Daisy, being Daisy, just had to offer advice.

"You should never worry about what other people think," Daisy counseled. "You need to either learn to be pleased with the person you are, or change to become the person that would give you most pleasure to be. But, under no circumstances, should you ever worry about what the rest of the world thinks."

"What a novel concept," The Other One giggled her agreement, "just ignore what others think." As she giggled softly, an evanescent puff of perfume escaped from her person. And Daisy, dying to know what the most popular woman in the world smelled like, endeavored to chase it with her nose.

Daisy sniffed, inhaling an odor oddly reminiscent of the seventies.

Kinda "something," kinda now...

She struggled to retrieve the aroma from the banks of sense memory, snapping her mental fingers along with the catchy beat. Now, that was certainly surprising, she thought, getting a full-flavored hit from a cheap drugstore scent.

Kinda sleek, kinda "wow..."

No way!

The Princess of Wales smelled like Charley?

Nobody would ever believe it...

"You really have given me quite a lot to think about," the Princess said. "Say," she added, clearly enthused, "those are some super shops you have in your town!"

What? blinked Daisy.

"Westport, silly. The papers said that you hailed from there."

Clearly, one couldn't believe everything that one read in the papers.

"I passed through there once, when I was on a visit to the States. They have a lovely Barney's there, don't they? I thought their prices were quite reasonable. Don't you think?"

Daisy-who had long since given up on the temptation to say that she did think, and quite a lot actually, only not about those things-found herself thrust into the preliminary stages of dej vu. Hadn't she had this conversation at some point before?

"Oh, and they had this really great bookstore there. Klein's was what I think they called it. Anyway," she added, reaching out to impulsively rub Daisy's forearm as though she were the person responsible for the creation of the store. "I got some great children's books there, for Harry and Wills, of course. Oh, and a new one on AIDS hospices. But, when I passed the biography section, all I could see was my own face staring out at me. Spooky, the effect that still can have when one is not expecting it."

It was this whole conversation that was spooky, Daisy thought. She found herself wondering what it must be like to suddenly find yourself famous, your image plastered on every magazine cover the world over. She shuddered at the prospect, as though she were someone living in the darkest heart of Africa, who truly believed that the photographers were trying to steal her soul.

Diana, seeing the shiver, reached out to rub the arm again, this time with reassurance. "Oh, you mustn't trouble yourself about such things. You know, I'll just bet that you're far too smart to let the press get the better of you."

And Daisy who, like most people, did truly believe that she was smarter than the average baron, found herself feeling mollified. This really was nice, she thought. Now they were both each making the other feel better.

"Say!" Diana impulsively cried. "Do you think that we might have lunch together sometime? I'll bet we could be super friends!" But then, her face clouded over at the impossibility of it all. "No, I suppose not..."

And where were the members of the press, while this meeting of the minds was going on right under their very noses? Why, they were covering the earth-shattering events at the bleeding London Riding Horse Parade, for goodness' sake, that's where they were.

Besides, the meeting between Di and Dai was, as they say back in Dallas, all just a dream sequence.

Still, when Daisy finally rose, wiping the leftover sleepy stardust from her eyes, she did so with a smile of contentment; somehow, now, Dai felt as though she'd been given Di's permission to proceed.

A dubious quantity of each having been achieved, excitement and psychotherapy had been temporarily placed on hold for the duration. For other cheap thrills, then, the roving eye would have to scan elsewhere.

Which shouldn't be much of a problem since, quite soon, Daisy-along with a host of royals-would be back in Scotland.

September

1.

The Prince was walking in the sunken gardens, in front of the granite mansion that had been built in the Scottish baronial style by Queen Victoria's Prince Albert. He was anxiously awaiting the arrival of Daisy, whom he had not seen in well over a fortnight, and it would have taken a trained lip-reader-or one very good friend-to make out the words that he was mouthing to himself.

Sturgess bravely approached, extending before him the woman's namesake flower.

"Here, take this, Sir," he offered. "It is still the most scientific procedure devised by man for discerning the true feelings of a woman."

And so, for the remainder of the afternoon, to anyone observing from afar, Charles could be seen to be pacing up and down, the hands that were usually clasped behind his back with dignity now obsessively tearing the petals off of flowers with an Ophelia passion. And those same faraway people, had any of them been bold enough to venture nearer, would have heard the Future King of England muttering under his breath, repeatedly, and with a renewed and ceaseless devotion to his cause, "She loves me; she loves me not. She..."

2.

The sight of one thousand of them, all in one place, went a long way towards making the typically perceived common-as-weeds daisy seem, oddly enough, a lot less humdrum.

And their presence in her room at Balmoral, when she arrived, made the human version feel a lot more welcome concerning her two months' stay there.

