mein, while the rain gushed down outside. The only music came from my Android, which served as the centerpiece-

"What's all this then? Stop being so confusing! God, why can't you just frickin' tell the story and quit jumping around so much?" I hear you cry.

Oh, yes, I think I just jumped the gun here. Last chapter I ended with with us walking into an extremely upscale restaurant in the company of good friends. Sorry. I suppose I ought to elaborate. Very well. I shall explain, in so many words, how rapidly our best-laid plans can be turned inside out and leave us scrambling for a backup:

Freddie pulled out the chair at the head of the table for me and made some playfully pretentious comment about me being the "guest of honor." I smiled, shyly lowering my eyes. John was at my left, while Veronica took the place at my right. Freddie seated himself at the other end of the table, next to Rudy and Peter, apparently so that he could gaze fondly upon me "to my heart's content." A sweet sentiment, although I would have preferred him to be a little closer.

Truth be told, I was extremely nervous. For I still hadn't gotten over how fancy this restaurant was. The House of Lords in Vegas, true, was no casual affair, but the House of Lords did not also possess this refined, understood hush, this highbrow attitude, made no less intimidating by the fact that this place was British and not American, and serving French cuisine instead of good old-fashioned steaks. I felt like I was dining in a library- not deadly silent but reserved, stiff, with unseen eyes watching me closely for any uncouth behavior. Of course, I endlessly appreciated Freddie's sweet effort to spoil me this way- but I was afraid to lean my back against the chair. I took comfort from John's expression; he didn't seem any more at ease than I.

The waiter, a soft little man with a receding hairline, approached and welcomed us, handing Freddie the wine list. The special of the night, if I remember correctly, dealt with sweetbreads in a caper mignonette sauce with some sauteed whatever on the side.

"What are sweetbreads again?" I whispered to Veronica.

"Calf organs, I think," she whispered back.

I'm sorry I asked. "Yummy," I muttered.

Freddie ordered us two bottles of red wine from the reserve collection, and waiter scuttled off. I started looking over the menu, my eyes bugging alternately at the prices and the dishes' contents. If I was ordering anything, it would be a salad.

We heard a faint roll of thunder outside. The forecast on the radio had predicted a centimeter or two of precipitation. What a rainy July this was shaping up to be.

Conversation wasn't difficult, but it was indeed a little strained at first. John sat right next to me; I wanted to tell him all about yesterday, but I didn't want some plainclothes journalist lurking in the shadows to spring out and record me. I looked over the top of my menu at Freddie, who was lost in a conversation with Straker. As much as I wanted to join in, I couldn't do so without being a little loud. I never thought I would think this, I mused inwardly, but I feel a lot like Mary right now.

I turned to John and smiled. "So what did you guys end up doing after I left?"

"Oh, you know," he murmured awkwardly. "We, uh, did record the backing track of 'Champions.' Freddie's got that whole thing mapped out in his head, so all we have to do is put it together and, you know, go from there."

"Did you start any of 'Spread Your Wings'?"

"Yeah, we started that on Monday."

"Anything else of yours?"

"I haven't written anything else."

"You haven't?"

"No, I uh, usually just write one song and that's basically enough for me, I don't- Freddie and Brian are the main ones, so I don't like to get too ambitious."

But there were two songs by John on News of the World, and there were three by Freddie. But so far as I knew, Freddie had penned just two tunes, and John could claim only "Spread Your Wings." Whatever happened to "Get Down, Make Love" and "Who Needs You"? Was this my doing?

I mused aloud, "But Roger's written two for the album."

John nodded. "And they're quite good, too, he's clever."

"I- yeah, they're- good. I suppose. 'Sheer Heart Attack' is the good one."

That's when John leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Okay, I can't stand it anymore. What happened?"

I laughed, feeling more at ease. It was so nice to be this close with John. "With whom?"

"With you and that fellow making eyes across the table."

