“I’ll have to come this way again tomorrow on my way to work—that is, if I still have a job.”
He frowns. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I’m going to be late, late, late by the time I get in today.”
“Tell them what happened,” he urges. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“You don’t know my boss,” I mutter, breaking my gaze away. I stare at the ground. “He’s a retired Grenadier Guard. He doesn’t take excuses for anything.”
The doors open and a pair of horses returns.
“Trooper Baker, the MOD officers are asking for you,” Corporal Lee declares.
“We’re coming,” he calls out.
As I’m guided up to the police officers, I’m already making plans for tomorrow morning.
Four
My chest heaves and beads of perspiration pool under my arms as I jog up the service-vehicle path behind Buckingham Palace. On a normal day, I love to take my time and soak in the beauty of the grounds and where I am.
There are flowers of every shape, size, and color, a picturesque pond, and the most perfectly manicured green lawn bordered by towering trees. It’s easy to forget I’m in the middle of a large city. Working here over the last two years has been a dream.
I mean, it’s a royal palace, who wouldn’t be mesmerized? Yet you learn pretty quickly that it’s a lot like an amusement park. There is the grandeur of what the public sees, and there’s the reality of what it takes to keep everything running seamlessly behind the scenes.
I won’t go into too much detail, but let’s just say it took me roughly ten weeks of protocol and security training just to get past the orientation stage and be issued a badge to the grounds. I don’t even work inside the palace itself.
Soon, a large steel-and-glass building appears in front ofme—the World of Curiosities Museum. While it resembles a Victorian glass greenhouse from the outside, inside, everything is sleek and ultra-modern.
It was constructed about five years ago on the site of a dilapidated greenhouse on the palace grounds and has become one of the most popular museums for families visiting London. We host rotating STEM exhibits that are submitted by individuals who live in Commonwealth countries.
The glass doors open with a whoosh as I race inside and turn right. The gift shop is modeled after the workshop where visiting schools spend their time learning. It’s a large open-concept space with wall-to-wall shelving. We have books, games, gadgets, and items for tinkering around the house with. There’s also a section with your typical London and palace souvenirs. The Christmas ornament of Prince Edmund’s dog was the most popular item last season. Who can resist the face of an English Springer Spaniel?
The shop is usually slow after lunch. There are a few families mulling over the London T-shirts and hoodies, and my co-worker Steve is entertaining himself with a Slinky at the register. I slowly release my breath. My boss isn’t anywhere to be seen.
Dashing into the back room, I place my bag down and smooth out my hair. Unsurprisingly, my fingers are met by a mass of tangles. Opening my bag, I dig around for my brush and a hair tie. The smell of coffee greets me.
“Oh no!” I cry.
My hands pulled out my precious sketchbook. The rim is stained brown and edges soggy. “No. No. No.”
I carefully open it and do my best to unpeel the pages. Some only have a few coffee stains around the edges, whileothers, including three of the five I’d hoped to submit for the internship, are completely ruined. My throat constricts.
Salvaging what I can, I lay out a few pages to dry along the back wall near the glass window. This will have to do for now. I don’t have time to deal with this. Mr. G, my boss, is going to be upon me any second.
Forgoing the brush, I run to the sink, use some water to slick back my dark brown hair, and shove it into a makeshift ballerina bun. One of the few skills I’ve haven’t lost is the ability to make my hair look presentable with few supplies.
Checking myself in the mirror one more time, I slip my lanyard over my neck and walk out the door.
“Minerva, you’re two hours late,” my boss says, standing with his arms crossed.
Mr. G’s real name is Mr. Gronendyke, but he’ll be the first to instruct anyone who meets him to call him Mr. G. He stands about five foot ten and can best be described as a fit, no-nonsense silver fox in his early fifties.
“I’m sorry, Mr. G. It won’t happen again.”
“My office. Now.” He nods curtly.
“Yes, sir.”
