A/N: Hello everyone, and SURPRISE! This is Part 1 of a Roymilla regency AU idea I just had to write! I'm a big fan of Downton Abbey, Bridgerton, and more recently a German Netflix show called the Kaiserin... and I love all the pomp and circumstance, so I thought it'd be fun to transpose it over the TSATS cast. Then the idea spiralled and ended up being 10k words lol, so I've decided to split it.

For once I have no spice warning – yes, this is safe to read at your grandma's house or next to your mother. I feel I should mention that my knowledge of the regency era pretty much stems from Bridgerton, so please note I'm taking some liberties with what was considered proper at the time. It's all for fun and entertainment.

That said, please enjoy, thanks for reading, and expect Part 2... at some point LOL.

~ GWA

The carriage rattles upon the gravel-worn drive, but it is nothing compared to the tremoring of Cami's bones.

They are one of hundreds others, a line of ants in a slow trundle, with the looming presence of Illéa Palace like the sun on a hot, summer's day, or an overbearing relative. It is the pinnacle of architectural masterpieces, and yet staring at it through the slit in the curtains, the incoming evening a pale warning on the horizon, only exacerbates Cami's nerves. She has never been close to the palace, never seen its authoritative power up close, let alone been invited inside. And now she has been invited to meet the king, queen, and prince of the kingdom.

Opposite, her uncle Jefferson and aunt Amelia are adorned in clothes they cannot really afford. In this instance, however, the occasion has risen above the need for frugality. Dark green velvet cascades down Amelia's slim frame, and a tailored three-piece hides Jefferson's bulk. As the lead architect of his firm, Jefferson has been bestowed a high honour in their social circle – the opportunity to design a new wing of the Illéan Palace.

It came about by chance, really. Supposedly King Merrick's lead architect was caught in scandal, forcing him to dismiss the entire firm and find another. Jefferson's had been chosen through coincidence, when Merrick happened upon her uncle's portfolio. Cami was merely shadowing him at the moment, practicing her lines, sponging the know-hows of the industry, only until she is deemed good enough to stand on her own.

Which, by her uncle's standards, would be… never.

All Cami wants is a little freedom – in her chosen career, if nothing else in her life. But Jefferson being her superior and her uncle makes things… difficult. A small mistake can cost Cami years of trust.

The problem is, most things Cami do are deemed as mistakes. Small things, mostly, dropping an ink well, misjudging a line measurement, having a shoelace untied. Larger things occasionally too. Once she accidentally nudged a client in the arm and sent her sprawling, or when she snapped back at an old man who thought it appropriate to comment on her waistline. Was she supposed to sit there and entertain his sleazy gaze? Still, each time has earnt her a glower from Jefferson.

"You will never have a place in this world if you do not embrace it," Jefferson told her that day, words that still replay again and again in her head.

He's tense now, knees pressed together, hands gripped into fists. He doesn't even take in the sight of the palace as it grows. This isn't the first time he's been there, and now it won't be the last.

"It is an honour," Jefferson reminds gruffly, "to be chosen to design the new wing." His eyes land on Camilla, and the aloof expression turns narrowed. "It's an honour that we've been invited to this evening party at all."

Cami says nothing, but she feels displacement rooted inside her nonetheless.

Jefferson makes the barest of glances out the window. "This is a huge opportunity for us as a family. It could potentially set us up for life monetarily."

Amelia hushes. "Don't speak so crudely."

"It is true. We should be grateful and never forget it." Again he looks at Cami. "When I took this post, I wasn't thinking about me. I was thinking of Niel, Sadie and York." Cami's much younger cousins, currently being occupied for the evening by a nurse. "Any mistakes, and His Majesty, or even any of the stewards, can remove us from the project and leave us with nothing. Our reputation will be scorched if we ruin this."

"I know," says Cami stiffly. As if she can possibly forget.

"Then I want to remind you, Camilla," his voice is suffused with warning, "you are representing the family, our business. Do not make a fool of yourself."

He gives her a once-over, with eyes that peel her back layer by layer to sneer at the trembling girl beneath. She bears the brunt of his scrutiny and stares hard outside, trying to focus on anything, anyone else, nerves shot, but the only thing can she see is the palace, a fortress, a testament to the resilience of man and how little she matters in the grand scheme of the world.

When the carriages rumbles to a stop, the horses whinnying outside, an attendant swings open the door and allows them to step out. Behind her aunt and uncle, Cami composes her façade, breathless like she's been running, and dutifully follows them up the steps to two grand oak doors, only slightly ajar to keep the cool evening out. The taste of air is different here – freshly mowed grass between the prickle of firewood. Better than mud, mould and grubby linens.

The guard verifies Jefferson's invitation, raising an eyebrow when the seal comes from the king himself, and waves them past without furore. Before the doors, Jefferson takes one last, lingering look at Cami over his shoulder before he crooks his arm to Amelia.

Amelia takes it, but does turn her head back, giving Cami a sympathetic smile. Cami doesn't return it, even though she wants to. This place, this palace with its finery and rules, is so far above her station, so beyond anything she has comprehended before, that she feels overwhelmed by the almost lazy indolence with which it preys on her insecurities. It makes her feel small and stiff and unwelcome.

But then again, she is unwelcome. By Jefferson and by the royal family too, only extending their hand by convenience.

