I feel like a butterfly pinned under glass as Princess Beatrix studies me a moment. It’s the same look she gave me at Navy Yard and again when we went shopping earlier in the week, but now without soccer or dresses to distract us, I feel the scrutiny even more keenly.
“You’re good at this, Nanny Sumner,” she says after what feels like five minutes.
“At what?”
“The staring game. Neverback down, these women tonight can smell weakness from a kilometer away, and they will exploit that until you are a shell of a human, and they are standing over you, cackling.”
“O-okay.”What do I even say to that?She sounds like a general preparing me to go into battle. It’s just a ball.
“No,” she corrects me. “No stuttering, no stammering. Don’t mumble or mutter. Don’t cast your eyes away, and always keep your chin at least parallel to the floor. They are no better than you. Those women are there at the invitation of parliament, but you—You are here at the personal invitation of the prince, the one they are all after. They should be competing with you, but they won’t.”
“They won’t?” The woman is back at my feet, and I clench my stomach muscles trying not to laugh as she scrubs my heels with a coarse stone.
“You are a commoner. Supposedly,” she adds with an eyeroll. On our shopping date, she continued to grill me on my status and remains unconvinced that I’ve been discounted from the aristocracy because of a technicality. “And therefore, you don’t present a threat in their eyes. But you and I know differently.”
“We do?”
The princess scoffs. “Oh, my sweet little nanny. You still don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?” I’m starting to feel like a fool, repeating everything back as a question.
It’s her turn to pull her lips into a tight line. She’sstill staring as if she can read everything about me in my eyes. “Perhaps you’re as much in denial as he is.”
“I’m not in denial.”
“That’s what they all say.” She lets out a heavy breath. “Well, that went deeper than I intended. Jilly, be a gem and pour me another glass, will you?” She holds out her empty wine glass to the woman working on her hair.
Princess Beatrix changes the topic to something much lighter, and we fall into giggling gossip and sharing embarrassing family stories, though I have much fewer than she does.
I never went to any school dances because the church mom and I attended was one of those uber strict ones that thought those kinds of things only led to promiscuity and experimenting with drugs and alcohol. My high school best friend and I did try to sneak to homecoming our senior year, but the pastor happened to drive by and saw us sprinting across the street in our dresses. Our mothers crashed the dance and bodily dragged us out before we even got to finish one song. And we certainly didn’t get ready like this.
“Your Highness, can I ask you something?” I grit through my restrained giggles as my feet are still being attacked.
“Only if you call me Trixie, darling. How many times must we go over this? Do you still call Fritz Your Highness?”
I blush. “Occasionally.”
“Oh, you’re so adorable.” The princess makes itsound endearing rather than poking fun. “What is it, darling?”
“You insisted I wear slippers with closed toes, so why do I need a pedicure?”
“Aurelia, there is nothing the queen despises more than visible toes at a formal event. Remember that. Even so, we must always be ready for any eventuality. Every part of us must be impeccably prepped regardless of how much is intended to be covered.”
“Right,” I murmur as I’m finally done with the torture, and the polish job is complete.
Beatrix stands. “Alright, I’m going to wash this war paint out, and when I get back, it’s your turn in the chair.” She taps her chin. “Definitely no color for you. That red hue you have is simply divine. But how do we showcase that incredible head of hair?” She’s still muttering as she strides from the room.
