Buckingham Palace smelled of furniture polish, lavender soap, and history. A place where every corridor was lined with portraits of unsmiling royals, and the chandeliers sparkled so brightly they looked smug about it.
Amelia Hartley had learned early on that the trick to surviving in the palace was to be invisible—quick, quiet, and utterly forgettable. A ghost with a mop. A shadow in a stiff black-and-white uniform. Seen and never heard.
Which was why it was particularly annoying when—
"Amelia, have you heard the latest?"
A blur of red curls and a scandalized whisper yanked Amelia from her work. Maggie Collins, fellow maid and resident gossip queen, plonked herself down on the bench beside her.
Amelia sighed, still polishing the absurdly large silver tea set in the servant's quarters. "Mags, it's half six in the morning. Surely even you don't have royal drama this early."
"Oh, but I do," Maggie said, eyes gleaming. "It's Nicholas."
Amelia didn't look up. "Of course it is."
Prince Nicholas Alexander Edward Windsor, heir to the British throne and professional nuisance, was a walking scandal with perfect cheekbones. If he wasn't dodging royal responsibilities, he was in the tabloids for sneaking off to nightclubs or making sarcastic remarks at official events.
"Go on, then," Amelia muttered, because resistance was futile.
Maggie leaned in conspiratorially. "Last night, our dear prince was spotted at a nightclub in Soho. Dancing. On. A. Table."
Amelia finally looked up. "You're joking."
"I wish I were. Some bloke filmed him, and now it's all over the internet. The Queen's livid."
Amelia winced. Queen Eleanor was terrifying on a good day. Nicholas was about to get the full royal disappointment glare, which could probably curdle milk at twenty paces.
"How does he even have the time to be this much of a disaster?" Amelia wondered aloud.
Maggie grinned. "Rich, titled, and reckless. Must be exhausting."
Before Amelia could reply, a voice as sharp as pressed linen cut through the air.
"Miss Collins. Miss Hartley."
They both snapped upright. Mr. Alfred Kensington, the head butler, loomed in the doorway, looking severe in his perfectly tailored morning coat.
"Gossiping again, are we?" His gaze was disapproving. "Because surely, you two don't have anything more productive to do."
Maggie straightened her apron. "Not at all, Mr. Kensington. We were merely, er… discussing world events."
"World events," he repeated, unimpressed. "How fortunate that Prince Nicholas's nightclub escapades fall under that category."
Maggie went pink. Amelia bit her lip to keep from smiling.
Kensington exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose like he'd already given up on their souls. "Miss Hartley, I trust you haven't forgotten your assignment for the upcoming gala?"
Amelia tensed. The gala. The annual Royal Charity Banquet, where the palace hosted politicians, aristocrats, and far too much glassware. She had hoped, prayed, and possibly even bribed the universe that she wouldn't be assigned to the event.
"Sir," she said carefully, "are you certain you need me there? Surely someone else—"
Kensington raised a single, deadly eyebrow. "You will be serving at the event, Miss Hartley. And I expect you to act with the utmost professionalism."
Which was rich, considering Prince Nicholas was running around London like a tipsy Shakespearean tragedy.
"Yes, Mr. Kensington," she said, because arguing was futile.
Satisfied, Kensington strode off, leaving Amelia internally screaming and Maggie choking back laughter.
"Well, this is going to be entertaining," Maggie said, once Kensington was gone. "Imagine—you, serving at a royal event. Face to face with Nicholas himself."
"Don't remind me," Amelia muttered.
Maggie grinned. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Famous last words.
Later that evening, Amelia collapsed onto her tiny sofa, pulling her laptop onto her lap. The small London flat she shared with her younger brother, James, was a far cry from the royal grandeur she worked in every day, but it was home.
James, all messy brown hair and oversized sweater, was perched on the floor, half-buried in a book about medieval history.
"Hey, genius," Amelia said. "What's the verdict? Should I be concerned you're plotting a medieval-style takeover of Buckingham Palace?"
James snorted, flipping a page. "Wouldn't waste my time. Too many rules. Also, too many portraits of dead people."
Amelia laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Smart choice."
James swatted her away, but he was grinning.
A second later, his expression turned excited. "Oh! I almost forgot. I got an email today."
He scrambled for his phone and pulled up an official-looking message. "I've been invited to apply for a scholarship at St. Albans Academy."
Amelia froze.
St. Albans was one of the best schools in the country—elite, prestigious, ridiculously expensive.
She forced a smile. "James, that's amazing."
James bit his lip, hesitating. "Yeah, but…"
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
They both knew the truth: Even with a scholarship, the extra costs—books, uniforms, travel—would be impossible.
But Amelia refused to let him see her worry.
"We'll figure it out," she said, with more confidence than she felt.
James gave her a skeptical look. "You always say that."
"And have I ever let you down?"
He hesitated. "No."
"Exactly." Amelia nudged him. "Now, go back to plotting your historical conquest. And let me worry about the rest, yeah?"
James nodded, but didn't look convinced.
Later, as Amelia lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her mind wouldn't stop racing.
She needed money. More than she could ever make cleaning floors and dusting chandeliers.
And tomorrow, she would walk into a royal gala, serving champagne to people who had never worried about rent a day in their lives.
The irony was almost funny.
She exhaled, rolling onto her side.
Maybe Maggie was right. What's the worst that could happen?
(Answer: Everything.)