They enter a foyer, already crammed with people, dresses so wide and dome-like that navigating between them is like being surrounded by a city of igloos. But the wave of apprehension roiling in Cami's stomach promptly turns to awe – it's no secret that she loves her work, but to witness the palace architecture in person is… extraordinary.

Opulence is boastingly displayed around her, and she cannot help but delight in the details of the palace walls and ceiling. The Roman inspiration blatant in the marble columns fitted into stone, rinsed in shades of crimson, gold and sunset orange. The intricate decoration of Rococo designs, rose-gold ornaments that flourish beneath every arch and column, that border doorways and burden windowsills. A room-wide carpet that muffles her step, each thread hand-woven, tassels that sparkle gold, the surface plush and fine.

"Wow," she mumbles, too lost for more eloquent words.

"Wow indeed," says Amelia, equally struck by the place.

Jefferson makes no notion of interest. "Come along."

Cami doesn't understand it – how could anyone get used to this view?

He ushers them into the State Ballroom, centrepiece of the party, where ten chandeliers illuminate every crease, so bright Cami has to squint. Each crystal is perfectly polished, an elaborate fountain of gems, and precisely adjacent to the central thrones at the back of the room, raised on a platform and tucked beneath a triumphant archway, liberally decorated with statues.

Cami sucks in a breath and almost doesn't let it go. Perhaps outside the place is austere, a cold cruel reminder of wealth she will never possess, but inside it is beautiful, surreal, a feast for the eyes that she could savour forever without end.

A nudge in her arm. Uncle Jefferson. His cold stare proverbially sets her feet back on solid ground.

"Stop that incessant gawking. You do not want to look a jester when His Majesty comes to greet us."

The previous warning rests between them like a sodden rag. Instead of saying anything she'll regret, she digs her heels into the parquet flooring and looks around. Paintings hang from every wall – surprisingly not of the royal family, but artwork, paint strokes transporting one to immersive scenes of bloody wars and bucolic country vistas. The guests converse around them, laughing, sharing flutes of champagne or canapés offered by the wait staff.

The three of them sidle along the wall as more guests arrive, until they're packed into a quiet corner to wait. Nerves prickle along Cami's skin – so many aristocrats here, ladies offering dance cards, men waxing compliments. More than a few wear fine gold or silver jewellery – real – that denotes them as part of the upper echelons of society. Viscounts and viscountesses, earls and countesses, even a duke and duchess are in attendance. Cami partly wishes she brushed up on her history so she could recognise them.

Instead she focuses on the building, on the mural above her head, and sways gently to the music that lilts between rooms, played jauntily from a string quartet. This view, this atmosphere… it's something else entirely, and not, she's surprised to realise, all that bad.

Only a few minutes later, after her uncle and aunt give in to the silence, when people start to bow and curtsy in waves around them, does Cami refocus.

The king, approaching. A handsome man past his prime, but draped in an elite guard's uniform and a glittering sash, she can't help but soften to his smile, sunny and almost untethered from the attention he has unwittingly gathered around him. Blond hair scatters effortlessly across his head.

"Jefferson, it's so good to see you."

Jefferson immediately bows to the waist; Amelia instantly follows with a curtsy. Belatedly Cami does the same, hyper-aware of how everyone else in the room stares.

"Your Majesty," says Jefferson, deference drowning his words, "it is a great honour—"

"Oh no, please, rise. The honour is mine. I'm so glad you could come."

They do. Jefferson gestures to them. "My wife, Amelia, and my niece, Camilla."

King Merrick's kind eyes land on Amelia, then Cami. She clams up despite herself.

"How nice to bring your whole family," he says cheerfully. "You both look beautiful, ladies. Dare I ask, Miss Daugherty, how old are you?"

Cami almost baulks at the question. How… random? "I am five-and-twenty, Your Majesty."

"Ah! Same age as my son! Not married yet, then? I can't seem to make him settle either." He glances at Jefferson and winks – even though it's a menial joke, Cami stiffens. "Well, you're most welcome to look around and enjoy the festivities. The music room is down the left there, and to the right is our Illéa Drawing Room, should you need to sit down for a moment. The gardens are rather chilly at this time of night, but from the patio the lighting is exquisite as well. I hope that experiencing a night of palace life would help imbue you with inspiration of what can be improved upon. I'm very excited for this new wing to be constructed."

"I will do my utmost to design something to your taste, Your Majesty," says Jefferson.

"I have no doubt." He grins again. "And I hope you'll stay for later, as well. My son has an announcement to make. I'm very excited for everyone to hear it."

Cami glances around. It must be a marriage announcement – he has long since come of age, and there are rumours of his courtships that still permeate street gossip. Strangely, though, he doesn't appear to be here. "Will he be delivering it himself?"

Regret catches her at once when Jefferson's eyes lance on her like a pig to slaughter, but Merrick chuckles sheepishly. "Yes, yes he will. You'll have to pardon his lateness though. He's, ahem… making a grand entrance." Something glistens in his eye, but Cami can't place it. He nods his head then. "If you'll excuse me."

When he goes, immediately swarmed by gentry, Jefferson's placid obsequiousness is instantly replaced with displeasure.

"What was that? Asking after the prince's announcement?"

Cami bites back a saltier tone. "I— I was merely curious as to what it could possibly entail when he is not yet here—"

"That is not for you to question. The prince will be here when he is here. Don't think I didn't notice your late curtsy as well. What will the royal family think, if we cannot follow protocol?"

"Jefferson," says Amelia warningly. "It was a genuine question."

He huffs, then looks at Cami again. "Make sure it does not happen again."

