Isabelle realized halfway through the morning salon that the only reason she'd rolled out of bed that morning was in anticipation of the ball that night. As much as the promise of Alicia's removal from her suite was a relief, some unknown thing had set her nerves to dancing. Even after Alicia and her trunks had been hauled from the room, there was still a knot coiled so tightly within Isabelle's stomach that it was all she could do to keep herself from pacing. As it was, she hadn't been able to keep her knee from jiggling as she watched the painfully slow progress of the arms of the grandfather clock in the corner. She'd assumed it was the same nervous energy she'd always felt when she realized how caged and alone she was in the palace, but when her eyes kept wandering to the clock, however, she realized it was because she was counting down the hours.

Even with that realization, Isabelle adamantly refused to acknowledge the meddlesome, troublesome little voice at the back of her head that told her it was because she'd see the prince again.

When the hour finally came to prepare for the ball, she was one of the first to leave the queen's salon, ignoring the whispers that now seemed to follow her wherever she went. For the first time since she'd arrived, she scrutinized Lissa's work on her hair carefully, ensuring that not a single curl was out of place. Dressed in her favourite silvery blue dress, she donned her mother's sapphire necklace, refusing to think about her sudden urge to outshine the other debutantes.

Thanks to her impatience, Isabelle was ready far too quickly, biding her time in her suite. She offered Lissa's help to Laura and Marjorie, the pair of them in a tizzy without Alicia's firm guidance. The three of them slowly warmed to each other, the twins all too eager for Lissa's help in selecting their dresses and jewels. Isabelle forced herself to wait for her pair of ladies-in-waiting if only so she wouldn't be the first debutante in the ballroom.

Once they were finally ready, it was all Isabelle could do to keep from running to the ballroom. She wouldn't acknowledge that it was because she wanted the prince's first dance, refusing to think about how she'd react if she arrived to find him already waltzing with someone else. To her great relief, the thrones stood empty at the other end of the room, the royal family still having not yet arrived.

Releasing Laura and Marjorie to enjoy themselves, Isabelle circled the ballroom, once again ignoring the whispers that followed her. She located Cora and Violet, the pair of them chatting with a few of the other debutantes near the entrance hall stairs. Violet's eyes kept straying towards the entrance hall while Cora monopolized the conversation, her face glowing as she recounted some sort of story. Staying well away from them, Isabelle searched the room for Sam, but the tall redhead was nowhere to be found.

She was circling the banquet table when a butler touched her elbow, clearing his throat.

"Isabelle de Haviland?" he asked.

"Yes?" she replied, all too aware of the listening ears that had perked up in the crowded corner of the ballroom.

"The royal family has requested your presence," the butler said, bowing as he gestured for her to precede him. "If you would follow me, please."

Henrietta Barclay, lingering just within earshot let out a snigger as Isabelle passed, the butler showing her into the lower hallway that ran parallel to the ballroom. She followed him as he led her into the old palace, pausing to knock at a set of heavy wooden doors. A pair of footmen waited to either side, pulling them open when some called "enter" from the other side.

Isabelle took a hesitant step into an ornate, marble-floored room. Tapestries lined the walls, with statues tucked into the alcoves between them. The room was dimly lit by a series of standing candelabras, outlining some sort of aisle from the door to the raised dais across the room. Their light pooled on the floor, doing nothing to chase the shadows from the corners. Across from her, upon the dais, were a second set of thrones, these far more opulent than those in the ballroom.

The king and queen sat before her, each of them dressed in their ball finery. Behind them, the prince stood immobile, a warning in his eyes.

Undeterred by the stone-faced king and his smug wife, Isabelle fought to keep the unpleasant roiling in her stomach from rooting her in place. Graham's eyes followed her as she crossed the room until she sank into a curtsey before the royal family. Rising from her reverence, Isabelle looked to him for some sort of hint as to what was happening, but his face remained the impassive as he gave her the slightest shake of his head.

