Maggie Malone Gets the Royal Treatment (4 page)

When I Wake Up in Wincastle

Me, Maggie Malone, a
real
princess. It's going to be so great! I'll ride horses around the palace all day and have lunch with the queen and save something really important and maybe be in a parade. I've always wanted to do that princess hand-wave. Although I hope I have a bodyguard, because parades can get pretty crazy, and I know that people are always trying to kidnap famous princesses. I bet they've thought about that over in Wincastle, though.

Then I remember: the royal wedding! If I'm going to spend a day as
the
Princess Wilhelmina of Wincastle, I don't want to pick some random day when she might be stuck in her room reciting sonnets or learning French from a boring royal tutor. No way, José—I'm going to be a bridesmaid at
the
royal
wedding
of
the
century
! I've only been in a wedding one time before, as a flower girl when my Grandpa Flannery got married for the tenth or eleventh time. Talk about a step up.

I turn on my computer and pull up the Celebrity Times website again, then click on the link for the royal wedding time line. As I'm scrolling through the events, I have a thought: I know that time freezes when I'm in someone else's shoes, but what about the time-difference thing? Isn't it, like, yesterday or tomorrow or something in England right now? I look it up and find out that Wincastle is exactly eight hours ahead of us. After a whole lot of adding and subtracting, I realize that if I'm going to be a bridesmaid in Princess Clementine's wedding I need to get into the MMBs pretty much RIGHT NOW!

I run over to my closet and flip on the light, then reach up to the tippy-top shelf and pull down the MMBs.
Maggie
Malone, your heinie is about to be royal for real
, I tell myself, taking a deep breath before sliding one foot into a boot and then the other.

“I wish,” I whisper, half nervous and half excited, “I was Princess Mimi.”

• • •

What's that smell? Roses?! I
love
roses. They remind me of Granny Malone and her huge rose garden in Ireland. I open my eyes and see sweet little bouquets on each side of my bed. The bed itself has a roof and silk curtains all around it. I pull one of the curtains to the side and peek out. The ceiling is about six miles away and the entire thing—which is bigger than a football field—is covered in fancy carvings and painted
gold.

For
the
love
of
Monopoly
money, it's happening again! I'm really
her. Princess Wilhelmina of Wincastle. Just like that!
I whip my legs around to get out of bed and tumble down at least ten feet, landing on my hands and knees like a cat.
Really? Is this how every new day in these shoes is going to start? Besides, who needs a bed ten feet off the ground?
As I pull myself up, I see a short set of stairs Princess Mimi must use to climb in and out of this thing. That would have been good information to have a minute ago.

I walk over three miles of the cushiest carpet you ever felt to a set of huge floor-to-ceiling windows and peel back a tiny corner of a curtain that must weigh six hundred pounds. Right outside the glass and about four hundred feet down looks like a golf course—I guess that's Wincastle Palace's front lawn—and beyond that are a bunch of beautiful old buildings that belong in a fairy tale. The streets are lined with lots of tiny black cars and a few bright red double-decker buses.

I'm watching those buses creep along when the gigantic doors to my room burst open. Three ladies wearing white gloves and matching black dresses with white aprons come in.

“Good morning, Princess Wilhelmina,” says the first with a quick curtsy, looking down and setting a silver tray with a lid on it beside my bed.

“Good morning, Princess Wilhelmina,” says the second, also looking away as she opens all the curtains in my room. She does it quickly too, so she must be really strong.

“Oh, hey,” I say, trying to remember how you say hello in British. Oh, yeah—I got it. “Cheerio, you guys!” And do you want to know the coolest thing? I have a real British accent! I don't sound a thing like Stella did the time she played Eliza Doolittle in
My
Fair
Lady
. Or Mr. Mooney at the assembly. This is the real deal.

“Your breakfast is served, Princess,” the tray lady says with a curtsy, lifting the silver lid.

A real, royal breakfast in bed? Not a bad way to start my day as a princess! I'll bet it's fit for a king! And I am capital-s STARVING. I scamper up the steps onto that giant bed and smooth the covers over my lap.
Please
let
it
be
chocolate
chip
pancakes
and
bacon
, I say silently.

I reach over and pull the tray into my lap. It's not chocolate chip pancakes
or
bacon, that's for sure. The plate is ice cold and has a handful of button mushrooms, a shriveled-up slice of tomato that looks like somebody tried to cook it, a few baked beans, and a black blob of something that could possibly have come straight from a can of cat food.