Chastened, Cami draws her gaze away.

"We ought to mingle," says Amelia into the pause. "Perhaps if we can boost awareness of your firm, Jefferson, we can find more business here."

It's not a bad idea. Even Jefferson agrees by the solitary grunt. "Very well."

"May I look around instead?" asks Cami. The request is pushing it, and quickly she adds, to sweeten the deal, "As I'm only an apprentice I wouldn't want to make the firm appear amateur."

"No," he says at once. "You must stay at our side—"

"Honestly, Jefferson," Amelia gives a hard look at him that he cannot refuse, "this is a party and Camilla is young. Let her enjoy herself. She is not here for business." She snorts like he is silly, and not making pathetic excuses to keep her on a leash. "Of course you may look around, Camilla. I only ask that you are careful and don't wander off for too long, all right?"

"All right," Cami says, smiling her first real one of the night.

Amelia returns it. "Have fun."

Her uncle watches her go with distrust. She finds herself a solitary seat in the Illéa Drawing Room, the wine-red carpet the only pop of colour between the white walls and gilt friezes. Waiters bring her seared tuna blinis with whipped mousse and dill, and fresh prosciutto roses on buttered bruschetta. She fills herself until bursting, knowing this will be the best food she'll ever get to eat. Eventually her attention goes to the Music Room, and she spends time not only bobbing her head to the music and enjoying the formality of the dancing, but also admiring the columns embedded into the walls, like pillars of the deep blue sea. The variety between the different rooms is almost eclectic, but contained, so each adheres to its own cohesive theme. She can only hope her uncle will seek to honour that.

When the dancing begins – late, as the king encourages it despite the absence of his son – and the ladies take to the floor with gentlemen hanging on their arm, Cami returns to the ballroom to watch, a content wallflower. The dancing is so expertly practiced, it must take hours to learn. Forgetting that she doesn't know the steps, part of her would like to join them. Sway to the music with a man, let her dress fan out in pretty waves, enjoy herself and the song.

Don't be silly. She looks crestfallen at her wrist. No dance card. Then her shoes, already painful to wear as they are wrong size, from Aunt Amelia's slightly narrower feet. All reminders that she is not a lady, and she will never belong.

A hot flush comes upon her. Cami pivots and slips through the crowd to the ceiling-high glass doors. Inside her lungs suddenly feels like a ball of tangled yarn, and she pushes out onto the terrace.

The air a welcome, albeit chilly reprieve. Cami hugs her arms. Some men smoke by the stone wall overlooking the prospect, and she chances further down a stone staircase until she is in the gardens properly. Two long oblong waterways run parallel down the gravelled paths, and topiaries rise above her head. The gardens are gigantic, so large one could get lost, but tranquil, and Cami wants to get away, if only for a moment. To remind her what reality is like, and what she should never take for granted.

Wishing for a better life is senseless, and she reprimands herself for these brewing feelings in her chest. Not quite jealousy – it's not like these folks ever helped being born into the right families. Resentment fits better. If she were one of these ladies, there wouldn't be a day when she didn't appreciate what she had, because she has known what it's like to not, and it is a horrible place to be.

A rippling noise hones her attention sharply like a blade. She stops and crooks her head left towards the source, behind a thick hedge with an archway.

A creature, maybe? A bird? Wary, Cami gathers her skirts and tiptoes over. The noises complicate into the rustling of cloth, buckles snapping into place, fabric that flaps in air. To breathy, frustrated human grunts.

Oh goodness. Has Cami just stumbled upon a night-time tryst? Still, curiosity eats her, and despite all sense and reason, she peers around the thick leaves.

The dark sky shrouds most of the scene from defining into true shapes, but what she can discern is a man surrounded by a scattering of clothes – liveries, by the looks of it. Only the gloves are in the water, helplessly floating out of his desperate reach.

"No, no, come here— please—"

"What are you doing?"

He whips around to face her, but the hand bracing him slips, dunking both his arms into the river.

He yelps, scrabbling for purchase before the rest of him follows. "No, help!"

Without thinking Cami launches forwards and grabs his shoulder, and yanks him backwards. Only too late does she realise it's his bare shoulder – the man is half-naked, bearing free a toned chest that, of course, the night sky doesn't bother to conceal. He hits the grass with an unpleasant squelch and despite it all, Cami's cheeks flame.

"What are— are you mad?" She can't even fathom what she's seeing. "Why— and your gloves?"

"I dropped them. It's so dark I cannot see a blasted thing." He sits up, shaking his arms – droplets fly off him. "Thank you. I nearly fell in."

"Clearly." She inspects the liveries at his feet, and scowls. "Why are your clothes about you?"

He stands up – that chest, dear goodness, Cami has to look away – and uses his shirt to pat his arms dry.

"I— was changing."

"In the garden?"

"Yes." He pauses. "I'm sneaking back in."

She follows the undefined nudge of his head to the hedge across the way. There's an inconspicuous dip near the bottom, a space someone can easily crawl beneath. That explains the strong smell of dirt that clings to him, too.

"You won't tell, will you?" he asks, hope dusting the edge of his tone. It's casual, flippant, ungrateful of the circumstances and what lays around them. He could be sneaking into a cow farm with the same countenance. It fans Cami's temper.

"And why shouldn't I?" she challenges, indignant at the implications. "There are so many people who would kill to have the opportunity to work here, and you— you're squandering it."

