I’m sitting in the back seat of the Kowalczyks’ Mercedes-Benz, wearing the soft-peach dress Mom bought me for my cousin’s wedding last year, freaking out so badly there’s a risk I’m going to puke all over it. We’re on our way to the palace for the queen’s birthday celebration, and there are multiple terrifying things waiting for me there. The king and queen of the country, for a start. Also, there’s the tunnel of photographers we have to walk through when we get there—something Eleanor’s spent half the car ride warning me about, so I know it’s gonna be bad.

But at least I’ll have Eleanor, and Rose. Especially Rose.

I’ve been doing some reading these past few weeks. I’ve learned a ton of stuff, too. For example, I found out that Henland was part of the British Empire up until the 1700s, when the country won independence and crowned Rose’s great-great … really great-grandparents king and queen. Which means Henland is a former colony, and never did any colonizing themselves, which I’ll admit makes me like Rose’s family more.

I run a hand down my tan leather seat and stare out of the tinted windows, watching the apartments and houses turn into estates as we get closer to the wealthy area of the city. I’ve seen pictures of the palace plenty of times while researching, but when it looms into view, it still blows my mind a little. The palace is a towering, cream-colored monster of a building with about a million huge arched windows and balconies, all illuminated with rich, glowing lights. And there’s a courtyard, too. Is there ever a courtyard. It’s sprawling, and massive, and absolutely teeming with people. It’s like a fully packed concert stadium out here.

“Do we have to walk past all those people?” I ask Eleanor, feeling my heart drop right down to my shoes.

“Nah, there’s a back entrance. They’re just here to see the royal family on the balcony.” She checks the time. “They’ve probably just done their appearance, actually.”

We join a line of very fancy cars that, I assume, are also making their way to the back entrance. Eleanor texts Rose that we’re almost there, then looks up at me and shoves her phone in her pocket. “Okay, time to brace for the photographers,” she says. “It’s only for a minute, while we’re in the foyer. They aren’t allowed in the party.”