Princess and Her Night.

Princess

Princess Juliette had discovered very early in life that the easiest time to disappear was when everyone believed they knew exactly where she was supposed to be.

Her brother’s wedding had provided an exceptional opportunity. The palace was overflowing. Courtiers drifted through the galleries in embroidered silks and jeweled doublets. Foreign dignitaries occupied nearly every guest chamber in the eastern wing. Servants hurried through corridors carrying flowers, linens, wine, silver trays, forgotten ribbons, misplaced gloves, and occasionally expressions of outright panic.

Someone was shouting about candles. Someone else was insisting there were too many flowers. From somewhere below came the unmistakable crash of something expensive breaking, followed by a collective silence and then several people speaking very quickly.

She smiled to herself as she walked through it all. For once, hardly anyone was looking at her. It was glorious.

Normally a princess could not cross a courtyard without somebody noticing. A lady wanted to adjust her sleeve. A minister wanted five minutes of her time. A visiting noble wanted an introduction. A tutor wanted to remind her that queens did not slouch. Her father wanted to know where she had been.

And Sir Armand invariably already knew.

She slowed as she reached the end of the gallery and glanced behind her. No broad shoulders. No dark royal armor. No irritatingly composed expression.

Interesting.

Her father had specifically assigned Armand to her for the entirety of the wedding celebrations, apparently because Juliette had once escaped a diplomatic luncheon through a conservatory window.

Once.

It had been three times at most. And the window had been perfectly safe. She really did not understand why everyone continued mentioning it.

Perhaps Armand had finally been distracted. There were hundreds of people in the castle. Surely even he could not keep track of her while simultaneously helping oversee palace security.

She turned toward the servants’ stairwell. The kitchens were only two floors below. There was cake there.

Wedding cake.

More importantly, there were people who generally had better things to do than discuss treaties with her.

She had almost reached the door when a voice behind her said, “Princess Juliette.”

Her shoulders sank. She arranged her expression before turning. The smile came easily. She had been practicing it since childhood.

“Prince Edric.”

The young prince approaching her wore the pale blue and silver of the northern court of Rethen. He was handsome in the carefully cultivated way princes tended to be handsome: well-tailored, well-groomed, and entirely aware of the effect.

He bowed. She inclined her head.

“I was hoping I might find you before the ceremony,” he said.

Of course you were.

“How fortunate.”

His smile broadened. She maintained hers.

“You must be very excited.”

“For my brother?”

“For the celebrations.”

“Ah.”

She considered this. “There are musicians, flowers, six hundred guests, and enough food downstairs to withstand a siege. I believe excitement is mandatory.”

Edric laughed. She had not been joking.

“I've heard Valenne does nothing modestly.”

“My father considers modesty suspicious.”

“That explains the roses.”

She glanced toward one of the enormous floral arrangements occupying most of the alcove beside them.

“There were fewer yesterday.”

Prince Edric looked uncertain whether she was serious. She let him wonder.

“Your brother seems happy,” he said.

At that, her expression softened genuinely.

“He is.”

“And you approve of his bride?”

“I wasn't aware he required my permission.”

“Surely your opinion matters.”

“My opinion always matters.”

She smiled sweetly.

“It is simply not always obeyed.”

That earned another laugh.

Better. If she could keep him amused, perhaps this would be brief.

He shifted closer. “We haven't had much opportunity to speak during my visit.”

“No.”

“I had hoped perhaps tomorrow”

A servant appeared at the far end of the corridor carrying an armful of folded table linens and looking desperately lost.

She loved her immediately.

“Forgive me.”

She stepped neatly around Edric before he could finish. The servant looked startled when Juliette approached.

“Your Highness.”

“You look as though you're about to declare war on those napkins.”

The young lady stared down at them.

“I was told they were meant for the southern dining hall, Your Highness, but I”

“Wrong staircase.”

“Oh.”

“Back down this gallery, second archway on your left. Take the narrow stairs down one level and follow anyone carrying wine.”

