My father strides ahead of us to the metal barricade that lines the crowded street, shaking hands and passing off gifts to the agents that flank him. My mother begins to tug me along the stone path, but then halts to speak to someone. I don’t bother looking up to see who it is.

A small, blond-haired boy who looks to be my age catches my attention as he walks over, carefully clutching a small bouquet of flowers. My mother stops speaking, and the woman she’s been talking to leans down to speak to the boy.

“Give the flowers to the princess, Charles,” she urges.

The boy thrusts out his tiny fist, offering the bouquet to me. I don’t move, so my mother squeezes my hand in a silent command. I reluctantly grab one end of the ribbons streaming off the sides of the elaborate bow holding the stems together, letting the vibrant blossoms dangle against my bare leg. Their floral aroma engulfs me.

“Aren’t they the sweetest?” the woman asks my mother.

I don’t give her a chance to reply. “Can’t we go home, Mother?” I ask, my tone a tad whiny. I’ll be scolded for it later, but I’m eager to leave after having to sit quietly for the past couple of hours.

Predictably, my mother looks at me with vexation. “Vivienne, we’re in public,” she whispers.

I let frustration seep across my face in response.

Her expression softens. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m tired,” I reply truthfully.

“Fine. Anders?” she calls, and one of the men trailing us appears at her side immediately. “Put the princess in the car,” she instructs him.

I’m shuffled between the two, and then ushered away toward the long line of black cars parked to the side of the church. When we reach the middle one, Anders swiftly opens the door and lifts me into the backseat. The movement jostles my precarious hold on the bouquet. Rather than tighten my grip, I relax my fingers, and watch as the ribbon slips out of my grasp and the bouquet falls to the gravel ground.

I slide across the smooth seat and relax as soon as the door is shut behind me, hiding the abandoned flowers and crowds from view. I stretch out across the cool leather and enjoy the muffled silence after the din outside.

Tucking my hands underneath my chest, I listen to the uneven thuds of my heart as I wait for my parents.

CHAPTER ONE

When I was younger, I thought my life was ordinary. Boring, even. I thought everyone lived in palaces, had staff tend to their every need, wore elaborate, itchy dresses on a regular basis, and was greeted by cheers whenever they emerged from said palace, or anyplace else.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that perception changed. It evolved in a gradual realization as I grew older and was exposed to more and more the outside world had to offer.

It began with a creeping awareness that most of the things I accepted as normal life were actually reserved for a select few, and was compounded at age ten when I finally recognized no one else in Marcedenia lived the same way that we did.