“What is it?” I snap, more harshly than I intend to.

The girl jumps, and Jace smiles slightly before looking away.

“The Queen needs to see you. Immediately.”

“Fine,” I stand. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Jace, starting to walk toward the terrace. The maid remains standing in place. “Aren’t you going to take me to her?” I ask, unwilling to leave her alone with Jace.

He smiles knowingly.

“Right, yes,” the maid says, scurrying toward me. I follow her inside the palace, and she leads me to the butler’s pantry where we store all the silver and china. My mother stands at the center counter where the maids usually polish the silver, flipping through a thick cookbook.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I walk into the small room, puzzled by the scene before me. I’ve never seen my mother with a cookbook in my life.

“Oh, good, she found you,” my mother says, glancing up. “What is Jace’s favorite meal?”

“What?” I ask, completely thrown. “Why?”

“So that I know what to tell the chef to make!” my mother exclaims, as though it’s obvious.

“This is why you summoned me?” I ask in disbelief. “To ask me about Jace’s diet?”

“I don’t know what Americans eat!” My mother throws her hands up in the air.

I stifle a laugh. “You ate while we were in South Carolina,” I remind her.

“At a French restaurant!”

“Okay, let me see the cookbook.” I walk over to the island. She slides it over, and I flip through a few pages.

“Here, he’ll like this.” I show her a recipe for chicken pot pie. She studies it for a moment.

“Okay, I’ll tell the chef.” She spins to head toward the kitchens.

“Mother,” I say, and she stops, turning back around.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” I tell her. “For letting him stay here—for making him feel welcome. It means a lot.”

Her expression softens for a moment. Then she nods and sweeps out of the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

JACE

I stand in the massive entryway, looking around in confusion. Earlier, the palace was crawling with uniformed staff, and now I can’t find a single person to help me navigate my way to the dining room. I peek inside another drawing room that looks like it belongs in a museum.

“What are you doing?” Vivienne’s voice sounds behind me.

I close the door and turn around, relieved. I suck in a sharp breath when I see her. Her strawberry-blonde hair has been carefully curled and falls in loose ringlets down her back. She’s wearing a navy dress that’s made out of some loose, airy fabric that gathers tightly around her torso and then flares and tumbles to the floor. I’ve never seen her look more like a princess, and I’m immensely grateful I decided to wear a suit to dinner. Clearly it won’t be a casual affair.

“Viv—wow. You look…” I stumble over half-formed compliments.

In typical fashion, she deflects my attempt at flattery. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” “Now, let’s get some food.” She grabs my hand again, surprising me.