To that his tone ekes with teasing. "Am I now?" He retrieves the rest of his liveries. "And what are you here for, my lady?"

I'm no lady. But she doesn't say it. She doesn't want to give this upstart any reason to mock her. "I— I'm here on invitation from the king. His Majesty has said Prince Roy is making an announcement."

"Ah, yes, this mysterious announcement." The whites of the servant's eyes travel over her, and her cheeks burn again. "So you're here for the prince?"

"I'm not here for the prince. I'm here for myself."

"You don't like him?"

"He's pompous," she says without missing a beat. "He's late to his own soirée."

"Pompous," the servant muses. "Not inaccurate. Though he's quite handsome, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't see the appeal, no."

It's his turn to splutter a little. "So many would disagree."

"Perhaps, but then so many would place appearance over attitude."

He hums thoughtfully at that. "Well, if you agree to my request, then I will go this way, and you will go that, and we can pretend we never saw each other. Do we have an accord?"

Cami crosses her arms. "I don't want to be party to your misdemeanours."

"But you see, my lady, it's too late for that. I imagine someone of your social standing would be wrapped in a deeply unforgettable scandal if you were seen unchaperoned with another man, especially a man of such low class." He grins, teeth glinting. "Then again, since you've struggled to take your eyes off me this entire conversation, I'm not certain your modesty hasn't already been compromised."

Rude, impertinent servant boy! She goes to splutter – but then, as quick as whip, she forms a response and speaks.

"That's amusing, since your gaze hasn't moved from me either, and I wondered the same thing. It would be quite unbecoming of a servant to take advantage of a lady alone at night. He might even struggle to find work that would have him after. Perhaps your house steward would like to see the evidence of your night-time excursions when I show him the gloves in the water?"

They've drifted far too away now for him to retrieve, and she knows he knows it. Using blackmail hasn't been her finest moment, but pride rears through the frustration anyway. Yet the servant lets out one, sharp laugh.

"Touché, my lady." Another rustle of clothes. "Very well. It was a… something, to meet you."

"Likewise," she volleys back.

Another grin. "Ready?"

Cami doesn't wait. She just goes.

When she slips back into the ballroom, frustration adding to the knot of nerves in her sternum, Jefferson suddenly engulfs her vision, furious as he comes up to her.

"Amelia told you not to disappear for too long," he hisses. "You have worried her."

She's too full of adrenaline to stop. "I wanted air."

"Then why didn't you stay by the windows where you could be seen?"

Where I could see you. Cami doesn't need to hear the exact words to know what he really means.

"I was merely by the bottom of the stairs."

"Do not lie. There grass stains on your dress."

She glances down. Curses, he's right. The hem flecks with green. "I was careless with some of the plants."

"Then you should've taken more care. I told you, Camilla, not to embarrass us. Your father would be ashamed." That feels like a physical blow. Cami stilts a moment, but Jefferson backs away, piece said. "I mustn't need to watch you like a child."

She says nothing to that, and she resists the urge to turn away and leave. High society is so stifling. This place, and what it turns people into, stuns her into speechlessness. Not even the servants are grateful for what they have.

Still, Jefferson will never let her go so early into the night, so she spends the next hour stuffing more tartlets into her mouth and watching the dancing, which has died down significantly. Most of the women linger by the Grand Staircase in the hallway, now waiting for the prince to appear. Cami's assessment of his attitude, it appears, wasn't incorrect.

When the string quartet stops, before the clock chimes nine, a fanfare blasts from trumpets in the hall. Cami puts down her glass of water and hustles towards the hall immediately, following the steady but eager flow of the other guests. She finds Jefferson and Amelia, beckoning her over to a nook in the window, with a great view of the top of the staircase.

"How exciting is this?" Amelia whispers to her. "A front seat to a royal family announcement!"

The fanfare plays again, and silence coats the room.

"Announcing His Royal Majesty, King Merrick, Her Majesty, Queen Ji-Yu, and His Royal Highness, Prince Roy!"

The three come from the left. The king, jovial, grinning, has his arm linked with an Asian woman, dressed in a loud, red gown that compliments her composed beauty. Dark hair curls into an up-do dripping with jewels. She is ethereally beautiful, though there's something flinty in her dark eyes – when she smiles, it doesn't quite reach them.

Then the prince comes down behind them, resplendent in a crisp, white shirt that coifs around the column of his neck, and a coattails hemmed generously in gold. Only his gloves are missing, affording a look at hands that twitch restlessly, like they itch to get warm.

Then she sees his face.

It's utterly unmistakable. Even in the darkness she recognises the same easy-going smirk, only his is attached to a handsome face, features a perfect blend of his white father and Asian mother, and hair neatly cinched behind him, dark as ink. The man… the servant from the garden.

Not a servant. The prince. The damn prince of Illéa.

Cami's legs turn to water, and she has to lean against the sill to steady herself. He— had liveries? Why on earth was the prince of Illéa stumbling through his back garden in liveries?

But of course. Erroneously she thought he was sneaking back with the clothes for his job, when quite likely he was rather sneaking back onto palace grounds in his false liveries, to then change back into his princely attire.

Hot embarrassment curdles the food in her stomach. She— she snapped at him for being ungrateful for his position! This must mean certain death. Can she be beheaded for that? Or banished?

The family stops at the top of the stairs. Roy's eyes rove the scene with enthusiasm – somehow, between the sea of dresses and women, he picks Cami from below. That irritating smirk overcomes him entirely, like he knows exactly what she's thinking.

