The next morning, I’m drinking coffee in my chambers, wearing a bathrobe and pretending to read the news, when something slides under the heavy wooden door of my rooms.

That’s new, I think, and go check it out.

It’s an envelope.

No: it’s an envelope with a wax seal on the back. I pick it up, raising my eyebrows as I hold it to the light.

I’m pretty sure it’s the royal seal of Sveloria, which would make this official royal correspondence. I try not to smile as I turn it over and open it.

Inside is the very official-looking letterhead of His Majesty, Crown Prince Konstantin Grigorovich, Minister of Military Affairs, Lord of the Realm, on nice paper, so thick you could almost build furniture out of it.

Below that is messy, all-caps handwriting that has to be Kostya’s.

Dear Hazel,

It would be an honor to give you a tour of the palace dungeons, if you’re still interested in the darker aspects of Svelorian history.

Please reply with your availability for four-o-clock this afternoon, outside the first floor chapel.

Most sincerely,

Kostya

Stuck to the bottom of the formal correspondence is a sticky note.

Civilized people reply in writing, with a note given to any member of the palace staff. Don’t worry, they know who I am.

I grin, then try not to grin, then grin again because who cares, no one’s watching me. I stuff the letter into my backpack, somewhere I’m hoping no one will look. Then I take it out and leave it casually on the dresser, because it’ll look more suspicious if someone finds it in the bottom of my backpack, right?

It’s a very official, polite note. He’s extending me a hospitable invitation, and I don’t have to hide it.

The corner of my sitting room has a desk in it, and when I open a drawer looking for paper or something, I find nice stationary, a nice pen, and thick envelopes. I sit down, call on my vague memories of Miss Manners, and write back.

Dear Kostya,

I would be delighted to tour the dungeons this afternoon at 4 and learn more about your country’s fascinating history.

Sincerely,

Hazel

For a minute I debate re-doing the whole thing and writing something besides sincerely. Is this a “best” situation? What about “yours truly,” or “regards,” or “truly best regarding yours” or some other nonsense?

Chill, I tell myself.

I read the letter over again, fold it, and stick it in the envelope. I hesitate for a moment, then write “Kostya” on it in Roman letters instead of Cyrillic, because I’m pretty sure I’d fuck up the Cyrillic. Then I get dressed, brush my hair, and head down to breakfast, where the first palace staff member I see notices the envelope I’m carrying and asks if I have correspondence.

“I’ll see that His Highness receives it promptly,” she says, nodding at me.

“Thanks,” I say.

That was easy, I think.

* * *

At three-thirty, I’m standing in my massive closet, looking at dresses. I’ve got on a knee-length floral sundress that’s nice-looking but not particularly sexy, but I’m debating whether I should change or not.

On one hand, this is cute and respectable.

On the other hand, I’m not sure cute and respectable is how I want to look for Kostya, because it’s sure as hell not how he makes me feel.

You’re still gonna be in the palace, dumbass, I think. You can’t exactly parade to the chapel in a miniskirt and thigh-high stockings. Not that the closet your mother stocked has either of those things in it.

Plus, it could just be a tour of the dungeons.

I think yet again about last night, about Kostya’s tongue in my mouth. His goddamn massive erection pressing against me, his fingers hot against my spine.

And then I’m wet again, for about the fiftieth time today.

I’m pretty fucking sure this isn’t really a tour of the dungeons. I cross my arms and glare at the dresses in the closet, even as I know I’m overthinking it.

Then there’s a knock on my door. I frown and pad to it barefoot, a knot tightening in my stomach.

Maybe his schedule changed and he just showed up here, I hope.

The knot pulses, and I open the door.

It’s my mother, a stern-looking woman I don’t know, and a garment rack. I stand there like an idiot for a moment.

“Hi,” I say.

My mother raises her eyebrows.

“This is the palace seamstress, Irina,” my mother says.

She waits, looking at me. Irina’s face doesn’t move.

“You have a gown fitting appointment right now?” my mom says.

I have absolutely no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. I never made a gown fitting appointment, and it is not happening right now because my dungeon date is in half an hour.

“A gown fitting appointment?” I ask, trying to sound polite.

“For the masquerade ball two nights from now,” my mother says, using her special Hazel, you are testing my patience tone of voice. “Can we come in?”

I finally remember my manners, and open the door for them.

“Yes, please,” I say. Irina enters, rolling the garment rack behind her, and my mom follows.

Once we’re in my sitting room area, Irina gives me a long, appraising, head-to-toe look. I can practically see her thinking well, I’ll do what I can.

“Mom, could I speak with you privately for a moment?” I ask.

I don’t wait for her to answer, just walk to my bedroom. She follows, and I shut the bedroom door behind us.

“Did you forget?” she asks.

“Mom, what the hell is this?” I hiss.