"We've had a letter from Kentshire," the king started. Isabelle's stomach swooped as she swallowed, her eyes leaving the prince for the king.

"What sort of letter, your Majesty?" Isabelle asked, refusing to fidget or flee under the weight of his gaze. Beside him, the queen was looking down her nose, distaste and satisfaction warring on her wrinkled face, while the king stared down at her, his stony face unreadable.

"From your father's estate manager," he continued. Isabelle stopped breathing.

"Marcus?" she said dumbly. Graham eyes flickered away from hers to fix his father with a glare before they returned to her.

"It appears your father has fallen ill," the king said.

Suddenly the heat of the room was too much, the light from the candelabras too bright. Isabelle felt the floor sway beneath her feet, the glittering marble tilting and swirling as if it were alive.

Ill? How ill? Why was Marcus writing to the palace to tell them? Unless...

Graham's hand found her elbow as she floundered. He'd descended the steps of the dais in a few quick bounds as the world shifted around her. His hands anchored her in place, her own fingers digging into the bright fabric of his formal jacket.

"Is he going to be all right?" she asked him, ignoring the monarchs on their thrones. His lips pressed into a line, but no other emotion was betrayed on his face as he looked to the king.

"Your father's estate agent has requested the most skilled physicians from the palace and the Royal Conservatory, as your father's illness appears to be a mystery to the local healers," the king continued, clearly annoyed that Isabelle had asked his son and not him to elaborate.

"But he's going to be all right?" Isabelle continued, still clutching Graham.

"We don't know..." Graham said quietly.

"What my son means to say is that we are doing everything in our power to ensure that the duke does not succumb to his sickness," the king said, speaking over Graham. The annoyance was plain on his face now, his tone sharper as he cut his son with a glare.

"I need to go home," Isabelle said, releasing Graham as she looked around her as if waking up from a nightmare.

It had to be a nightmare. Papa wasn't sick, he couldn't be, not when she was so far away. He was going to be fine, but she needed to return home, in case...

No. No, she refused to allow herself to think it.

"You may not," the queen said, speaking for the first time. Isabelle gaped at her, eyes blazing with incredulity.

"What my wife means to say," the king continued, even more irritated now as his glare shifted towards the queen, "Is that you are to remain here, per my agreement with your father. That is an order."

"My father is ill!" Isabelle protested, her voice rising heedless of decorum. The king's face remained impassive, but the queen half-rose from her throne before sinking back down, her fingers clutched in a white-knuckled vice-grip on the arms.

"And as a debutante, you are a ward of the crown until your next of kin releases you," she snapped, her own voice rising. Isabelle's heart was racing in her chest, her eyes flying between the two old monarchs before she turned to Graham.

The prince remained beside her, unmoving, something akin to pity leaking though the impassive mask on his face. She clutched his arm again, silently beseeching him to tell her something, anything, to explain what was happening. But he did nothing more than give her that subtle shake of his head yet again.

Realizing that he would be of no help to her, Isabelle yanked her hands back, staggering a few steps away from him.

"My father would want me with him!" she said, bunching her fingers into fists in her skirts as she rounded on the monarchs. She refused to think about the meaning of Graham's silence. The queen blinked slowly, pursing her wrinkled lips while the king's stony face hardened.

"That is for your uncle to decide. Until we receive word from him, my order stands," the king said.

"If you so choose, you may excuse yourself from the ball tonight, but you are expected at breakfast tomorrow morning. That will be all," the queen said, regarding Isabelle with distaste as she dismissed her.

"My uncle?" Isabelle demanded, refusing to leave. The king, whose gaze had turned away, disinterested, attempted to ignore her, but Isabelle would have none of it. Baring her teeth, she marched towards the monarch, only for Graham to step in and stop her.

"You will send me home this instant or-" Isabelle started, before Graham seized her by the arm and cut her off.

"I'll show her out," he said, tugging her back towards the door, but he hadn't spoken soon enough.