3.

"I believe that it is all going quite well. Don't you?" Sturgess asked.

He and his partner in crime were holding one of their, by now, regular confabs. On this occasion, however, their eagle's-eye view was from the 100-foot Great Square Tower, where Bonita was finding the rarefied air to be gloriously clear, if just a little bit cool.

"Time, Sturgie," she advised, patting his arm, just as a strong gust of wind came along, ripping the bow off of her topknot, and sending her long gray hair loose, whipping like a standard behind her. "That's the only thing that ever tells diddly squat."

4.

"I can see why you love it so much here," Daisy said, gazing straight up at the Great Square Tower, that looked oddly unbalanced somehow, as though, with just the slightest encouragement, it could be persuaded to come crashing down on top of them. Even with her hand shielding her eyes against the glare given off by the sun, she was unable to make out the identities of the two figures standing at the top of it. Daisy was finding out that she particularly liked the lonely romance of towers, the whole Rapunzel element and all of that. But then, so far, she had liked everything that she had seen of Balmoral.

Located in the Grampian region of Northeastern Scotland, its heather-covered moorlands, peaty lochs, wooded glens-not to mention, salmon-filled rivers (smoked, with bagels and cream cheese-yum!)-all appealed to Daisy. The castle itself was made out of granite, whitewashed, with numerous small turrets. It was situated on rising ground and, in addition to the sunken gardens in the front, it also had rose gardens on the side, and the River Dee flowing behind and around it.

It was the main holiday home of the Royal Family, the vast property and spartanly furnished castle providing an atmosphere where they might enjoy a well-earned respite of relaxed informality. In fact, the whole family liked going there, unlike-say-Holyrood. Balmoral was an idyllic place and, with its relatively meager and, thus, intimate size-only 250 rooms-a place where they could all play at being country bumpkins. And, if the idea of the Queen and Prince Philip in their Ma and Pa Kettle mode-ensconced in a castle that was capable of sleeping one hundred and thirty, making it the most accommodating private residence that Daisy had ever had the pleasure of being in-seemed just a trifle incongruous, she shrugged her shoulders philosophically: c'est la vie, just so long as nobody was at guerre.

"Care to go for a tramp in the woods?" Charles offered.

5.

If she was having no trouble understanding his spiritual attachment to Balmoral, what with its endless possibilities for entertainment and communion with nature, in terms of hunting, fishing, and hiking-activities which, with the notable exception of the last one, were certainly forms of behavior that she had absolutely no intention of ever engaging in (although, Field and Stream would have a, well, a field day with it); yes, if she was having no trouble at all understanding the Prince's specific attachment, attraction, affinity-not to mention, a whole host of other words beginning with the letter "a"-to Balmoral (the region, as well as the Castle), she was having a considerably tougher time of it, concerning the subject of his spirituality in general.

They were, as promised, in the middle of an eight-mile tramp that had started at Spittal of Glenwick, northeast of Loch Muick and heading around the loch counterclockwise to the southwest corner, where they would then cross to the Dubh Loch. They were at two thousand feet and, even though there were already a few patches of ice on the water, there were still a couple of hardy bluebells that were determined to make their presence known in the woods. The subject on the table for discussion was, of course, astrology.

"Okay, okay, I get it! I get it already," Daisy was saying, grateful for her gaiters, as she picked her way with care through the boggy muck that surrounded Muick. "I mean, I can see how some people might attach some relevance to the fact that you're a Scorpio and I'm a Cancer. But somehow, I get the feeling that there's a lot more going on down on Planet Earth than there are in the stars that you've dreamt of, Horatio."

As she tucked a stray auburn hair behind one ear with her left hand, she swatted at a persistent highland midge with her right. The most outstanding result of this flirtation with ambidexterity was that she succeeded in throwing herself off balance, landing tush first in the mud, and providing evidence to the argument that, perhaps, hiking was not going to prove to be her natural forte, either.

As the Prince gently helped her regain her footing, she noticed that a puzzled, hurt expression had come over his features. Startled, she wondered how to proceed without causing further offense. Pretending to be preoccupied with the removal of brambles from her Icelandic sweater, she decided on cowardice as being the best approach. Perhaps, if she were to just close her eyes and yank, she wouldn't have to see the look on the patient's face until after she'd excised the tooth.

"It's not that I don't believe that astrology has its merits, its place. But I just think that you could do so much more if you were to put your mind to it," she went on, deeming it time for the final pull, one foot braced against the doorjamb, pliers in hand, soothing brandy bottle at the ready, "by getting involved with something outside of yourself."

"Hmm," he brooded as they walked on, one forefinger placed thoughtfully to his lips, the fist of his other hand loosely clenched behind his back. "Hmm. Perhaps you might furnish one with a 'for instance'?"