“The king and queen are holding a masquerade ball the day after tomorrow,” she says, half-shrugging. “I think it’s partly because we’re here, and they’re trying to royal it up for us.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I say.

“No, I told you about it before,” she says. “You just forgot.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’m one hundred percent certain you didn’t tell me anything,” I say, already fuming.

Her lips thin.

“Do you have plans already?” she asks.

“No, but that’s not the point,” I say.

“Hazel, I apologize that I didn’t tell you about this,” she says, in her diplomat’s tone of voice that says, clear as day, I still think I’m right and you’re wrong, but I’m apologizing anyway.

I’m so mad I want to scream, because she does this. We’ve had this fight before: she signs me up for something, doesn’t bother telling me, and then acts like she’s Saint Eileen for apologizing.

“You have to tell me things,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I apologized,” she says, and I want to say but we both know you didn’t mean it.

Instead I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m not a teenager any more, even though when she does this I instantly feel like my angry, overly dramatic sixteen-year-old self again.

“Mom,” I say, forcing myself to approach this reasonably, “I’m happy to attend palace events, and I appreciate that I’m here on an incredible, free vacation, and I don’t mind you making commitments on my behalf, but I would very much prefer it if you consulted me first.”

I think it might be the most mature sentence I’ve ever uttered.

My mom’s jaw flexes a little, and I can tell that she’s still annoyed and still thinks I’m wrong, but instead she nods.

“I’ll try to be more mindful in the future,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say, and open the bedroom door.

I think some diplomacy might have rubbed off on me after all, I think.

“You look nice, by the way,” she says as we walk back into the living room. “Are you going somewhere?”

I panic and lie.

“No, I just thought I should look nicer if I’m going to be living in a palace,” I say, smiling at her just a little too much.

She nods, and then I’m in front of Irina, whose facial expression hasn’t changed this whole time.

What the hell did you lie for? I think. You don’t have anything to lie about. It’s just a palace tour, and now if you go back and tell the truth, it’s going to be weird.

“You have strong shoulders,” Irina says, and nods in approval. “But we’ll need to take the bust in.”

Inwardly, I sigh. Then I look at the clock and hope I can explain this to Kostya.

* * *

Forty minutes later, I’m standing on a footstool wearing a floor-length dress. It’s black lace over a flesh-colored lining, with a halter neck and a low back, pinned in a few places, and my mom and Irina are talking about it.

It turned out that my own input was limited to vetoing dresses that I absolutely, positively hated. Like the marigold-yellow one that was inexplicably tight through the hips and loose through the waist, and made me look like a lumpy, jaundiced banana.

I liked the green one with the half-cape, but it was deemed too “showy” for an American, and I learned years ago that I should pick my battles with my mom carefully. Besides, this one looks good too.

“She can’t wear a bra with that,” my mom says to Irina. “The back is pretty low, is that too immodest?”

“No,” Irina says. “The women will be very...”

She moves her hands in front of her like she’s grabbing two enormous bosoms.

Okay then.

I glance at the clock, my stomach clenching. 4:15.

He thinks I stood him up. I’m stuck here, my mom asking whether I look too slutty in the dress she chose, and he thinks I stood him up.

I take a deep breath, doing my best not to act like I want to tear this dress off and run through the palace halls looking for Kostya.

“I will give you the stick-on bra,” Irina tells me. She walks over in front of me, and stands there, hands on hips, a measuring tape around her neck, staring directly at my boobs.

Then she reaches out with both hands and runs her fingers along the crease beneath both breasts, frowning. I pull back just a little, instinctively.

Jesus, buy a girl dinner first, I think, but I don’t say anything

“It’s very secure,” she says. “The bra sticks here, and it will give you more volume, more lift. Don’t worry.”

I just nod, because I wasn’t worried.

I’ve gotten this far in life with these boobs, I think.

“Thanks,” I say.

“I think this will do nicely,” my mom says.

“Take it off,” Irina says. “I’ll have it to you the morning of the ball.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say, and wait for her to leave.

After a moment, she sighs a little, walks over to my mom, and they both turn around at least. I quickly get out of the formal dress and into the cute sundress I was wearing earlier.

Ten minutes later, at almost 4:30, I finally get rid of my mom and Irina, but not before discussing shoes, makeup, hair, and what mask I’m going to wear. Apparently someone’s taking this masquerade ball seriously enough that we all have to wear Batman-style eye masks, as if I won’t recognize everyone anyway.

Irina tells me to drink lots of water and bathe in oatmeal “for my complexion.” I wonder what the hell is wrong with my complexion.

When the door shuts after them, I give them a two-minute head start so I don’t run past them in the palace halls. I brush my hair again, brush my teeth, and put on sandals.

Then I walk to the first floor chapel as fast as humanly possible, praying that maybe I’ll run into Kostya as he leaves or something.