"I beg your pardon?" the queen demanded, this time rising from her throne. The king had lifted an eyebrow at Isabelle's antics, a dangerous look in his eye as he regarded her. The way Graham was dragging her back and away from him told Isabelle that she had crossed a line.

And it was not wise to cross lines with King Charles.

"She's hysterical. I'll see to it that she's escorted back to her rooms," Graham said, more to his father than to the queen. He spun Isabelle around to march her from the old palace's throne room, clamping a hand over her mouth when she opened it to speak again.

"Remember my orders," were the king's final, ominous words as the doors clanged shut behind them.

Graham released her as soon they had closed, but Isabelle still whirled around to shove him with all her might.

"You dare manhandle me so!" Isabelle snapped. "Why wouldn't you say anything?"

"You shouldn't have lost your temper," Graham said quietly.

"Lost my temper?" Isabelle demanded, incredulous. "They're making it sound as if my father is dying, Graham, and you won't even tell me what's happened!"

"It's not for me to say," he said, that same pained pity returning to his eyes. That look, however, was enough to confirm Isabelle's worst fears.

"I need to leave," she said, blind panic searing across her mind as she turned on her heel. Once again, Graham reached out to stop her.

"You can't, the king has ordered you to stay," he said, something urgent in his tone. Isabelle whirled on him, throwing his arm off.

"Do you think I care? My father is dying, Graham! If I don't leave now, I might never see him again!" she snapped.

"I know," he said quietly, enduring her abuse with that same troubled look in his green eyes. "But I can't allow you to leave."

She stared at him, the corners of her vision blurring red.

"How long have you known?" she demanded quietly. "Did you know last night when you flirted with me over the fire?"

"No," Graham said.

"Liar," she spat. Anger flashed in his green eyes, but he remained silent.

"Do you not feel the least bit inclined to help me?" she persisted, advancing towards him until he caught her shoulders, only for her to swat him away. "Or did you enjoy watching your father force me to bend to his will, just like he does to everyone else!"

"My silence was for your own good," Graham replied, his voice still quiet despite the wrath she was flinging his way.

"My own good?" Isabelle demanded, a high, hysterical cackle escaping her lips. "Pray tell, how might that work?"

"I can't help you now," he said, crushing sadness weighing in his eyes. "Don't you see? If you'd have listened, if you'd have held your tongue and not challenged the king, he would have let me negotiate for you. But now you've angered him...I'm sorry, Isabelle, but I can't-"

"You've never lost a parent before, but I have!" she screamed, even as he took her by the arm, marching her away with a concerned look back towards the throne room. "I have to see him again, Graham!"

"I'll do my best to organize something soon," he said, "But-"

"Soon?" Isabelle shouted, "Soon?"

"Isabelle, I-"

She wrenched her arm from his, brandishing a finger in his face.

"If you don't let me leave tonight, so help me I will find my own way home, even if it means stealing a horse and riding through the night!" she snarled.

"Don't you understand? It isn't safe for you there! It isn't safe for you anywhere, not until I can arrange for a proper armed guard and- " Graham started, but Isabelle cut him off with an angry growl of a scream.

"I leave tonight, Graham, with or without your aid!" she said, whirling on him. He regarded her, something pained in his green eyes before he lifted his hand to gesture to someone behind Isabelle.

"Please, don't make me do this," he said.

"I will make you do whatever it takes to get me home to Papa!" she screamed, Graham's face swimming before her as the tears she'd been fighting in the throne room rose to her eyes.

"Post a guard at her door, she's to stay there," Graham said as two pairs of gloved hands took each of her arms. The tears fell as she blinked at the guards holding her.

"Graham," she said, her voice cracking. But the prince wouldn't look at her as they dragged her away, his name repeating on her lips until they slammed her suite door behind her.

**A/N: Well, I'm sure you all sensed that there was a plot twist coming! Last chapter was definitely the calm before the storm...that being said, do you think Graham is really trying to help her or simply following his father's orders because he has no other choice?

As always, please don't forget to vote and comment if you enjoyed it!**