The Royal Treatment by Lindsey Leavitt Page B

hadn’t been able to wear one of those yet.
    I never thought I’d be grateful for the one pageant prep workshop Mom had made me do with Celeste. We’d put on six-inch heels and too-tight dresses and teetered back and forth across the room until our feet blistered. Mom claimed walking with poise in those outfits could prepare us for anything. And it was true—even in this corseted poof factory, I was able to glide into the top of the see-through pyramid, which was empty except for two security guards. One nodded at me. “Did you get that fresh air you needed, Your Highness?”
    Clever, Millie. “I did. I don’t know how my ancestors ever dealt with corsets!”
    “Your aunt is waiting for you at the bottom of the staircase.”
    My head wobbled from the wig’s weight as I descended the spiral stairs. The expansive lobby was quiet and softly lit, although music and voices drifted from the Sully Wing. An old woman stood at the base of the winding stairs, her chin high and her patience low.
    She wore red lipstick and a frown that made her millions of wrinkles sag even more. Her features, which at one time had no doubt been striking, were now sharp and birdlike. The feathers shooting out of her white wig only added to the fowl motif. Auntie Ostrich. But her brown eyes were intelligent and bright. They narrowed at me. “Millie. I do not like to be kept waiting.”
    “Sorry, Auntie Oksana.”
    “Tell your country you are sorry. It is them you are representing every minute you exist.”
    Her accent was subtle—refined and precise. I immediately rolled my shoulders back when she spoke. “Yes. Of course.”
    Auntie Ostrich leaned on my arm as we walked into the exhibition hall. Music from a string quartet drifted in, playing Bach’s Minuet in G Major. I personally preferred Handel, but Bach did have some skills…Hey! Look at that. All those hours listening to classical music came in handy after all. I hoped my knowledge wouldn’t need to stretch beyond recognition to actually playing. Having pyramid glass rain down on the partygoers due to my violin skills would not look good on a Princess Progress Report.
    The guests matched our period-style costumes. I knew from my studies that the style was eighteenth-century baroque, probably around the time of Marie Antoinette. The monstrous cake on the dessert table confirmed my guess—a nod to the Marie Antoinette misquote, “Let them eat cake.” Which was odd—we were in Paris, after all, where the French Revolution took place. Why have a party here with royals in attendance, celebrating a time when they did away with royals?
    A man approached Auntie Ostrich and gave her a fluttery bow. “Thank you so much for coming, Your Highness. Have you had a chance to see the exhibit?”
    “We’ve just arrived. Millie, this is the painter, Christian Mercier.”
    I dipped my head. Not a bow—I was the royal, after all.
    “It would be an honor to show you my work personally, Your Highness,” Christian said.
    “As you wish.”
    We followed Christian past socialites sipping champagne. His paintings were hanging in a dark room with red lights illuminating each one. The pieces bore a stark similarity—red shapes and lines slashed onto white canvas, all dwarfed by boisterous gold frames (baroque style—go, me!).
    Auntie Ostrich plucked cat-eye glasses from her clutch and peered at the paintings. “Yes, I see the juxtaposition you were going for. Wonderful hue you chose—something more rich would have been vulgar. The message comes off vaguely forced, though.”
    Christian’s face reddened. “That was intended, Your Highness.”
    “Hmmm.” Auntie Ostrich cast me a glance. “Millie, what do you think?”
    My heart jumped. This was where all my studying and training came into play. Anyone can walk around in a ball gown, especially when that ball gown was the result of the Royal Rouge. Now I needed to remember everything I’d learned over the summer and add that to the information