prologue          "Ah, John, how are you?" a man said as he pushed his way through the crowded New York restaurant.          "Good, Dave, just good!" the other man said, looking up from his booth. "Glad you could swing over here. How's the weather in England?"          "Just fine, a little cool for June, but all right." David Stephens, a personal assistant to foreign heads of state, slid into the booth and patted his 'ole friend on the arm. "So, do you have what I asked for?"          "Well…" John, began, "I only found one really good candidate." Dave smiled at his 'ole friend.          "You teach hundreds of students, and you could only find one good candidate?" he smiled a disbelieving smile. "How's that?"          "Well, you didn't exactly give me a lot to work with, you know."          "All right, all right, let me see what you have." John dug in his bag and pulled out a thick cream folder. He tossed it across the table to his friend.          Dave opened the folder and perused the first page.          "She's pretty," Dave said, commenting on the wallet-sized picture, on the first page. "How old is she?"          "A little over twenty." Dave raised his eyebrow.          "Young, think she can handle it?"          "You'd be surprised what this girl can do."          "What do you mean?"          "I attached copies of some of her session transcripts, and some of her analysis works." Dave flipped through a couple of pages.          "So you think she's up to the job?"          "She's a tough cookie. She's laid back and relaxed enough to hit your target, but professional and level-headed enough to get the job done."          "Good."          "What exactly are you recruiting for?"          "You've heard of Prince Harry, yes?"          "Of course, I'm not daft, man!"          "He's…and of course this doesn't leave this table."          "Of course."          "He's sort of lost his way of sorts, and the palace is looking for a new and young approach to fixing the problem."          "A psychiatrist?"          "His father is concerned about some of his extra-curricular activities and feels that his mental and emotional state might have something to do with the issues."          "All right, I won't push the subject," he said, holding up his hands as a sign of surrender. "The thing I am concerned about is her area of expertise isn't family counseling, she's no guidance counselor."          "Is she capable of handling a sixteen year old?"          "More than likely."          "Good, that's all that matters."          "May I ask a question?"          "Certainly," Dave said, flipping through the pages of analysis.          "Why did you come to me? They're in London, and I'm sure there are plenty of qualified - "          "THEY requested someone outside the U.K.; they're afraid of someone tipping the press off."          "Understandably."          "Also, they want someone young, someone who can relate to the boy better."          "Well, she's a good candidate."          "Good, that's all I needed to know." .:. (Two Days Later) .:.          "William," a muffled voice said through the door.          "Yeah," the young, half-asleep, man groaned back.          "Please be down stairs for breakfast in thirty minutes."          "'Right," he said, rolling out of bed. He padded over to the mirror in the bathroom and groaned, again, at his reflection. He turned the sink on, splashed some water on his face and brushed his teeth.          His father had finally relented on the "no trip to America" pledge, and had treated his son to a weeklong holiday in New York. Some holiday! William thought as he turned the shower on, and let the room fill with steam. He removed his clothes and climbed in.          As William showered, he thought about the events of the last couple of weeks… .:.          His father had desperately called him out to his Highgrove Estate to discuss what he called, "urgent business". William, being groomed for the throne, figured the "business" was title related. To his utter dismay, the news had nothing to do with the throne, or with him.          It had come to his father's attention that William's younger brother, Harry, had been drinking, underage, and smoking marijuana. William was stunned. Not at the drinking, that almost seemed natural to him, as disturbing as that may sound; but, at the idea that his brother was a "druggie", a "pot-head", so to speak, was startling.          Everyone knew that Harry was the "let-it-all-hang-loose" type of guy that William certainly was not, but still, this did not seem like him! William was so full of questions so confused, that he hardly noticed just how frightened and concerned his father was. Charles had explained that he was seriously looking for psychiatric help for Harry, and thus the reason for the excursion to the states.          When his father's personal aide, David Stephens, had returned from a meeting with one of his "old college friends", he, William's father, and William all sat down for a meeting. David showed them a file on a young psychiatrist from New York City, an Amelie Jones, who in David's words "was more than competent". William perused the attached writings by the young woman and was quite impressed on her success rate with problem teenagers; a category, William was quite sure his brother fit into.          His father didn't need to hear much more, the next day he and William left for New York. .:.          So, now, William was dressing in gray slacks and a cranberry shirt. He slipped his belt through the belt-loops and rolled up his sleeves to display a pair of highly masculine, and muscular forearms. William finished "dealing" with his hair, and headed downstairs.          "You're not wearing that to meet with this woman, are you?" his father asked over his paper as William strolled into the private dining room.          "Yes, actually. Something wrong with it?"          "A tad informal, don't you think?"          "I would have worn my tux, but it's at the cleaners," William quipped.          "Don't get snide with me. I simply thought you could've at least worn a tie."          "I'm sure she won't report me to the etiquette police." His father sighed deeply, and returned to his paper, and William to his food. .:. (Social Sciences Building at New York University) .:.          "How long do you think Dr. Jones will be?" Charles asked the receptionist.          "Not much longer I'm sure, she was just meeting with the dean, and the dean tends to run a tad behind schedule." Charles nodded and leaned back in his chair. Not but, three minutes later, a blur of red came speeding through the office door and into the office of Dr. Jones. "That would be the doctor," the receptionist offered lightly.          "May we go in?" William asked. His right leg had fallen asleep and it desperately needed circulation.          "Allow me," the secretary said, standing up and ushering them into the office. "Doctor?" she called out as they entered. "Dr. Jones, your ten o'clock has been waiting patiently…"          "Oh, certainly Bernice, bring them in," William heard a voice say, from deep inside the office. He limped into the office, and immediately took in his surroundings.          The office was wood paneled and wood floored with a large oriental area rug stretched across it. The doctor was perched behind a massive oak desk, cluttered with files, books, and the like. The walls were covered with built-in bookshelves, littered with books, knick-knacks and pictures. Two large windows were perfectly spaced on the wall to his right, but a good deal of their light was obscured by heavy red drapes; the drapes were drawn, but the mere weight of the fabric hindered complete restraint.          The receptionist pointed to two chairs in front of the desk, and William and his father sat down.          "Be right with you," the woman in front of them said. She had yet to look up from the paper she was furiously writing on. A minute or two passed and she finally laid her pen down and filed the paper away in one of the many files on her desk. She sighed deeply and leaned back in her chair; for the first time, she raised her head and looked straight at them.          She's stunning, William thought, absolutely, stunning. She probably wasn't that tall, he thought, seeing as she appeared minute in respect to her large leather chair. She had chocolate hair cascading down around her face and past her shoulders. It seemed to float around her face, as if held in place by angels. Her eyes glimmered and glittered like sapphires. And her skin was the color of buttermilk. She sat in front of them in a delicate red silk blouse, and no doubt a matching skirt.          "What can I do for you?" she asked in a melodic voice. William smiled a small, quick smile.          "Dr. Jones…" his father began.          "Please," she said holding up her hand, "call me Ellie."          "I'd prefer to keep this professional, so would at least Ms. Jones, be alright?" she chuckled.          "Sure, why not?"          "Very well. I am here in need of some assistance for my son." She turned to face William.          "And what kind of assistance do you need?"          "Oh no!" William began, abruptly sitting up in his chair. "Not me, for my younger brother, Harry."          "Oh, alright, well, we'll get back to you." She directed her attention back to Williams father. "What kind of help does your younger son need?"          "It has come to my attention that he has engaged in underage drinking and drug use." Ellie smiled and bow her head a little. She closed a blank file that she had opened and laced her fingers in front of her.          "Mr…"          "Charles, just call me Charles."          "Alright, Charles, drug use is hardly the realm of a psychiatrist, I can refer you to several competent drug programs…" he cut her off.          "Miss Jones, I have reason to believe that the reason, the cause behind the drug use, is anything but benign and is in the realm of a psychiatrist."          "What do you mean?" she asked, opening the file again.          "As I am sure you are very well aware, the boys late mother and I were divorced quite publicly about five years ago, though the separation and the dissolution of the marriage had begun some time before, and then in 1997, she was fatally wounded in a car crash.''          "I am aware of this, but, with all due respect, the major post-traumatic disorders have all expired their time limits by now, all that's left is their wounds, so I'm not sure what I can offer."          "Help," William said. "Observe him, talk to him, spend a week with him, and then decided if you can or can't do anything. If you can then you stay, if you can't then tell us who can."          "Sounds pretty fair," Ellie said. "I'd have some ground rules."          "What are those?" Charles asked.          "I will observe him for one week, I will meet with him and evaluate his condition, but! I will not be your spy. Doctor-patient confidentiality still stands here. Also, the two of you must also be willing to participate; in both group sessions and in individual sessions."          "What for?" William asked, nervousness creeping into his voice. Ellie looked at him and noticed not just the nervousness, but also the way he fidgeted in his seat, almost as if he desperately needed to use the bathroom.          "The problem, especially if it is resulting from a traumatic experience, does not simply lie in one person, but rather a collective body. Thus, the collective body must also contribute to the recovery process."          "In other words, if we're to help Harry, then it must be a collective effort, yes?"          "It takes a village, sir."          "I understand."          "So, how much of a help do we have to be?" William asked, his nervousness turning to annoyance.          "As much as I need. Why? Nervous?" she cracked a little smirk, and folded her arms across her chest.          "No. Just busy."          "Don't worry, I won't interfere in your hectic schedule." Charles cleared his throat loudly.          "Well, we certainly don't want to waste any more of your time Ms. Jones, so we'll be on our way." They stood up, and he moved to shake her hand. She reached across her desk and shook his hand, and then a reluctant William's. "My secretary will be in touch as to your travel and rooming plans."          "Thank you."          "You can also have your office manager speak with her about the fee."          "Of course, thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you."          "You too."          They opened the door and walked out. Ellie sighed loudly and flopped into one of the chairs. .:. back