"I'm so sorry I'm late, Demetria," says the King, hurrying into the armory with me in his arms. He may be the King but Demetria is still the woman who raised him after his parents passed away. Demetria was barely out of childhood herself when it happened, eighteen to the King's ten, but she chose to break off an engagement to a Duke from Randstand in order to stay home and oversee the young King's education until he came of age and took the throne. Rumor has it he's the only thing she loves more than Carbonel itself.

But this love isn't all warmth and baked goods, like Dinah's. For instance, Demetria and the King express their affection by trying to stab each other every morning, a long-held tradition that began when she first came to live at the palace and the young King could barely hold a sword. Their sparring matches, although sometimes loud, are normally private affairs without even Alvin present, so I don't know why the King couldn't have left me on that glorious silk bed instead.

Demetria seems to agree. "What is that?" she says, pointing at me with the sharp tip of a stiletto that isn't any less frightening for its diminutive size.

"This is Princess," says the King, turning me back to face him again as he strokes my fur. I hate to say that it feels amazing, but it does. "Isn't she beautiful?"

"Mm." Demetria's cool gaze tells me she doesn't like cats any more than Alvin does, but at least she isn't trying to strangle me. How am I going to continue avoiding Alvin when he's always around the King? And how long am I going to be stuck like this so I have to avoid him at all? I almost wish I were merely a jobless human again; at least that's a set of circumstances I can understand. "Strange, your fixation on princesses, when you refuse to meet any in reality."

"I don't refuse to meet them," he protests. He gives my face one last nuzzle before setting me down and redirecting his full attention to Demetria. "It's only that I don't want to agree to marry anyone I don't know, much less love. Surely you can see the sense in that."

"Everyone in your little fairy tales always falls in love at first sight," she points out, turning back to the wall of swords to select her weapon.

The King tests the weight of one blade before opting for another. "Yes, they at least get to see each other first."

Demetria laughs then, an unfamiliar sound. Sometimes I forget that nobles are people who make jokes, too. There are so many rules on what it means to be proper, and for what?

She swings her sword in the air in figure eights, the blade catching the light and all but hypnotizing me. It's so shiny. So bright and pretty. So...what are they talking about again? Suddenly the bout has begun, the sharp clanging of steel breaking me out of my stupor.

"Alvin tells me of a letter you had this morning." Demetria's voice is light, as if she's commenting on the weather over breakfast tea and not whirling about a stronghold of weaponry.

"Letter?" The King looks blank for a moment, and then remembers in time to block another blow. "Oh, yes. We didn't get around to it. I'm sure it can wait."

"You know King Incellus doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"King Incellus, as a fellow king, must know that sometimes, the day gets away from you." Another thing that gets away from the King: his attempt at an attack. "Lots of letters, you know."

The swords dance back and forth, shooting fireworks of light all along the walls. I can't help it—I leap into action, chasing the glints, dancing back with them. All I can see are the lights, the sparks, the rainbows. And when something even brighter catches my eye—

"Whoa! Careful!" The King drops his sword and scoops me up instead, Demetria pulling back just in time. "Hey, Princess, what are you doing? Look, she's trying to save me from attack. Isn't that sweet?"

"Sweet," repeats Demetria. "Or stupid. Why isn't Alvin tending to her? You have a full day ahead of you, you can't waste it on chasing after a cat."

"No," says the King, stretching out the syllable just enough that I can imagine how he must have been as a child, trying to wheedle favors and forgiveness out of his aunt. "I won't. I promise. I'll read the letter, respond to the letter, eat the letter if you want. She won't be a bother."

"See that she isn't." This time when Demetria regards me, it's with an air of reluctant fondness—not for me, but for her nephew. She may be a relentless trainer, but at the end of the day, she wouldn't deprive him of something he wants. In a way, I think I have an ally in Demetria. Surely she won't let Alvin get rid of me as long as the King wants me around.

"Hm." The King looks at me again, holding me closer, peering into my eyes. "Do you know who she reminds me of?"

I freeze. I've been found out! He knows who I am! I'm going to be burned at a tiny cat-sized stake after all!

"That cat cousin Boris used to have, remember?” he continues. “The big fluffy one that loved eating flowers."

Demetria laughs again. "Yes! The way she shed. Be sure to keep this one away from my chambers."

Crisis averted. And then I think to myself, why would the King look at a cat and assume it to be me, one of countless anonymous maids in his household? I must be losing all human reason. I need to find a way out of this before it's too late, before I’m cursed to spend the rest of my shortened years chasing reflections of light on the walls and—ugh—developing a taste for mice.