If I’m hoping to get some clarification, I’m shit out of luck, because at that moment Eleanor bounces up behind Rose and pulls her to a couple of empty seats at the far right of the room. They sit down together and Rose promptly lays her head on her desk to sleep, using her arms as a cushion, and the spotlight on me goes out with a blink.

And now, I don’t know what’s worse. Being ridiculed, or being nothing.

FIVE ROSE

Every ounce of my energy is focused on suppressing the urge to rest my head on the headmaster’s desk while I wait for him to come into the room. It’s rather a lot more difficult than it sounds. That is, I suppose, the inevitable outcome of being awake for almost thirty-four hours, minus a devastatingly brief nap. There’s only so far you can travel fueled by caffeine and self-preservation.

Last night was the Royal Renaissance Gala, which is held every year on the birthday of my great-great-grandmother, Queen Alarice. It is, as its name implies, a Renaissance-themed charity gala, in which the richest of the rich wear Renaissance-inspired couture and faff around marveling at the preserved period pieces on display and the courtly dance ensemble, all while a madrigal choir drones on in the background.

Purportedly, its main purpose is to raise funds to restore historical landmarks and promote cultural heritage—causes that were apparently dear to my great-great-grandmother’s heart—but it’s not lost on me that it’s currently viewed as a chance to put a night of socializing down as a tax write-off by most, if not all, attendees.

This year, it fell on a Sunday—the Sunday I was meant to move into my room at Bramppath, no less—but that certainly wasn’t a good enough excuse for me to miss it as far as my parents were concerned. After all, one cannot host the Royal Renaissance Gala sans the full suite of royals, can one? Anarchy would surely reign. Vive la révolution!