There are certain freedoms a prince never has.
For instance: roaming his own palace without bowing, being bowed to, or answering questions about treaties, estate taxes, or marriage prospects.
Which is why I became "Kit."
The disguise wasn't official. No decree, no training, no ceremony. Just clothes borrowed from quartermaster stores, a wig and a friend who promised to look the other way. The uniform wasn't for service-it was camouflage. To let me exist as no one particular.
Today was a "Kit" day.
I finished my lessons with the council, endured my fencing practice, escorted Mother through a tedious walk in the rose wing, and fulfilled expectations until the afternoon finally loosened its grip.
Then I changed.
The uniform felt lighter than princely attire, even though it weighed the same. Perhaps that was the freedom-the freedom of being unimportant.
I found myself in the queen's sitting room corridor, which had become something of a habitat for Rowan, Anastasia, and Drizella lately.
Sure enough, I heard Rowan before I saw her.
"No-NO-do not place another bow without supervision!" Rowan barked.
A beat later, Drizella's voice floated in, soft and apologetic: "I can be supervised."
There was a thud, a delicate crash, and a sigh that suggested Rowan wished to abandon civilization and live among wolves.
I leaned against the wall and waited.
Anastasia emerged first, holding an armful of roses and muttering, "If a vase throws itself at me one more time-"
She nearly collided with me.
Yesterday was peonies and today-
"Careful," I said.
She stopped short and stared up. Her eyes flicked from my face to the uniform as if cataloging details she fully intended to question later.
"Oh," she breathed. "It's you."
"I should hope so."
She looked at the roses. "Do these look too smug?"
"Smug?"
"Yes. Rowan claims roses can be smug."
I examined them. "They seem moderately self-satisfied."
"Well, that's a relief."
We walked back into the sitting room. The moment we entered, Rowan pointed at me without looking up from his arrangement.
"Do not stand there. You make Anastasia nervous."
"I do not," I protested.
"You do," Rowan insisted.
I smiled despite myself. Anastasia did not blush or stammer; she merely glared at Rowan with long-suffering dignity.
The three of them worked with efficient chaos. Rowan commanded, Drizella executed with hopeful clumsiness, and Anastasia filled the gaps with sarcasm. The palace should have paid them for entertainment value alone.
I sat on the table edge, not helping, not hindering-existing. That was my favorite part of being Kit. A prince must always do something. Kit could simply be.
When Rowan finally dismissed them for a break, he went to chase a servant about missing linens, leaving Anastasia and Drizella to breathe.
Drizella flopped onto a padded bench. "I did not break anything today."
"That is progress," Anastasia replied. "We should celebrate."
"With tea," Drizella said dreamily.
"With tea," Anastasia agreed.
"We can ask Cinderella to lend us some pastries from her kingdom." Drizella added.
They giggled.
Then both of them looked at me.
I blinked. "Is this an invitation?"
Anastasia shrugged. "Only if you drink tea."
"I can drink tea."
Drizella brightened. "Then yes."
We relocated to a small side room used by attendants-cozy, cramped, and filled with the quiet hum of off-duty palace life. A kettle boiled over the hearth. Cinderella prepared the tea as if it were a sacred ritual. Drizella supplied honey with reverence.
"They're taking this seriously," I whispered to Rowan who had rejoined us silently, like a ghost with a clipboard.
"Tea," Rowan said, "is the only thing preventing mutiny in this palace."
Fair.
Anastasia handed me a cup.
"To survival," she declared.
"To not breaking vases," Drizella added.
"No," Rowan corrected. "To not breaking vases today."
We drank to that.
Tea tasted different without porcelain etched with the royal crest. Less formal. More alive.
When the kettle emptied, Rowan dragged Drizella away to complete ribbon inspections. Cinderella also went back to her Royal call.
I was left with Anastasia, who stared into her empty cup with the expression people wear just before saying something truthful.
"You ever feel like the palace watches you?" she asked.
I blinked. "Watches?"
"Yes. Not in a spooky way. Just... notices things. Holds its breath when you make choices."
I looked at her properly then. She didn't mean politics or gossip. She meant space-the building itself. Its expectations. Its weight.
"Yes," I said quietly. "Often."
She looked relieved not to be alone in that thought.
"I like it here," she admitted, "but it's big. Important. Sometimes I feel like I must walk carefully so I don't wake it."
I smiled. "You do not walk carefully."
"No," she sighed. "But I think about it."
Comfort settled between us-not romantic or sentimental, just recognition.
The kind people rarely get.
* * *
Rowan and Drizella returned to the queen's sitting room in quiet steps, still tasting their tea on their tongues. The room was half-finished, ribbons loose like sleepy snakes and cushions stacked in a wobbling tower. Rowan sighed at the sight. Drizella giggled.
"It looked better in my mind," he muttered.
"In your mind, everything listens," she said,
setting down a basket of glass beads. Her smile made Rowan lose his thoughts for a moment, like a page blown out the window.
They began working, side by side. Rowan tried to hang a ribbon but the ribbon slipped and wrapped around his wrist instead. Drizella bit back a laugh, shoulders shaking.
"It likes you," she said.
Rowan rolled his eyes and tried again. The ribbon rebelled again, catching on his hair this time. Drizella slowly reached up to untangle it. Her fingers brushed his forehead, warm and careful. Rowan forgot how to breathe correctly for a second.
"Hold still," she murmured.
He did-mostly because he couldn't move.
When the ribbon came free, she tucked a stray curl behind his ear without thinking.
Rowan blinked, surprised. So did she.
They stared for half a heartbeat too long, then both looked away as if the cushions suddenly needed inspection.
To cover the strange flutter in his chest, Rowan lifted the pillow tower. It collapsed instantly like a polite landslide and swallowed half his arm. Drizella laughed so loudly she doubled over.
"I meant to do that," he said from inside the cushions.
"Of course," she teased, helping pull him free.

Once their laughter faded, they kept working, closer now without meaning to. Drizella hummed; Rowan listened. Their shoulders brushed once, twice, then stopped trying to avoid it.
The room slowly became beautiful. And neither of them noticed-too busy noticing each other.
* * *
Before Anastasia returned to the sitting room, she turned abruptly.
"What do you do, Kit?" she asked.
I blinked. "Do?"
"You appear. You drink tea. You watch us work. You argue with rugs. But you never actually do anything."
I laughed. "Is that bad?"
"No. It's unusual."
Unusual. A polite way to say suspicious.
"I suppose," I said slowly, "I'm just... here."
It was the truest answer I was allowed to give.
She nodded, accepting the mystery without prying.
"That's fine," she said. "It's nice."
Nice.
My mother once said the most coveted thing in the world is to be adored. I was beginning to suspect she was wrong.
To be treated as ordinary-without expectation, reverence, or strategy-felt rarer.
And perhaps more precious.
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