'Making eyes? Oh please." I turned to his wife. "Veronica-"

"Please, call me Ron, or Ronnie. It doesn't take quite so much time," she smiled.

"Ron and John. That's so sweet. Ron, is Freddie making eyes?"

Veronica looked, and tapped her cheek. "See for yourself."

"Okay. Ronnie says no." I murmured playfully. "Or did you mean Ol' Straker there, John?"

"If it's personal, I won't intrude," John said with a shrug.

I whispered to them both, "It's not personal, it's just private, and I'd tell you if it wasn't so-"

"Angel, don't you know it's rude to whisper?" Freddie called in a more than loud enough voice for everyone within ten feet of our table to hear.

"It's even ruder to interrupt," I whisper-shouted back. "Shh."

Freddie stuck his tongue out at me and concealed himself behind his menu. Thanks to Freddie being obnoxious (he wasn't fazed at all by the riches surrounding us- in his mind, these were his kinds of people), we were now drawing stares from around the restaurant. One fellow in particular caught my attention. Not because he bore any connection to my prince, exactly, but because of the black bag he had slung around the back of his chair. It looked like one of those old camera knapsacks. I gulped.

"Hey, John," I murmured, nodding toward the photographer. "Do you recognize that guy?"

"Not really," he said. "Why?"

"He's got a camera."

"I dunno- he looks like a member of the press though."

"How do you know?"

"They all have the same expression."

I snickered. "Maybe you guys just don't like the press."

"That, too."

"If it's any consolation, I don't either." I hail from the era of Fake News, after all. How can I like them?

As I said this to myself, however, the man reached for his bag and opened it, still staring right at us. A strange feeling of dread filled my heart when he drew out a small camera. He peered into the film compartment, made sure he had enough. Can they even do that? I asked myself. I guess they can, look at TMZ. God! Why can't Freddie and the rest of us just have a nice meal out without being shot at like sitting ducks in a gallery?

I turned to tell Freddie, but the waiter had returned with the wine, and was now opening the first bottle for him. The thunder rolled again, much louder this time. In quiet horror, I watched the press hog lift up his camera, remove the lens cover. There was no flash attachment, which meant he could take as many pictures as he liked and still remain a covert operator. I didn't hate cameras, I just hated when they were locked, loaded, and in the wrong hands- like now.

(I know this sounds a little dramatic, but you have to understand, I still believed I was never supposed to be there, and that so much as one picture of me could shatter Time. Gullible fool I was. I've never been the best at thinking outside the box.)

The man aimed his camera right at us, finger twitching over the button.

And then the lights flashed out.

The women of British high society screamed as Le Gavroche was plunged into darkness. We jumped a little- not because of the lights, but screams have a way of digging their claws into a person's spine. Freddie's candlelit face contorted and demanded, "What in-?"

"Maybe there's a power failure," Veronica suggested calmly.

A great commotion rose from the kitchen. Suddenly the doors burst open and a fellow charged through the dining area, causing a couple of ladies to shriek again. Another man followed close behind, it was too dark to see him, but he was certainly loud enough for us to notice him: "Call the police, someone! Get him!"

"Oh, coo," the waiter's pear-shaped shadow remarked. "I know him." He pointed at the man disappearing into the front room and then out into the rain.

"You do?" I asked.

"He was sacked last week," he explained. "Huge row with the owner here. I suppose he felt like exacting vengeance."

"Wait, so he cut the power?" Straker asked.

"It certainly would seem that way," the waiter mused. "Perhaps not, but then, why else would he have those electrical shears in his hand?"

The six of us kind of sat there a moment, let that sink in while the rest of the restaurant more or less enjoyed a nervous breakdown around us. I had to force myself not to laugh, I couldn't help thinking it was funny. The waiter set down the opened bottle of wine to sneak off unnoticed, but Freddie stopped him before he turned away.

He spoke these two soft, but endlessly embarrassed, words: "Check, please."

We were obviously going to have to figure something else out.