She shrugged, searching the branches for divine inspiration. "Other people?" she offered haphazardly, asking more than telling. After all, she didn't want to appear too pushy. She had always thought it was an awful thing that, once having found the purported man of their dreams, women then always seemed to be intent on re-casting them in their own image. Which was fine, if you were looking for somebody with the potential for looking killingly pretty in pink, but otherwise... Perhaps, it would be best to proceed with caution.

"Outside interests?" she tried again. "Got any hobbies?"

"Well," he replied. "I have something called the Prince's Trust."

"What's that?"

"It was designed with the purpose of helping disadvantaged young people."

"Now that sounds promising."

"I am also greatly interested in the problems of the inner cities."

"Better and better."

"And then, of course, there is organic farming..."

"Mm," Daisy interrupted. "I'm not so sure I like the sound of that. It seems like something you'd do where a person might end up pompously self-absorbed or living out in Berkeley or something. Hmm." She gave the matter a few more moments' thought. "But, you know," she finally continued, "that might not be so bad. Why, between that and those other things you mentioned... There you go! You could be another Jimmy Carter!"

The Prince, after a few moments reflection, at last decided that she did intend this as a compliment. Feeling greatly encouraged, he continued on, filling her in on the highlights of his curriculum vitae.

"I also like opera, alternative medicine, and architecture."

"Too loud, yawn; fine, unless you're talking about covering my body with leeches; why?" came the appropriate responses.

"You see, that ties into my feelings about the inner cities," he went on, clearly warming to his subject. "I am most interested in protecting traditional British life from the rape of modern progress-"

"Whoa, whoa! Time out here."

The Prince pulled up short, though his expression revealed that, clearly, he did not understand the command.

"I'll grant you, that that sounds like an admirable notion," Daisy said. "On paper," she added, a slightly caustic tone creeping into her voice. "Still, I'm awfully glad that you weren't around when the debates over the merits of indoor plumbing versus the good old slop jar were going on."

"Perhaps you might have something there," he said thoughtfully. "But, it is hard enough, always having to try and strike the proper balance between what one thinks might be best for people and what the reality of it is. Especially when the bottom reality is that it really doesn't matter much what one thinks or does. There might be more of an incentive, if one were anything more than just a figurehead."

Daisy winced inwardly, knowing that she'd never make it as a doctor. Judging from the dejected look on her friend's face, that "first, do no harm" dictum represented a hurdle that she was unlikely ever to clear. And, when you got right down to it, she thought, it really was unfair to judge him. After all, if anyone-other than Michael Jackson-had ever had a justifiable claim of diminished responsibility, well... it was sort of as though the entire world were his co-dependent. In fact, it could be argued that he lived in a world not of his own making. But then, how many people ever did?

"I know that the concept of the future is supposed to fill one with feelings of hope," he was saying. "But, somehow, whenever I think about the one that has been intended for me, all I ever seem to feel is lonely. One would think that it would be all power and fun and games, but the reality of being a future monarch is quite different. It is all about doing everything that you do in a way that others, especially one's own family, believes that one should do things. If you see what I mean."

The problem was that Daisy did see exactly what he meant. She thought about the things that she had already observed, on such short acquaintance, concerning the general pack mentality of Charley's family; about The Firm, where personal desires always had to take a backseat to the consensual demands of group approval. She thought about it, and as she thought, a kernel of anger began to grow in the pit of her stomach, as though she were smelling a pot of chocolate that somebody had thoughtlessly left upon the stove for far too long, neglecting to stir constantly. It was anger at them, but it was also anger at him. After all, there was just so long that you could get away with complaining about the role that others had cast you in. You had to either try out for another part in the production, or you had to get out your trusty spoon, figuring on digging your way out to China. But the one thing that you couldn't do was simply sit back and continually complain. Because if you did that, then, before long, everybody would be blaming the victim.

"Father always says..."

Screw Father, was what Daisy would dearly have liked to have said, having met the Duke and having found him to be comprised of all sound and fury, signifying diddlysquat. But the better part of someone else's definition of valor managed to stay her tongue.

This taming of the tongue was a challenge that Daisy had not fully mastered yet. Having never considered herself to be a conventionally pretty girl, she had developed that bodily part to its greatest capacity relatively early on in life, and thought of it-with a certain degree of pride-as being her greatest asset. Unfortunately, it could also get her into a lot of trouble. It could pacify or, if she decided that you were a whiner, it might whip you. As it had done, on the previous evening, her first meeting with the Duke.

During an amiable after-dinner game of cards-some incomprehensible four-handed thing that they all knew the rules to, and which she did not-she had caught the Duke out sulking over losing.