Swine.

"Prince Roy has a very important announcement to make," cries Merrick to the hushed, enraptured audience, "so I beg for your attention for only a moment more."

Roy straightens himself, proclaiming boldly, voice practiced with ease.

"As you all know, I celebrated my fifth-and-twenty birthday this past December, and now with the season shortly upon us, it is time that I embrace my title as heir to the throne and continue my duty to this great nation. I am… so pleased to announce," he wobbles imperceptivity, unheard of it she weren't focused on it, "that beginning tonight, I am making my intentions known that I wish to find my future wife."

The audience reacts at once. Gasps and squeals erupt. Cami hits her back against the seat and tries not to collapse.

She was alone with the prince. The very single, available prince.

"Are you quite all right, Cami?" whispers Amelia.

Cami deigns to straighten herself up. Isn't he courting someone? She struggles to remember the lady's name. Aldan? Something like that. Yet this announcement has proven it wrong, and now she has made a fool of herself, just as Jefferson warned her, but not in the way she expected. Not in the way she could've ever even imagined.

He has won a game she didn't even know she was playing.

Well, she thinks, gathering her skirts, time to even the score.

"I'm going closer," she announces to her uncle and aunt.

"Camilla," Amelia says surprised, at the same time Jefferson says, "Stay here—"

But too late, she has melted into the throng of women now vying for Roy's attention. He is polite and greets each with a bow of his head and a kiss on their knuckles and menial, brief conversation. Cami smiles. Already she has a plan.

She wedges her way through until she is almost in front of him and his family. As expected, he turns to her, and their eyes meet. That smile emerges from him, vain and testing and high on victory. He bows his head and then reaches forwards, and before she can even think to squeak in protest, he takes her bare knuckles and presses a chaste kiss.

"My lady, it is an honour to meet you. May I know your name?"

The silence that follows is palpable – only Jefferson and Amelia elbowing to get through can be heard. It isn't until Queen Ji-Yu behind him frowns and nudges his side saying, "This is the architect's apprentice," does Roy pale at once, conceit vanishing. He rises sharply.

"Architect's… apprentice?"

"Yes," says Merrick awkwardly. "This is Jefferson, Amelia, and Miss Camilla Daugherty. Jefferson is designing our new wing."

Heat replaces the pallor, and Roy's eyes centre on Cami.

"Not a lady then," he mumbles, a register only for her to hear.

He showed politeness, deference, to someone far below his station, a massive faux pas in these circles. Whispers hum between the other ladies, scandalised at such an error. Exactly as Cami planned. She allows herself a small, pleasant smile, barely disguising the smug delight beneath, and curtsies effortlessly with her aunt and uncle.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness."

"Hmm," Roy muses. "Touché."

Merrick frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing at all, Father," Roy says brightly. "Only I look forward to seeing how much Miss Daugherty will be contributing to the new wing. I trust you are well-equipped to answer any questions I have?"

The challenge is laid bare like a feast, but he doesn't know how good an architect she is, as good as her uncle, even if he doesn't see it.

She raises her chin. "Very."

"If I may, Your Highness," Jefferson cuts in smoothly, "I am leading the project. Camilla is only shadowing—"

"Then her viewpoint will be vital, will it not, to assuring construction complies with modern sensibilities?" Roy counters. Oh, is he pushing it. "If I have any questions or requests, I will come straight to you, Miss Daugherty. I anticipate the knowledge you can offer greatly."

A weighted pause. A sly undercurrent of a smile.

Cami returns it, just a little.

"If you so will it, it would be my honour, Your Highness."

His eyes linger again, this time taking in the details of her face. "It was a … something, to meet you," he mumbles, before he effortlessly moves onto the next in the line.

Even though the corset is cinched tightly around her waist, Cami feels freer than she has all night. And even though once the royal family leaves earshot, Jefferson chews her out for her attitude, her bad manners, her frowning and arrogant countenance, Cami rides the high for the rest of the night.

The next time Cami sees Prince Roy, a month later, construction on the new wing has already begun.

"He has asked for you," Jefferson supplied reluctantly that morning over breakfast – a lukewarm porridge. "He wishes for you to take him over the plans."

So Cami adorned herself in her Sunday best and stayed silent in the carriage ride over. In daylight the place is much more agreeable, and with the fast approaching summer, sweat collects gently on her forehead, which she pats mercilessly dry with a scrap of fabric.

Prince Roy waits by the new wing's entrance outside – scaffolding has been erected to begin first the removal of the wall. At her approach, that self-satisfied grin tugs at the corner of his lips, but he disguises it beneath a polite, but not very low, bow of his head, first to Jefferson, then to her.

"Good morning to you both, Jefferson… Miss Daugherty."

Cami shudders – it's the way he draws out her name like a song. She curtsies.

"It's a fine day," Roy remarks to her. "I thought perhaps we could walk?"

"Is that wise?" Jefferson asks at once. "I only ask as I wouldn't want someone to… misinterpret anyone's… intentions."

Embarrassment rushes up her cheeks at the implication, but Roy smiles – at that moment the picture of his father.

"Not at all. It is only a walk so that I may pick Miss Daugherty's brain. If you are concerned about my intentions, sir, we will stay outside and my guards will act as chaperone."

Cami blinks. Is he equating her with one of his ladies?

But that can't be right. He knows she's not. Then it clicks, and the embarrassment quickly turns into gratitude. It's a deliberate mistaking of Jefferson's words.

