At any royal event, there are multiple aspects I struggle with. I’m no great fan of small talk, though I manage to force it—if only passably so—and constant social interactions drain me, and it’s all but impossible for my mind not to wander during speeches. But far and away the part I dread the most these days is the balcony appearance.

Ostensibly, the balcony visits are a chance for the royal family to interact with our people—all the while offering a marvelous photograph opportunity. Father, however, has always used it as an unofficial barometer for the family’s popularity. He takes careful note of how sprawling the gathered crowd is, and how loud the cheering, and even how much movement he spies throughout the throng. Our first balcony appearance following that night in Amsterdam, the crowd all but fell quiet when I walked out. I’ll never forget the strained look on Father’s face that day.

I wondered, briefly, if he wished he could throw me off it.

Now, waiting in the attached area before we go out, I keep adjusting the bodice of my dress. I can’t seem to get it in the right position. Finally, Mum places a calm hand on my arm and shakes her head at me, so I move to chewing on the inside of my cheek instead.

If it’s a royal event, I follow Mum, who follows Father. If there is an honored guest at the event, however, they walk out alongside Father, and tonight is the state banquet for the visiting prime minister.

So, Father goes out first, alongside the prime minister of the United Kingdom and the prime minister of Henland. The crowd erupts into cheers. Mum follows, and the cheering swells. I release my cheek from between my teeth and walk out last, and the crowd simmers down. My chest plummets, and I switch to biting down hard on my tongue to remind myself to keep the disappointment and embarrassment off my face.

At least they aren’t booing me.

I wonder what Father would do if they ever did.

Forcing my chin up and plastering on a smile, I wave alongside my family. In the crowd below, hundreds of flashing lights twinkle up at us. It’s as though the stars from the night sky have fallen to the ground.

Taking a leaf from Father’s book, and not for the first time, I silently count the number of anti-monarchist signs I see in the crowd. NOT MY KING. ABOLISH. THE COUNTRY BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE. Et cetera. It’s my way of ascertaining where we stand this month. How well we’ve done, and how badly our mistakes have affected our standing with the very people we’re meant to be serving. Today, as has been happening often lately, I lose count.