At Your Service by Jen Malone Page B

parka and snow pants. Greeting a crowd of well-wishers in the castle courtyard? A green wool suit with a coordinated coat, leather gloves, and a feathered hat that perched at exactly the right angle. She’s like Princess Barbiecome to life. In one or two of the pictures her smile looks real and not plastic, so I’m crossing fingers and toes that she isn’t as perfectly perfect as she looks, because how can someone so perfect be normal and fun and nice too?
    Princess Ingrid, age nine:
    Ingrid is a cutie. She’s on the edge of every picture, staring off to the side, like there’s always something there she can’t wait to check out. But basically, she’s your average little kid.
    And then we have Prince Alex. Nothing average here.
    Prince Alex, age fourteen:
    It’s possible that Alex’s dossier is approximately six inches thicker than Ingrid’s and Sophie’s, but Paisley and I really didn’t think it was fair to be forced to choose between pictures of Alex catching waves on the beach or ones of him playing polo. So basically they all went in. Along with the ones of him shopping in Dubai, riding in the back of a convertible in a parade, and taking flying lessons.
    I know people always say royals have blue blood, but someone should really do a study about how blue blood might actually be an attractiveness enhancer. The whole family looks like they could pose for a Gap ad. Except they probably don’t even know what Gap is, and I’m sure they definitely have never set foot in one.
    Faint sirens grow more intense and people start picking invisible fuzz off their uniforms and putting a little extra straight in their posture. I half expect Mr. Whilpers to yell, “Ten hut!” and lead us around the lobby in a march.
    I catch Mercy’s eye and wink. She grins and winks back, once with each eye. This is kind of our thing because we both know that I can only wink with my right eye. Whenever I try to wink with my left one, the whole side of my mouth scrunches up at the same time. Any day I don’t have school, I sneak into the maids’ morning meeting, where Mr. Whilpers hands out the boards I and gives his daily cheesy pep talk. I always make it my mission to try to crack Mercy up with my winks without letting the Whilps catch on. I like to think it makes hearing his “Remember, everyone, winners never lose and losers never win!” speech for the gazillionth time a little more bearable.
    I’m just gearing up for a left-then-right-then-left-eye wink (which I know from experience will make Mercy’s whole body shake while she fights a laugh) when two police motorcyclesscreech to a halt just past our front door, leaving space behind for the stretch limousine trailing them to line up its back door with the hotel entrance. Right away a doorman rushes over and yanks the limo door open. A whole army of men in black suits has already formed a perimeter around the sidewalk. The photographers they’re blocking have to stretch their cameras way up over their heads to take pictures. I bet they end up with a bunch of shots of the fire hydrant, which makes me giggle.
    King Robert is super tall, so he has to sort of fold himself out of the limo. Then he turns back to offer his wife a hand.
    â€œNow that man has the manners of a true king,” our sales manager, Jean, whispers next to me, and I nod without taking my eyes off the action. They’re like something straight out of a Disney movie. The queen places one elegant leg onto the street and allows King Robert to guide her out of the limo. Usually, when it’s Bill helping me out of the backseat, he just lets me scoot across the bench and out the door, but if he does give me a hand, he kinda yanks on it to pull me out. This looks more like she glides onto the street. Maybe we’ll get to be close friends in the next couple of days and I can ask her how she does that.
    The two turn and wave at the