Jefferson blinks stupidly. "No, no, Your Highness, I meant—"

"Say, Miss Daugherty, I overheard some of the construction workers talking about buttresses. Could you elaborate what those are?"

Without another word, he moves off, speaking loudly. Cami hoists her skirt to follow, but not without a quick glance back at Jefferson, who watches her like a hawk.

Don't embarrass us, the gaze says.

Cami knows. But she trails after Roy anyway.

"I cannot imagine why they are discussing buttresses when there are none in the design," she says, catching up to him. Behind, the guards take step.

Roy chuckles. "Oh, no. I made that up. It's the only architectural term I remember because the word buttress amuses me."

Cami frowns. "So then what is the purpose of this walk?"

"To escape from your glaring uncle. He's rather intimidating. It's a wonder how my father puts up with him."

Oh, doesn't she know that too well.

When she doesn't comment, Roy says, "I haven't had a chance to speak to you since the party."

"Oh?" she says wryly. "You mean where you tricked me into thinking you were a servant?"

"And you tricked me into thinking you were a lady?" he retorts.

His sharp tone clams her up. "I— I apologise—"

Roy bursts out laughing. "No, please, you misunderstand! I quite enjoyed the trickery. The embarrassment from my misstep I'm certain will fade with time. Just not yet. Possibly not for another few years. Or decades. Or, you know… forever."

She smiles. "Then it is but a fraction of what I felt when I realised you were the prince."

"I often have that effect on women."

She snorts. Roy laughs.

"I hope I can count on you, Miss Daugherty, in these coming months," he says, cooler now. "The truth is that you're right. Not on the pompous part, of course, since I am a delight personality-wise" – she winces when he flicks her a knowing look – "but people often see me as my title and nothing more. Especially now that I've been forced to announce my intention of finding a wife."

She halts. "Forced?"

His eyes widen at once. "Well, not— not forced, per se— strongly encouraged. Yes. By my parents." He clears his throat and moves on swiftly. "The trouble is, these ladies vying for my hand have been at the court games their whole life. They know what to say and when to say it, and very often it's not genuine."

The confession stuns her. A struggling prince is not anything she would've ever imagined possible. He has wealth and fame beyond his dreams.

"I'm not saying I'm ungrateful," he tacks on quickly, "only that I need an honest presence in my life, someone who will tell it as it is. I think you fit the bill."

"But I—" she coils up, "I'm not a lady."

"Not a court lady, no, but you are a lady. Independent, carefree, and honest." He clasps his hands together, almost looking like a boy then, asking his governess for a break from studying. "So… can I count on your help?"

She doesn't really know what to say to it. The prospect scares her. What happens if he doesn't like what she has to say? One word and she will see his boot heel as she leaves.

"I— I must decline," she says quickly, before the words lodge in her throat. "I can be honest, yes, but… I'm afraid I don't think I can really offer you any genuine advice, Your Highness. But— thank you. I am grateful."

His disappointment clouds him, and she instantly hates the mild hurt she has caused. "Yes, I suppose it was a big ask to someone who is mostly a stranger. Can I at least count on your friendship, then? You'll be here quite often to oversee the construction, no?"

"You… want my companionship?"

"You owe me after all, for calling me pompous."

A disbelieving laugh escapes her then. "I believe we were even when I stopped you falling into that lake."

His eyes sparkle. "Touché. Is that a yes?"

And despite Jefferson's warning, she nods once, decisively.

"Very well," she says. "I will be your… friend."

"Then as friends, I insist you call me Roy."

"Roy," she says, testing the weight of his true name. "Then you must call me Camilla."

His smile is brilliant, shining.

"Very well… Camilla."

"Ah, there you are!" Roy stands from the table, prompting the other women to stand as well. "Please, come in!"

Dread, sudden and cold, courses through Cami's fingers, making them clench onto the wood of the door. When Roy invited her to tea this afternoon, she'd thought it was the two of them alone, on a chaperoned picnic or with his family. Not with three other ladies – three other eligible bachelorettes.

Roy is oblivious to her dilemma when he comes over to her, ushering her forwards. The receiving chamber is pretty in the mid-afternoon sun, light that brightens the milky shades of the upholstery and carpet. The table is small and round, besot with a lace tablecloth, and prepared with placemats and silver cutlery. It is a clear luxury, one that catches Cami off-guard enough that she almost stumbles into the room.

The other ladies. Cami hoists herself up with whatever decorum she retains. They watch her, intrigued, taking in the plainness of her dress and shoes. One in particular, one in pastel pink and an elaborate bow-shaped updo, doesn't bother hiding her open glare.

"Ladies, this is Miss Camilla Daugherty, the architect's apprentice I was telling you about." He turns to Cami, as illuminated as sunshine. "I hope you don't mind. During our last promenade these ladies were so curious about the new wing, that I thought it better to invite the expert to an afternoon tea. You'd know much better how to answer their questions."

"Oh," says the woman with the bow-shaped updo, disappointment oozing from her tone, "I thought she was bringing us the first course."

She turns her back on Cami, and icy embarrassment pierces her.

Roy frowns. "I don't see how, Katrina. Camilla's not wearing servant's garb."

At the mention of her first name, thrown out so casually, the woman, Katrina, turns sharply again. If eyes could be daggers, she would've eviscerated Cami into pieces.

Roy pulls out a chair – shockingly, the chair to his immediate right, opposite Katrina. "I've saved you a seat. Now that you're here, we can order tea."

