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I flick my eyes to my dad. He's offers me a sympathetic smile, which only makes me feel even more awkward and out of place. If that’s even possible.
“Shall we go to your rooms, ma’am?” Vladimir asks, giving me the exit I so desperately need, and I could hug the guy, with his deep voice and big burly-ness.
Of course I don't. He's my bodyguard. And anyway, I've got my dad here if I need to hug anyone, and right now I could really use one of his warm, reassuring fatherly hugs.
“Okay, well, great to meet you. I guess I’ll see y’all later,” I say to the waiting staff.
Dad, Vladimir, and I make our way down the imposing hallway lined with oil paintings, the high, fancy ceiling stretching way above our heads. We’re trailed by the poor woman who felt the need to reply to me just before, and a couple of men with white gloves. ‘Cause you know, you always need a couple of dudes in white gloves.
I miss my anonymous Texas life with a sudden ache in my chest.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I say to the pretty blond woman.
“It’s Alice, Your Royal Highness,” she says with a curtsy. “I’m your lady’s maid.”
“Cool,” I reply. “You’ll have to explain to me what that means. I’ve never had a lady’s maid before, or any maid, come to think of it.”
“I’d be happy to.”
We walk for what feels like at least a mile before we turn a corner and arrive at a set of large white doors with brass double handles, and the words Debreu Suite written on a brass plaque overhead.
“Your rooms, ma’am,” Vladimir announces as he pulls both doors open in a theatrical gesture worthy of a princess arriving in a palace for the first time.
I stand and gawk. The doors open onto a marble tiled floor with a circular table covered in an oversized floral display, stretching almost up to the domed ceiling above. The entry hall leads down a wide passageway to the living room, which is filled with ornate furniture and a huge fireplace, over which hangs a really quite ugly painting of an angry looking group of cows.
Weird.
“Your living room, Princess,” Vladimir announces unnecessarily.
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe. “And way bigger than my apartment back in Houston.”
“Way bigger,” Dad agrees.
I spy an ornament on a side table that catches my attention. It looks like a ball, but it's made of multi colored marble. I pick it up to inspect it and it begins to play a song. I slap it back down on the table and offer everyone a weak smile. “I thought it was just a marble ball,” I explain sheepishly.
“That is a music ball, a Malveauxian traditional ornament. It plays music much like a music box might. That one has clearly been wound and ready to be listened to,” Vladimir explains.
“You had a ballerina jewelry box that played music when you were a kid. Remember?” Dad says, clearly trying to help me out here.
“Sure. I remember. What's through here?”
“The formal dining room,” Vladimir says as I take in the large mahogany table and chairs, with a matching sideboard.
“Well, I do a lot of formal dining,” I say with a smile.
Vladimir works hard at not smiling himself. “You may find you do more now that you are a member of the royal family, ma’am.”
“Considering I did a total of none before, even one would be a step up.”
“I imagine so, yes. Through here are the guest rooms followed by your master suite.”
Guest rooms, I mouth to Dad, who raises his eyebrows at me.
As Vladimir takes us from room to room, I nod and smile as though having three guest rooms with three adjoining bathrooms is entirely normal for me, when in fact I lived in a one-bedroom apartment back in Houston that could easily fit into the living room of this place.
Finally, he opens the double doors—because why have only a simple single door when you can have two?—to the master suite. It's a huge, light-filled room, with tall windows, trimmed with ivory silk curtains, a four-poster bed covered with enough throw pillows to make even Chloe happy (she's always been into throw pillows. It's weird), ornate furniture and plush flooring that makes me want to pull my sneakers off to enjoy the softness between my toes.
Vladimir opens another door and I swear I hear angels sing. It's a closet, only it's not like any closet I've ever been in before. It's a room the size of my dad's living room, lined with hanging rails and drawers and a glass cabinet for shoes. A cabinet for shoes, people! In the middle of the room is a long pale-pink sofa that Vladimir calls a chaise lounge, and a floor-to-ceiling gold trimmed mirror for me to inspect myself in each day.
