Unfortunately, it seems I may have to get used to eating mice if I ever want to eat again—if I can find any in this pristine palace. One might think that being the King's ward would mean I'd have better meals than I did as a maid, but one would grossly overestimate the King's awareness of things like time passing, or the need of living creatures to feed. The milk he requested that Alvin fetch is long forgotten, curdling in his chambers. He spends the entire rest of the morning locked in his study, ostensibly to tend to his correspondence, but hours later his face is solidly planted in a book instead, letters all but forgotten.

I pace around the room over and over, hoping I'll discover some hole in the wall, a forgotten window that will enable my escape—if I can just make it to the kitchens, Dinah will take care of me—but no such luck. I wonder if he thinks the sound of my stomach growling is me purring.

I'm going to die here. I'm going to die a cat. Will I turn back into a human upon my death, I wonder, or will I be buried in a tiny hatbox? Just as well, I suppose, I don't have the savings for a coffin.

I don't believe I've ever been this dramatic over missing a meal before. Is this another cat thing?

A knock at the door. The King doesn't notice, of course, and Alvin doesn't wait for an answer before walking in anyway. I never thought I'd be so glad to see him.

"Gus—Your Majesty," he says, perhaps still sheepish from this morning, "the council has gathered. Do you plan on joining?"

"Nonsense," says the King, without looking up from his book. "The council isn't meeting until two o'clock today."

"It's two fifteen."

Past lunchtime already? It's no wonder I'm starving, I've gone over a whole day with nothing to eat.

"Oh." Is it hunger hallucinations, or does the King look contrite? "I don't know where the time's gone, I'm so sorry to keep everyone waiting. Why didn't you call me for lunch?"

Of course he's only sorry for the humans in his circle, not for almost-felicide.

"You told everyone you didn't wish to be disturbed. We assumed you were doing something important, but..." Alvin picks up one of the King's books, unable to keep the disdain from creeping into his features. "Storybooks, again?"

"You make it sound as if I'm reading nursery rhymes," the King protests, taking the book back and marking his place carefully with a curved bit of gold. Rich people are ridiculous. "I'll have you know that The Confessions of Delacroix is considered a classic among—"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," says Alvin, taking the King's elbow and guiding him towards the door. "We'll get you fed after the meeting."

This is my chance. With the last of my draining strength, I follow after their feet as they exit. Freedom at last! Now, to the kitchens!

"Will you look at that?" coos the King, getting to his knees despite Alvin's protestations—and his fine (and easily wrinkled) garments—to scratch my ears, which I'm helpless to resist. "She can't bear to be apart from me. What a sweet girl you are."

No. Oh no. I was so close!

"Come along, Princess," says the King, scooping me up in his arms. I know every woman in the kingdom, as well as several men, would commit unspeakable acts to be in my position right now, but I'd trade it all for a hot meal in a heartbeat.

"You're planning on bringing your new pet to the council meeting?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"It's—they're top secret," Alvin sputters. "Even the maids don't serve you while you're in session. You have to pour your own tea."

The King laughs. "It isn't as if she's a spy, Alvin."

"Even I don't get to go!"

"You're not missing anything," says the King, missing the point spectacularly. "They're very boring. I'd rather read."

Whatever response Alvin has is cut short by the door closing in his face. Is this pity I'm feeling for him? No, must be jealousy that he isn't trapped in here with a bunch of noblemen—and Demetria—who never cared to learn my name, people who will now spend hours debating the nuances of a treaty that will have no effect on my life whatsoever. Sure, I hear that an alliance with one of our larger, more powerful neighbors will strengthen Carbonel, make us less vulnerable to attack, boost our economy, make trade easier, other things that I suppose countries like. Randstand in particular is known for its military might, and everyone seems afraid that if we don't join with them, we'll be attacked by them. But what if the remaining nations see the alliance as a threat, or even an invitation to test our newly fortified strength? There will still be war, and people like me, servants and the children of farmers, will be the ones used as cannon fodder. Increasing Carbonel's net worth won't suddenly turn me into a princess.

"What," says Duke Hector, with a look that's much less appreciative than the one he usually has for the maids, "is that?"

"This is Princess," the King beams.

Right. That cruel joke.

"Alvin found her wandering around all by herself this morning," he continues. "Poor thing. I had to take her in. Isn't she precious?"

"Precious," Hector repeats, sounding out the syllables as if pronouncing the word for the first time in his life.

"If we're all now acquainted with this Princess," Demetria interjects, "may we divert our attention to the other?"

All eyes turn to her, and even the King straightens his spine. She's the only woman in the room, but she commands it like no other—including the King himself, apparently. He had to fight to get her on the council when he was first crowned. Simple minds argued that a woman couldn't possibly know a thing about leading a country. I wonder if those who opposed her acknowledge their error now, or if they've long since been mysteriously exiled. Enemies of the duchess have a habit of disappearing from court. That power is one of the benefits of being a noble, among countless others, I'm sure. Meanwhile, I have to deal with Alvin every single day, even as a cat.

"I took the liberty of reading the letter you ignored," says Demetria. The King opens his mouth as if to protest, then closes it, knowing he has no grounds. "King Incellus is open to the proposition of a proposal to his sister, the Princess Genera..."

I should be paying attention. I should care more about what happens to my country. I should be more aware of the world beyond the kitchen. But the King has twelve different kinds of sitting rooms, depending on the reason for sitting, and this is the first time I've been inside the top secret council room that eludes even Alvin. I can't help but be awed.

The ceilings are higher than most family homes. Larger than life portraits of former generals and military leaders look down on the proceedings, both inspiring and intimidating. And although there are no windows, the painted sky on the ceiling glows with the light of the morning sun. There's gold in the paint, if not crushed diamonds, I'm sure.

And the upholstery! I spend most of my time in the kitchens, only emerging to serve meals, and when I do venture out I'm careful not to so much as brush against the curtains in the parlors and risk Alvin's wrath. But now I can jump onto the velvet couch and nuzzle against the silk cushions that line it—maybe even climb onto and curl up on a pillow? Do I dare?

My skies. The servants' quarters have us sleeping on hemp, and that's more than most peasants in the country have for themselves. I'm grateful, of course. But having this silk all against my body makes me understand why noblewomen are willing to put up with such infamously finicky material. Besides, they're not the ones who have to wash it. And the plush! There must be an entire goose in here. So soft. So snuggly.

I can't help it. War may be imminent, but I'm so, so tired. I finally fall gloriously, deeply asleep.