Cami doesn't dare look up to Katrina to her opposite – even with her eyes closed she can feel that disdain that ripples off her. Instead she chooses to focus on the placemat, a surprisingly simple doily, and the quaint little tea set, elaborately decorated with enamel roses, in front of her.

"You must see the world in an entirely different way," says the girlish woman to her left. Cami dares a look up, met not by a snarl, but a genuine, beaming smile, and bright blue eyes like the sky. "Or rather, the palace. I've always found architecture fascinating, but I've never had the patience to study it."

The waiters hover over them then, pouring steaming liquid into the cups. Already it enriches the smell of the place, herby and delicious.

"Same here," Roy chimes in, reaching for his cup before the waiter has even finished pouring. "My only flaw in life."

"Modest as always, Your Highness," says the woman beneath her breath.

The lady next to Katrina, in a floral gown, lifts her hands – to sign, Cami realises, struck by its unexpectedness. Roy makes a sheepish noise.

"Goodness, you're right, my apologies. I haven't introduced you to everyone." He signs as he speaks this time. "Camilla, to your right is Lady Elise Belmont. This is Lady Lilly Carter," he gestures to the signing girl, "and to my left is Lady Katrina Berg."

The names are unfamiliar. "Hello," Cami greets.

Elise has a smile larger than life. "It's so good of you to join us. Tell me, what do you think of the word buttress?"

Roy snorts into his tea. Lilly smiles sheepishly. Katrina stares at Cami unerring. Sweat starts down her back.

"It's… a word," Cami says awkwardly, "though if you like buttresses then I think you'll like flying buttresses even more."

Both Roy and Elise erupt into giggles.

"They can fly!" Elise says between laughs.

Katrina rolls her eyes.

Lilly signs something.

"What are they?" Roy translates.

So Cami enthusiastically, if not cautiously, explains what a flying buttress is, gesturing with her hands to form the shape, and using a napkin when her hands won't do. Each time the word is mentioned, Elise hides her laughter behind a delicate palm.

The first round of sandwiches come, breaking through the monotony of chatter, but even with Katrina's clear dislike emanating from her like heat from a fire, Cami starts to relax. Elise, for one thing, is clearly a likeable companion, often engaging in Cami's architectural speak. Cami can't help but warm to her; she and Roy appear to have a similar sense of humour, which is good for him, for what he wants. Lilly too is affable, an elegant sort of person that suits the finery around her, even though the conversation is much more difficult having to go through another person.

Soon the conversations lulls from architecture to recent happenings. The ladies discuss it together, Elise and Katrina signing. Another one of the societal ladies shocked everyone at a recent party by doing a strange dance that involves hip thrusts. Some cousins of Roy's were rumoured to come over – Roy couldn't confirm anything was true as he didn't know himself. A bank was robbed but only jewels were stolen. Cami mostly tunes the gossip out, but does notice how hard all three try to stay positive, even Katrina with her cold composure. Nothing bad is ever said, about anyone.

It is, at first, refreshing. Cami was admittedly expecting at least Katrina to partake in some form of passive-aggressive remarks, but she is well-behaved around Roy, now that the damage is done and Cami is here whether she likes it or not.

But it is also perturbing.

Nothing ever invites debate or conflict, and the ladies never drop their smiles. No one is ever as happy, giggly or optimistic in the face of horrors, but somehow Elise, Lilly and Katrina manage to be just that.

It's early days yet into the season, she knows, which will give them more time to be true to themselves, but right now it is obvious they are trying to put only their shiniest feet forwards for Roy. It is not what he wants, she knows – not the honesty he craves in a wife.

When the tea is over and Roy agrees to enjoy the sun in the gardens with them, Katrina takes the lip of Cami's sleeve and holds her back. Panic seizes Cami at once, especially when she reads the plain displeasure contouring her face.

"I will only tell you this once, apprentice," she sneers, so low none of the others can hear. "Do not ruin my chances with the prince, or I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand?"

Cami nods mutely. So much for any of the comradery she thought she'd built over the tea.

Katrina smiles hollowly. "Good."

And when she goes, Cami feels a horrible sensation that despite her circumstances, she has involved herself in Roy's season more than she ever should.

"Is this wise?"

"Probably not."

That seemed to be modus operandi for Roy.

Cami drew herself back to the group of ladies huddled by the window of the winery, the underground cavern richly thick with the scent of pine and varnish. That Jefferson had let her go on this excursion with the rest of Roy's court was shocking in of itself, let alone that she was standing in Illéa's most premiere winery, that the barrels looming over her were hundreds of years old.

Roy's eyes lingered on her with amusement before he turned back to the ground, raising his arms. "Today we're going to play a game."

The ladies rustled with mixed opinions. Cami clasped her hands together, eager to see their reactions. She already knew what the game was, of course. Roy had run it by her first, asking for her opinion.

"We're going to see how well you can identify wines." When the women made noises of surprise, and displeasure, Roy laughed. "It's not a test, I can assure you. No one will be eliminated, or anything as barbaric as that. I'd like to get to know you all better, and wine is one of my past-times – so I am sharing it with you in the form of a harmless game."

"Was this your idea?" Lady Maeve Reynolds has to lean down to whisper to Cami. Her hair curls down, tickling the top of Cami's head. "Because if this was, how dare you."

"I dare," Cami says jovially. Maeve is rarely serious; it's one of her most wonderful traits.

