CHAPTER 5 #2
Captain Mireille Steiner chose that moment to enter the kitchen, looking like she was conducting some kind of security sweep.
Her gaze took in the scene: me eating at the counter, Chef Auguste puttering around the stove, Petra folding linens.
Something in her expression relaxed by about half a degree, which for her was practically a bear hug.
"Princess," she said with a formal nod.
"Captain. Are you here to arrest me for improper omelet consumption?"
That earned me what might have been the ghost of a smile. On Captain Steiner, it was basically a standing ovation. "I'm here to ensure your safety. Though I admit, you're not where I expected to find you."
"Where did you expect to find me?"
"In your room, having what our intelligence suggested would be a complete breakdown by now."
"Your intelligence needs updating. I save my breakdowns for Tuesdays."
Chef Auguste laughed. "Our princess is made of sterner stuff than your intelligence reports indicated."
"So I'm beginning to see." Captain Steiner moved closer to the counter. "How are you adapting to palace life?"
"Well, I've learned that there are seventeen different types of spoons, none of which I'm using correctly.
I've discovered that walking normally is inappropriate for someone of my station.
And I now know that there's a right way and a wrong way to sit in a chair, and naturally I've been doing it wrong my entire life.
" I took another bite of omelet. "On the plus side, the food here is amazing, and I've met some actual nice people who don't look at me like I'm a particularly disappointing science experiment. "
"Growing pains," Petra said sympathetically. "It gets easier."
"Does it? Because right now I'm trying to learn a foreign language while blindfolded and everyone keeps throwing spoons at me."
"You are," Captain Steiner said matter-of-factly. "Court protocol is essentially a foreign language. But you'll pick it up."
"What if I don't? What if I'm just not princess material?"
Chef Auguste set down his whisk and looked at me seriously. "Do you know what makes a good princess?"
"Perfect curtsies and knowing which fork to use?"
"Caring about people. Everything else can be learned. Even the spoons."
"He's right," Petra added. "I've worked for nobility who knew every rule by heart but treated the staff like furniture. You asked my name. You thanked Chef Auguste for breakfast. You're already ahead of most royals I've met."
Captain Steiner nodded in agreement. "Protocol matters for public appearances, but character matters more. You've got the character part covered."
Something loosened in my shoulders. These people, who worked in the palace and knew what real royalty looked like, thought I might actually be capable of this.
It was the first encouragement I'd received since arriving in Valdoria, and I wanted to hug all of them.
(I didn't, because that was probably against protocol.)
"Thank you," I said. "All of you. I needed to hear that."
"What you need," Chef Auguste said, "is to stop trying so hard to be perfect and start trying to be yourself. The world has enough perfect princesses. It could use one authentic one."
"Does this palace have an espresso machine?" I asked suddenly. "Somewhere?"
Chef Auguste raised an eyebrow. "We have three. Why?"
"Because if I'm going to survive this princess boot camp, I'm going to need proper coffee. And no offense to whatever's in the formal dining room, but that stuff tastes like it was brewed during the Renaissance and nobody's updated the recipe since."
"You know how to use an espresso machine?" Petra asked, looking intrigued.
"Know how? I was basically married to one for three years. My specialty is a maple cinnamon latte. It's like autumn in a cup."
Chef Auguste's eyes lit up. "Show me."
For the next fifteen minutes, I actually got to do something I was good at.
I showed them my technique for steaming milk ("The trick is the angle, you want tiny bubbles, not foam that looks like dish soap"), my method for pulling espresso shots ("Listen for that hissing sound, it means the pressure's right"), and my secret for the maple cinnamon blend ("Real maple syrup, not the fake stuff, and you toast the cinnamon first").
When I handed Chef Auguste the finished latte, he took a sip and his eyebrows shot up.
"This is excellent," he said, sounding genuinely surprised. "Where did you learn this?"
"Three years of making drinks for ungrateful customers and a boss who made Madame Delacroix look like Mary Poppins."
"You should make this for the prince," Petra said, taking her own sip and making an appreciative noise. "When you meet him."
"I don't think 'Here's a latte, please don't make the next six months of my life miserable' is proper princess behavior."
