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Stella leaps from the chair, throwing aside a laptop before frantically smoothing out her sweater. It really isn’t fair that she gets to wear normal people clothes–jeans and an oversized sweater–and I have to wear this ridiculous housewife getup.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t realize bedtime was scheduled.”

Stella looks hunted. “Everything here is scheduled, Princess.Everything. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Great.” Just fucking great. “Well, I was trying to find my way around this place. Any chance there’s a map or something? Because I don’t think portraits of old dudes and cherubs are going to help me navigate much longer. That’s pretty much every painting in this place.”

Stella laughs like this is the funniest thing she’s heard all day. Then again, she’s probably been hanging around that Danner guy, so maybe it is. “I’ve been exploring, Princess! I’ll give you the rundown on the way.”

“The way to what?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at the box she extends to me. It’s nine. I’m sore and tired and in desperate need of eight hours to myself.

This box doesn’t have a golden bow, but it still makes my stomach churn with dread. I took the tiara off before attending negotiations, and it’s sitting on the vanity inside the massive dressing room off the bath. What the fuck is this one going to be?

“Prince Pace brought this for you,” Stella rushes out, shoving it at me with an urgency bordering on suspicion. I half expect to find a bomb inside.

Even more scarily, it’s a phone.

A shiny, brand new, meant-for-me phone.

The burner I’d come to the masquerade ball with had been confiscated before I entered the parlor, and I’d left my real phone back at the gym, secured inside my lounge locker. Still, I’m not stupid enough to think this is something I can use to talk to the Queens with. I doubt I can even add the cutsluts or my own mother. It’s probably just a–

Ding!

Proving my theory, a calendar task notification pops up on the screen.

Appointment for the Princess. Sunday. 9pm. Medical wing.

It’s outlined in red because it’s seven after.

A leash.

Stella groans, “Ohno. It’s going to take us forever to get down there. Maybe we’ll save the tour for tomorrow, huh? We’d better move it!”

Grabbing my arm, she drags me from the room, ignoring the tight, unhappy sound I make as I struggle to keep up with her small and freakishly fast legs. “Medical wing?” I ask, trying to get a better look at the notification details through quick peeks as we descend the staircase. “There’s a medical wing?”

“In the basement,” she replies, leading me down the steps. “Every Princess has exceptional medical care.” She tosses me a toothy grin. “Exceptional, exclusive,privatemedical care.”

Before I can really process the reality of what that means, she’s dumping me off by the basement door, panting with exertion. “Okay, it’s down the stairs. Go left. Turn right at the freezers. It’ll be all the way down that hall, you can’t miss it. Put on the gown that’s been laid out for you. Be quick, and good luck!”

Paralyzed, I ask, “Aren’t you coming with me?”

“Come with you?” Tilting her head, she replies, “Oh, you mean into that dark, spooky, ancient basement?” She holds her smile, blinking once. “Hell no.”

I gape as she pushes me through, flashing me another sunny grin before flouncing off. The phone in my hand dings again, making my blood run cold.

The basement isn’t dark.

It’s not very basement-like at all, in fact, and it doesn’t really match the upstairs, either. This part of the Palace has had some obvious modernizations. Fluorescent lights, a lack of any signs of life, and an eerie silence give it an uncanny, discomfiting feeling. Liminal space. That’s what Remy would call it.

The floors are a shiny, pristine white, my footsteps distinct as I cautiously follow Stella’s directions. They lead me to a frosted glass door with a red cross on it, and when I push inside, it’s just like everything else down here.

Bright and empty.

My eyes snap straight to the exam table in the middle of the room, and for a long moment, I stand there staring at it in disbelief.

There are stirrups.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper, approaching the table with an awed grimace. There’s a thin, white, sterile gown waiting for me, and picking it up, I inspect it like crime scene evidence, sniffing the fabric. It’s clearly new, but my mind still races with thoughts of other Princesses down here. Did they have their babies here? Is this the room the last Princess was in when she got her paternity results back, everything crumbling around her?