So all six of us joined the mass exodus from Le Gavroche, and we waited in the front area for the valet attendants to come get our cars, as it was too wet and our attire too nice to stand outside. Freddie's hands were shoved into his pockets, his mouth working in sheer upset, and Peter too looked decidedly bummed- but no one else in our little group seemed to mind very much, least of all me.

The valet attendant brought the Rolls around first, and Rudy opened up the passenger door. Freddie offered to take us out somewhere else. Peter enthusiastically jumped on board, suggesting some club only a few blocks away. However, the Deacons declined the offer, as Veronica wanted to go home and check on Robert. Julie, John's sister, was keeping watch, but the boy apparently feared thunderstorms, and Veronica wanted to be there to calm him down should the booms and bangs wake him.

As Peter slipped into the Rolls first, John sighed. "I guess we'll have to hear that story another day then."

"Oh, what a shame!" Veronica cried. "Here. Why don't you two come back home with us and you can tell us what all this hullabaloo has been about?"

I blinked. "What hullabaloo?"

John half-smiled. "Vegas."

"Oh, right. That hullabaloo."

I looked at Freddie, whose expression said "no" without him even having to articulate the word. All he did, however, was shrug his shoulders and mutter, "It's up to you, darling."

Crap, I hate being the deciding factor. Damn my stupid birthday!

We were getting rained on, so I had to make a choice quickly. "Well," I hummed, "I would like to meet Robert-"

"I guess we'll go with them, then," Freddie mumbled half-heartedly.

I stammered, "Wait, wait-"

"Brilliant!" Veronica decided. "Come back home with us, dinner will take care of itself, we already have the wine- not that I'll be partaking, but it's there."

So before I could walk my words back, we two piled into the back seat of John's sedan, and Freddie waved goodbye to Peter and Rudy- but not before apologizing profusely to his friend. Poor Freddie, he did hate it so when a plan of his fell apart.

We wound up ordering takeaway Chinese food on our way to John's and Veronica's house; it was my idea, I guess, because I again made the mistake of saying "Chinese food, mmm" when we passed one such restaurant. The idea was met with unanimous agreement, with one abstention- Freddie, who was still sulking and feeling small. I can only imagine what the guy taking our order must have thought, seeing all four of us dressed for a ball, speckled here and there with the rain- two rising celebrities and their female counterparts ordering chow mein and egg rolls with a few fortune cookies thrown in for fun.

A couple of people approached us, asked for autographs, and Freddie flatly ignored them. All we other three could do was sigh. He was working himself into such a funk.

We arrived at the Deacons' house, and Freddie let himself out of the back, closing the door before I could slip out. Oh, how quickly he could shift from the World's Sweetest Prince into the World's Biggest Heel. I could understand feeling embarrassed about a plan falling through, but there was no reason to be rude and take it out on everyone else.

We entered the house, food and wine in hand. John thanked his sister for watching the boy, and briefly introduced us to her before she left. Freddie remained silent through all this, scarcely nodding his head to Julie when she walked out bidding goodbye. By now I'd just about had it.

"Could you excuse us a minute?" I whispered to my friends.

Veronica announced, "I think I'd better go check on Robert," and disappeared down the hall.

"I'll just go park the car in the garage," John murmured, "Be back in a minute."

So now we were alone in the Deacons' living room. I marched up to Freddie, who was standing with his hands planted defiantly on his hips, and tapped his shoulder. He turned, his lips pursing.

"Are you okay?" I whispered.

"I'm fine," he snapped.

"Freddie, look, I didn't mean to cheat you of a good time with Straker."

He squinted. "What?"

"Is that what you're upset about? If it is, I'm sor-"

"No, darling, I'm sorry," he cut me off.

Now I was squinting. "What for?"

"Because of the, um- way things turned out tonight. I wanted to spoil you a little, but apparently that wasn't in the plan."

