I’m not sure if she keeps telling me to brace myself because I look like I’m dreading this, or if it’s just because she’s gotten to know me over the term. I appreciate it either way. I stick close by her as we walk through the entrance and into a marble-floored room. A long carpet is stretching out ahead of us with footmen to either side of it. All down its length, a line of royal guards stand at attention. And behind them are dozens and dozens of photographers, talking among themselves and fiddling with their cameras. When they notice us they hesitate. Their eyes drift over me like I’m totally invisible. But then they see Eleanor, who is definitely not invisible. She, like Molly, has been photographed with Rose about a million times over the last few years. I’m learning the media is kind of obsessed with the royal family and everyone adjacent to them.

We’re inundated in half a second. Even though there’s a rope cordoning us off from them, they’re somehow engulfing us.

A few times in my life, someone’s turned the flash on and taken a photo of me a little too close. Or I’ve been lying in bed in the dark and trying to take a selfie, only to get pummeled by white light. This is that, times a hundred. A thousand. It’s like I don’t exist, and the photographers don’t exist, and we’re not standing in a room at all. The only real thing is strobing lights. A universe of flashes. And the calling, all of them calling over each other, mostly trying to get Eleanor’s attention, and others shouting to ask my name. Eleanor, who is this? Hello? You? Hey. Blondie. Who are you? How do you know the royal family?

Why are you here?

Why am I here?

My heart’s racing, and there’s a dull roaring in my ears. I think Eleanor might be saying something to me, but I can’t hear a thing—not even my own thoughts—aside from that roaring. I just stand, staring, as my breaths become harsher and faster.

The crowd of photographers suddenly turn their attention to the side. I barely register it. Someone is beside me.

Not Eleanor. Rose.

She places a gentle hand on my back and gives the paparazzi a practiced smile. “It’s okay,” she says to me, and I barely hear her over the suddenly muted roar. My eyes zero in on her lips as she speaks, to help me figure out what she’s saying. “This is a lot, even for me.”