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“That was nice.”
“The place you’re describing is the royal palace in the capital city, Tleurbonne. Do you remember playing in the gardens with a bunch of kids?
“Like relatives?”
“They were the royal family from the neighboring country, a place called Ledonia.”
Memories pop into my head of a family of strikingly good-looking people, all with dark hair, the girls enviably pretty. “I do remember some kids.”
“You’ll probably meet them again.”
“One royal family at a time, okay?” I lean back in my cream leather seat, resting my head against the monogrammed headrest. “I'm super nervous about being an official princess, but I’m also nervous about seeing my grandparents.”
“They're your grandparents. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
I level him with a look.
“Just imagine them in their underwear.”
I snort laugh at the idea. “I don’t think I’m going to do that.”
“However you do it, you’ve got this.”
“Only if the King likes to walk around in his tighty-whities.”
“Excuse me, Your Royal Highness. Excuse me, sir,” Jill, the flight attendant says. “The captain has asked me to advise you that we’ve begun our descent into Malveaux. We expect to be on the ground at Tleurbonne International Airport in approximately 25 minutes.”
“Great. Thanks so much,” Dad replies.
I lean into him. “I am never going to get used to being called ‘Your Royal Highness’.”
“I think there are a few changes you’re going to have to get used to, honey.”
I give him a sardonic smile. “Like my entire life?”
“That, and the fact they may ask you to wear something other than dirty white sneakers.”
I lift my foot from under the table and inspect my shoe. “They're not dirty. They're broken in.”
“I'm not sure Queen Maria will see it that way.”
Exactly 25 minutes since we were told we were due to land, the captain pulls the royal jet to a stop, and I peer out the window at this new country. I can see the bustling activity of the airport, with ground crew members busily working, and other Malveaux Air planes parked at nearby gates. Ground crew are busy moving a set of stairs toward us, and there are a couple of sleek black cars with flags flanking the hood that are waving in the breeze. The surrounding landscape hints at the country’s natural beauty, with distant hills peeking out from beyond the airport's perimeter.
I look nervously back at Dad. “How long are you staying again?”
“You know I need to get back to the store. But I'll be here for the next couple of days to help you ease into things.”
I offer him a grateful smile.
Jill pulls the door open and instantly the quiet cabin is filled with the sounds and smells of a busy airport.
Vladimir approaches our table. “We are ready to disembark, ma’am.”
I’ve learned over the last 12 or so hours that calling me ma’am is their way of showing respect for royalty. People call me Your Royal Highness first, then drop it down to ma’am after. Although I get that it saves time—saying Your Royal Highness is a mouthful—the ma’am thing makes me feel old.
“I warn you there’s some media here, but we have instructions from the palace that we are not to engage with them at this point,” Vladimir continues. “Instead, I will assist you in moving directly from the plane into the waiting car.” He gestures with his hands as though I need further assistance to understand the plan.
I swallow, my nerves bouncing like ping pong balls against a wall. It's bad enough that I'm about to see my grandparents for the first time in years—grandparents who happen to be royalty—but media? For some reason, it hadn't even occurred to me that anyone else would be interested in what's going on in my world right now.