"Freddie, you silly, that's all you've been doing is spoiling me, you didn't have to go spend a fortune- another one- to try and impress-"

"And thank you so much for assuming I think of nothing aside of clubs and f---ing and things like that."

"I don't-"

"Uh, yeah, you do."

"Well," I conceded gently, "maybe you would have preferred to go live it up with him, and once again I more or less stood in the way of your fun-"

"Stop," he snapped. "Just stop." He walked a little away from me and stared out the window, arms folded. Quietly I sidled up next to him. Freddie only shot me a sideways glance, letting out a frustrated little sigh.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Freddie, what's wrong?"

He shook his head without a word.

"Well... Going back to what you said before," I whispered, "There's nothing to be sorry about."

"I just ruin everything," Freddie said morosely.

"Oh, now, don't be ridiculous. Were you the guy who cut the frickin' wire? Did you plan all that? Things happen. It's really not the end of the world."

"Why does everything have to go wrong with us? Something always gets in the way, f---s things up. Why?"

"Because that's life," I said.

"All the same..." Freddie snarked something else under his breath, too softly for me to make out.

"What?"

"I said, all the same, I get this feeling that- I mean, at this rate, I don't know why you wouldn't leave right n-"

"Freddie, listen to me." I interrupted. My moody, rambling prince turned to face me again, and the artless, but honest, words flew from my lips:

"It was so sweet of you to arrange the reservation, the place was beautiful, and I thank you. But in the grand scheme of things, Le Gavroche can stick it. It's a really fancy restaurant, there's bazillions of those, but there's only one of you, and no matter what it is we're doing or where we are, it's- it's enough for me just to be with you. Screw diamonds, screw Le Gavroche, screw all that stuff. It's you. Okay?"

The dark eyes gazed down into mine. That's when a raindrop that had landed in the thick, long lashes caught my attention. I put my hand up and tried to touch it, but he jerked his head away, blinking.

"What are you doing?" he muttered.

"I love your eyelashes," I said softly, my hand following and resting gently against the side of his face. This time he didn't pull back.

"And," I added as my fingers grazed each feature mentioned, "I love your eyebrows, and your cheeks, and this scar, and your nose-"

"Someday I'll tell you how I got that scar," he whispered. His eyes were softening.

"Mm. Good. I'd love to know. And your lips, and your teeth, and-"

"You don't love my teeth."

I frowned. "I just said I did."

The gleam was back! Hurray! "Exactly. You're just saying you do."

"Oh, shut up," I talked over him. "I love your face, your hair, your soul, your heart, and your moods. I mean, I really love your moods."

"F--- off, now you're just being cheeky-"

"In short, you jackass, I love you, now stop moping."

We cracked up. Freddie nuzzled the side of my face, wrapping his arms around me while I giggled into his shoulder. He lifted my chin, then, and I smiled.

"How do you do that?" he asked. "How is it you can take the mickey out of me the way you do, without resulting in, uh-"

"Major bloodshed?"

He nodded, face deadpan. "Right."

Seven years of study plus two weeks of complete immersion in you and your world, equals one canny Freddie navigator, if I do say so myself. But I smiled and instead said aloud, "Because, darling, you just can't resist me."

"No, that's not it, it's something else," he sighed dryly. "Oh, it'll come to me. But it's definitely not that."

My eyes narrowed, jaw slack with fake shock. "Why, you- you-"

But before I could think of some really devastating name to call him, Freddie took my hands and pulled me in for a kiss. Like always, I melted, my arms slipping around his back to hold him closer.

Click! BZZZ.

Freddie and I backed away from each other, startled.

"Too late," John chuckled. "Gotcha."

I sighed. "Et tu, John?"

He tore the quickly developing Polaroid out of the slot and lifted the camera again. "I want one more for the album. A natural pose, please."

Freddie snickered. "As if the last one wasn't." But he put his arm around my shoulders and turned his face so that we stood cheek-to-cheek, both of us smiling