"Maybe not," Captain Steiner said, "but it's certainly more memorable than another curtsy."
I finished my omelet feeling more optimistic than I had since this whole nightmare began. Maybe I couldn't curtsy without wobbling, and maybe I'd never master the seventeen-spoon system, but I could make a damn good latte. And that counted for something.
"I should go," I said, sliding off the stool. "I have a riding lesson."
"With Peter," Captain Steiner said. "He's very good."
There was something in her tone that made me look at her more closely, but her expression gave nothing away.
"You know him?"
"We've met. He comes highly recommended."
"From Solmarina, isn't he?" Petra asked. "I heard he works with royal horses throughout Europe."
"That's what he told me." I paused, suddenly curious. "What else do you know about him?"
"Why?" Chef Auguste asked with a knowing smile. "Is he handsome?"
Heat crept up my neck. "I'm engaged, remember? I'm not supposed to be noticing whether other men are handsome."
"But you did notice," Petra said with the first real grin I'd seen from her.
"I noticed he's... pleasant to look at. In an objective, purely observational way."
"Pleasant," Captain Steiner repeated, and I swear she was fighting back laughter. "Objectively."
"Very objectively pleasant," I said defensively. "He treats me like a normal person instead of some political chess piece. That's all."
"And he's teaching you to ride," Chef Auguste added. "Very romantic, horseback riding."
"It's not romantic. It's educational. I need to learn basic equestrian skills for my royal duties."
"Of course," they all said in unison, but their expressions suggested they weren't buying it for a second.
I left the kitchen with my cheeks still warm, passing by Lord Chancellor Renaud's office on the way.
The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear him speaking in what sounded like rapid German to someone on the phone.
But what caught my attention was his desk, visible through the gap in the doorway.
Among the usual papers and official documents, there was a framed photograph that seemed oddly personal for such a formal office.
It showed Renaud with a young girl, maybe six or seven years old, who was hugging him and laughing at something off-camera.
They were standing in what looked like a park, and both of them looked genuinely happy.
The sight of the photo humanized him in a way that was oddly unsettling.
The man who'd been noting my weaknesses and taking notes on my failures had a granddaughter who clearly adored him.
It was a reminder that even people who made my life difficult weren't necessarily villains.
Just complicated individuals with their own motivations and concerns.
* * *
MY WORRIES ABOUT CONTRACTS faded the moment I walked into the stables and saw Peter waiting for me with Celeste.
God, he was unfairly attractive. I'd thought maybe I'd built him up in my head overnight, that he couldn't possibly be as good-looking as I remembered.
But no. If anything, he was worse. Better.
Whatever. The afternoon sunlight caught the bronze in his hair and highlighted the way his riding clothes fit across his shoulders, and I had to remind myself that I was an engaged woman who was absolutely not having inappropriate thoughts about her riding instructor.
I was failing miserably at that reminder.
"How did the princess lessons go?" he asked, and his smile was so genuine and uncomplicated that some of my tension melted away.
"Let's just say I'm still not curtsy-ready. Madame Delacroix may need therapy."
"Curtsying is overrated anyway."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to master seventeen different types of deference by next week. There's a different curtsy for dukes versus earls versus foreign dignitaries versus the Queen's third cousin twice removed."
He laughed, and the sound did things to my insides that definitely weren't appropriate for an engaged woman. "Is there really a different curtsy for the Queen's third cousin?"
"Honestly, at this point, I wouldn't be surprised if there was a different curtsy for every day of the week."
He led Celeste out of her stall, and I watched his hands move over the horse with confidence. Everything about him suggested years of experience with horses, but also something more. There was an authority in his movements that went beyond simple expertise.
"Ready to try cantering today?" he asked.
"Is that faster than trotting?"
"Much faster."
"Will I die?"
"Only if you don't trust me."
The way he said it, looking directly into my eyes, made my stomach do a little flip that had nothing to do with fear of riding faster. "I trust you," I said, and realized I meant it completely.
We went through the same routine as yesterday: grooming, tacking up, mounting. But today there was an easiness between us that hadn't been there before. He stood closer when he adjusted my stirrups, his hands lingered when he checked my position, and I was hyperaware of every point of contact.