We’re stopped when we arrive at the gate, and the guard asks the driver to roll his window down.

“It’s me,” the driver says.

“Sorry, Gideon,” the guard says. “Increased security protocol. I need to ID everyone in the car.”

“I have one passenger,” he says. “Guest of the prince.”

The driver, Gideon, looks back at me and tells me that he will be rolling my window down.

I nod.

The window opens, and the guard shines a flashlight inside. He looks right past me, shining the light around looking for anyone else who may be hidden inside. Once he’s sure it’s just me, he turns off the light and looks directly at me.

“ID please.”

I pull out my driver’s license. I left my passport in the hotel.

“What’s this?” he asks, looking at it.

“It’s my driver’s license,” I say nervously.

“This is all you have―”

I pull out the royal seal and hand it to him. My nerves are making me jittery.

He points to Gideon and says, “Wait here.” He disappears, leaving me to stew anxiously in the car. I wait until I see him back in the little guard post.

When I’m sure he’s out of earshot, I whisper to Gideon. “Are we in trouble?”

“Nothing to worry about, madam,” he says, but then he eyes the guard post nervously.

The guard comes back to the vehicle. “You’re clear to go in.”

He looks at me as the window rolls up, squinting with intense suspicion, and I feel hugely relieved when the tinted window is fully shut.

“Is that normal?” I ask Gideon.

“Perfectly,” he says, driving down the long driveway.

“Gideon,” I say, leaning farther forward. “Please let me know if anything is weird here.”

He hesitates for a few seconds before saying, “It’s not exactly common for a commoner to hold the royal seal.”

I nod, remembering what I learned in my history classes. Usually the seal would only be given to someone—in the days prior to electronic communication―in cases when someone had to be able to represent a royal official in some kind of emergency situation. Seeing it presented by a woman that the prince met only a few hours ago and is inviting to stay over in the palace probably doesn’t qualify as an emergency worthy of the royal seal.

“I see,” I say. “How many people know who the prince is?”

“I can’t disclose that,” Gideon says.

I wonder if the guard knew who he was. He must have, or how else could Rikard go in and out? The guards would eventually figure out who he was even if he never told them outright.

When we arrive inside, I’m met by a man who somehow has all of my suitcases from the hotel loaded on a cart. I look at the cart, my jaw hanging open in amazement.

“Ah,” the man says. “We had the hotel bring your things ‘round.”

My face flushed. I remembered throwing my dirty clothes that I had worn to tour the castle on the floor and over the chairs, and then I threw more clothes on the chairs and desks―clothes I tried on for the date which didn’t look good enough―until I finally decided on the dress I’m wearing now. I try to recall if I had dirty underwear lying around.

“A female hotel staff member fetched your things,” the man adds, as if reading my mind.

“You could have asked,” I say.

“The prince insisted,” he says.

Presumptuous of him. So far, the “royal treatment” has included receiving the full airport security theater check at the gate, and finding that my things were moved from my hotel room without my knowledge or permission.

I take a minute to look around the palace, and I realize that this is at least ten or eleven notches up from the hotel I was staying in. My hotel didn’t have a giant, ornate glass and bronze chandelier, nor did it have three hundred-year-old paintings and etchings covering the entire domed ceiling.

“I’ll take you to your room,” the man says then, grabbing hold of the cart.

I follow him into an elevator. It’s an old style one with a golden cage thing that the bellhop shuts manually. “Great care is taken in maintaining the historic preservation of the palace,” he says. Again, he’s reading my mind.

He inserts a key into the elevator and turns it, and then hits a button. The elevator starts going up, and it stops on the fourth floor.

For some reason, I expect us to exit into some standard hotel hallway, but instead I am greeted by another massive room. This one has marble floors and marble pillars, and there are golden couches covered in purple cushions. There’s even a Roman-style bath right in the middle of the room.

“Wow,” I say. “This is...just wow. If the lobby looks like this, I can’t even imagine what my room might look like.”

“These are your rooms, madam,” he says.

“Huh?” I ask, looking back over my shoulder. There are like ten of those golden couches, and the Roman-style bath looks large enough for twenty people to enjoy. I don’t even see a bed. “This isn’t...”

“There is a regular shower attached to the bedroom,” he says. “If you prefer that.”

How can he possibly think I was complaining? I was simply in disbelief to be sleeping in some kind of Roman emperor’s palace.

“How many rooms,” I say, “are my rooms?”

“Hmmm,” he says, pulling the cart forward. “I’ve never counted.”

I follow him down past the baths, the marble pillars, and the golden couches, until we come to a large wooden door carved so ornately that I would guess it’s more expensive than most peoples’ houses.

He pulls the door open, and I’m greeted by the bedroom. The bed is the size of a regular room, but the room itself is so big that it doesn’t feel too oversized. There’s a giant window covering the entire middle of the ceiling, and diffused lights from the city are spilling into the room. Through the window in the ceiling―the sunroof?―I can see the outline of the palace’s tall spires.

The man points up. “The prince’s room is in that spire.”

I laugh. “So he can see into my window?”

“The window is tinted, madam.”

Sure it is.

“Can it be closed?”

In answer, he presses a button near the bed, and the entire window turns black. Moments later, it lights up, becoming a huge light rather than a window. The light is soft and warm rather than harsh and fluorescent.

“Nice,” I say. “I think I’ll keep it like that, just in case.”

He begins unloading my suitcases and places them next to a huge wooden dresser. “Would you like me to sort your clothes for you?”

“No!” I snap.

He looks up at me like a hurt puppy.

“I’m not...royalty,” I stammer. “I’m used to doing things myself.”

“As you wish,” he says, stepping away.

He points toward another set of doors. “These doors lead to the living quarters, the doors across the room go to the guest bedroom.”

“The guest bedroom has its own guest bedroom?” I ask in disbelief.

He nods. “If you need anything, pick up the phone and ask. At any hour of the night.”

“What if I want to leave?” I ask.

He hands me a key. “This is for the elevator.”

I put it on the nightstand by the bed. “Did the prince ask me to meet him...or―”

“He’s still occupied,” the man says. “But he said he’d contact you as soon as he was able.”