Her relief was immediate.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“You're welcome.”

She turned back toward Prince Edric. He was still waiting.

Naturally.

“I should let you continue,” he said.

That was the first thing he had said that she found genuinely charming.

“How considerate.”

“I'll see you tonight?”

“You and approximately six hundred others.”

He smiled. She smiled. He bowed.

She waited until he disappeared around the corner.

Then she dropped the expression entirely.

“Cake.”

She opened the servants’ door.

The kitchens smelled like butter, cinnamon, roasted meat, yeast, sugar, smoke, and approximately twenty different things Juliette could not identify. They were also wonderfully loud.

No one stopped working when she entered. That was why she liked it. People noticed her, certainly, but unlike the upper floors, nobody seemed to believe the kingdom would collapse if the princess stood in an inconvenient place.

“Look who finally escaped.”

She grinned.

Mistress Branna stood at a washing basin with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, her gray hair escaping its knot in several determined curls. She had been working in the royal kitchens for longer than Juliette had been alive and possessed absolutely no fear of royalty.

“It took effort,” Juliette said.

“I imagine Sir Armand will be devastated.”

“He doesn't know I'm here.”

Several cooks exchanged looks.

She frowned. “What?”

Nothing.

Suspicious.

A small brown kitchen dog trotted toward her, tail wagging furiously.

“There you are.”

She immediately crouched despite the elaborate skirts surrounding her. The dog pushed his nose against her hands.

“Oh, yes. You've suffered terribly, haven't you?”

“He ate half a sausage not ten minutes ago,” Branna called.

She rubbed behind his ears. “Cruel accusations.”

“He stole it.”

“Resourceful.”

“He's getting fat.”

“He's dignified.”

The dog rolled onto his back. She scratched his stomach.

“Extremely dignified.”

Someone laughed. The sound was swallowed almost immediately by the general chaos.

She stayed there longer than necessary. Nobody told her to stand correctly. Nobody commented on her posture. Nobody reminded her that embroidered silk did not belong on a kitchen floor.

Eventually she stood and drifted toward Branna.

“Is the cake finished?”

“No.”

“Can I see it?”

“No.”

“Can I taste it?”

“No.”

“Do you love me at all?”

“Not enough to explain to your brother why his wedding cake has a hole in it.”

She leaned dramatically against the counter.

“I could taste somewhere discreet.”

“You've said that before.”

“And I was discreet.”

“You ate an entire row of sugared violets.”

“No one noticed.”

“I noticed.”

“That seems like a personal failing.”

Branna snorted.

Someone slid a plate past her. There was a small honey pastry on it. She looked toward the young kitchen maid responsible. The girl winked. She immediately stole it.

“Traitor,” Branna said.

“I've always liked her.”

“You like anyone who feeds you.”

“It's one of my more admirable qualities.”

She climbed onto the broad wooden counter beside the washing basin before anyone could object, carefully arranging several yards of formal skirt around herself.

Branna looked down at the gown.

“You'll crease that.”

“I sincerely hope so.”

“Your lady's maid will blame me.”

“My lady's maid blames Armand for everything.”

“She has good sense.”

She bit into the pastry. Warm honey melted over her tongue.

She closed her eyes.

“Oh.”

Branna continued washing a bowl. “That good?”

“I may marry whoever made this.”

“She's sixty-two.”

“I've always valued maturity.”

Branna laughed.

She smiled around another bite.

This.

This was what she wanted.

Not forever, perhaps. She knew better than to pretend she could spend her life sitting barefoot on kitchen counters eating pastries while somebody else's dog begged at her feet.

But an hour.

Surely she was entitled to an hour.

She listened to Branna complain about flour deliveries. She watched two kitchen boys argue over whether a tray of pies had already been counted. She gave the dog a piece of pastry she absolutely had been told not to give him.

For several precious minutes, nobody asked Princess Juliette Valenne to be anything at all.