The winery attendant has laid a table with different, unmarked bottles and plenty of glasses. Roy chooses one of the ladies at random – it happens to be Luna Bellini-Torres. The attendant pours a tiny amount in the glass and swills it for her. She raises the glass to her lips.

"Hmm." Her expression doesn't change, frosty with calculation. "A vintage Italian, judging by the sweetness."

"Go on," Roy says.

"It's sweet. A Tuscan dessert wine?"

Roy smiles.

"Wrong. This is a beerenauslese from the German Federation."

Her hint of coolness extinguishes. "You made it sound like I was on the correct line of thinking."

He grins. He really is a swine.

"Who's next?"

The ladies get into the game, more wrong than right, but it doesn't seem to matter beyond bragging rights. Only Lady Persephone Cahill answers more correctly than incorrectly, earning her ringing applause from the court.

"Katrina?" Roy eggs.

She is a steely presence amongst the revelry. Having been raising practically on palace soil since she was young, having known Roy a long time, she should also be familiar with wines. And naturally, when the attendant pours the first wine, it barely touches her lips before she speaks.

"This is Calgarian ice wine."

"Correct."

The next wine goes down. "Chianti."

"Yes."

And the next. "Brunello. One of your favourites."

Roy smiles. "It is indeed."

She pauses at the next. "Why not have Camilla try some?"

The group glances at her. Cami frowns, only belatedly feeling their penetrating gazes before she speaks, "I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to identify any of them."

"But you look so left out. Come. Try at least one and guess. My correct predictions make for dull entertainment, and I am only dizzying my senses the more I try."

Cami knows something is afoot, but she steps over anyway. The next wine the attendant pours into two glasses, handing on to Katrina and one to Cami. Cami takes the glass hesitantly. The smell alone is like pure gold.

Katrina sips. "Oh, this one, I like." She offers her glass to the attendant, who refills it, and she downs the rest before Cami has even had her sip. "Go on, Camilla. Try it."

Can she tamper with the wine with sleight of hand? Cami grimaces but she does as asked. The wine slips seamlessly into her mouth. She tips the glass all the way back—

Katrina nudges into her. The wine splatters down Cami's face, her neck, décolletage. Rage flashes through her – quickly replaced with embarrassment, so overwhelming she freezes, glacial. All the court ladies, watching her spill the drink down herself… She hears some laughs behind their palms, even though their gazes are artfully turned to the ceiling.

They all saw Katrina spill it down her, but Cami is the one that looks the fool.

"Oh," Katrina says, as sweet as wine laced with poison. "I'm so silly. This wine— it's gone straight to my head."

"You cannot be that drunk."

The sudden bark of Roy's voice behind her, defensive, draws Cami back to her wits. She puts the glass down and turns to him; he retrieves a cloth from the table and comes closer, so close she can smell the potency of his cologne. Actually rather sweet, something like chocolate – mixed with wine of course, because that is all she can smell.

"Here," he says.

She accepts the towel. "Thank you."

He glares at Katrina over her shoulder as she pats herself dry. "You should be ashamed."

Katrina is unmoved. "I was only clumsy," she says, batting her eyelids.

"Yeah," snorts Maeve, "and I'm a platypus."

Roy's face also says he doesn't believe her, and it swells in Cami's heart. She inspects the damage. The dress skirt is unmarred, but the top is ruined, splattered with dark red stains, as is her make-up and some of her hair.

"You, ah—" He takes the cloth from her. "You missed a spot."

He reaches forwards, pressing the cloth gently, delicately, to her jaw. She is certain she didn't miss that – she would've felt the drip of wine there – but her gaze locks on him, hooked like he is the only person left in the world. It feels like there is electricity in his touch, when it makes her heart jump, her ribs aches, her lungs short of the air that is all around her.

"There." He retreats, then, naturally, he smirks. "Perhaps the wine stained your face."

Curse this blush. She searches for an apology on instinct, but then, winningly, she sees the same on his face.

"Same to you."

His smirk becomes a genuine curve of lips.

"Touché, Camilla."

"Sooooo does this mean I can have the rest of the sauvignon?"

Cami rips her gaze away. Maeve is pointing at the half-bottle left.

Roy scowls. "Now that would actually make you inebriated." It quickly flips for a grin, all devilish charm. "And it's a merlot, not a sauvignon."

"Same thing," Maeve cries, forgetting decorum and necking the bottle.

The game dissolves into merriment and enjoying the day. Katrina rejoins her friends, admonishment already forgotten, and share overt glances at Cami between scorn-ridden giggles. You don't belong, the gaze says. But when Cami looks back at Roy, and finds him already staring, already smiling, she finds that maybe they might be wrong.

He clears his throat. "Camilla—"

The winery door opens; the attendant lets inside a woman who Camilla can only describe as beautiful, her age, with blonde-brown hair twisted into an elegantly effortless up-do. Dress a passionate red, neckline low on her bosom, she has an air about her that doesn't bother with theatrics or frivolities. A bombshell by her very nature, and when her eyes land on Roy, a grin ekes out on her face.

Roy spins to her. Surprise, and that same pinkish colour, flickers onto his face.

"Riley?"

Riley smiles.

"Hello, Roy," she says easily, like he's an old friend.

It isn't until they embrace, a hug too intimate to be professional, that Cami startles – that her heart suddenly, traitorously, sinks.

Riley isn't an old friend.

She's Roy's ex-girlfriend.