I’m so busy watching Rose, I don’t even notice at first that the king and queen have joined her.

King Edward is a surprisingly short man in person compared to how he looks in photos, with a receding hairline and glasses perched on his strong nose. He seems to be in a cheery mood, and he claps a hand on Rose’s shoulder while grinning. If the king looks happy, though, it’s nothing compared to the beam on Queen Maisy’s face. She’s dressed in jewel tones of deep blue, and her glossy brown hair is swept up in a simple chignon below a tiara. The queen is where Rose gets most of her features from. They’re as beautiful as each other. They look like fairy-tale royals, the kind you romanticize as a little girl, before you grow up and realize most royal families are made up of pretty normal-looking humans who just happen to have a glossy lifestyle.

Not this one, though. Normal is the last word I’d use to describe Rose.

Eleanor leans in with an urgent whisper. “Danni, Santi is getting a macaron. He’s getting a macaron.”

This is actually my first time seeing Santi. Santi, it turns out, looks like any guy off the street, with a long face and thin, short brown hair. That’s the hair Eleanor spent half a day staring at? She must be down bad.

“Isn’t he incredible?” Eleanor asks, and I nod as enthusiastically as I can. “What do I do?” she asks, grabbing onto my arm. Before I can even answer, she steels herself and answers for me. “I’m going in.”

“You’ve got this. I believe in you.”

She takes three quick breaths, jumps on the spot, then casually walks over to the macaron stand. I shuffle closer to eavesdrop and grab a pastry in the process.

“Hola,” Eleanor says alarmingly loudly. “Soy un … una del nombre es ella Eleanor.”

My Spanish is shaky, so I only have a vague idea of what Eleanor just said. But from the look on Santi’s face, he feels the same, and I’m pretty sure he speaks Spanish.

“Hi?” he says.

Eleanor hesitates, and I start racking my brain for an excuse to rescue her if this goes south. Or south-er. “Wait, no. Ella nombre … del una … I’m Eleanor.” She beams and sticks her hand out.

Santi surveys her, and I hold my breath, but he takes her hand and holds it between them. Oh, thank god. “I’m Santi. You’re friends with the princess, right?”

I take that as my cue to leave. The only thing is, I don’t know where to go, exactly. I don’t know anyone, and the idea of introducing myself to the random rich people in the room—a ton of whom seem to be literal royalty—is, frankly, horrifying.