Great. My breakfast looks like skunk meat and smells even worse. I hope this isn't a sign of things to come.

When I Almost Have to Eat Blood Pudding

As I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to quietly dispose of my cat food breakfast, there's a quick knock at the door. In comes another woman, an older one, wearing a stiff skirt and buttoned-up jacket.

“Good morning, Amelia,” the black-dress trio says all together.

“Good morning, Princess Mimi,” she says to me first, before turning to the crew. “Ladies.” They curtsy again. She notices my full tray of what I think is supposed to be food.

“If you're not hungry this morning, I shall have this taken away,” this Amelia person says, looking at me oddly.

“Oh, no, sorry,” I say. “I mean, I beg your pardon. I'd love a bite to eat, actually, it's just…” Man I do dig this accent of mine. I sort of want to keep talking, but I'm not sure what to say.

“The Royal Chef prepared your blood pudding just the way you like it,” Amelia says, “but should you rather have something else, I can see to that right away.”

Blood
pudding? I think I just threw up in my mouth.

“Um, well, actually,” I say, desperate to know what a princess would do in this situation. Besides eat something called blood pudding
—
whatever that is—because
that
is not going to happen. “Is there any…cereal or maybe a slice of toast in the palace?”

“I'll have some brought up, of course. But if it pleases the princess, perhaps you could eat it after your fitting,” Amelia says. “Mr. Roberto D'Angelo is here and ready for you.”

The
Roberto D'Angelo, as in the legendary Italian fashion designer? He makes all the dresses that the famous actresses wear to the Big Screen Awards and he's on that show
Escape
from
Style
Siberia
, where they rescue people from all sorts of fashion disasters. He's kind of mean on that show, but to get to wear a dress designed by him? To the royal wedding of the century—and to be photographed and on TV in a trillion countries? What could be better than this?

“Jolly great!” I say. Last summer Stella and I found this hilarious British comedian on MeTube and watched about eleven thousand of his performances. It's coming in jolly handy already (jolly is British for
very
), and with my awesome accent and all, I'm sure I can pull this off.

Amelia nods and opens the door. When she does, Roberto D'Angelo steps into the room, wearing a long cape, dark glasses, and one of those hats that French painters wear—a beret, I think. He's followed by at least five assistants who are swarming around him like drones serving the queen bee. One assistant takes his sunglasses and swiftly replaces them with magnifying ones, while another wheels in the dress (the dress!) on a shiny brass trolley thing.

Mr. D'Angelo comes right over to me and kisses me on both cheeks. “Princess Mimi, you are a vision this morning, my dear,” he gushes. “Your skin is going to be magnificent against the coral silk we've chosen for your gown, and your eyes will reflect like tropical lagoons…” he goes on and on, but I'm not listening because I keep thinking he might be the nicest guy ever—he's not behaving at all like he does on that show.

Mr. D'Angelo waves a hand and an assistant slips the dress out of its dust cover and brings it over to me. I am not exaggerating when I tell you it is the most beautiful dress I've ever seen in real life. It's made out of silk in this pale shade of peachy-pink that, if I do say so myself, will go perfectly with my strawberry-blond ringlets. It's long and fitted all the way down, with sleek cap sleeves and a square neck trimmed with the tiniest gold-ish tinted pearls.

I reach out to touch the pearls and Mr. D'Angelo says with a smile, “Sourced in Southeast Asia, just for you, Princess.”

“It's just so gorgeous!” I say, throwing my arms around his shoulders, which makes all five of his assistants gasp.
What? Can't a girl show some appreciation for a job well done? Oh well, better reel it in, Malone.

I take a step back and try to be royal. “I simply cannot wait to wear this lovely dress today, Mr. D'Angelo.” Then I give him a big, deep curtsy. “Thank you so much.”

“Don't be silly, Princess. You know this gown is for the London premiere of the new James Bond film next month,” Amelia says with a confused chuckle, apologizing as she ushers Roberto D'Angelo and his posse out the door and shuts it behind her back.

Amelia strides over to a bag one of the glove ladies has brought in, holds the hanger in the crook of her finger, and unzips it.

Say
WHAT?

Surely that thing couldn't be meant for me, Princess Wilhelmina of Wincastle!

Could
it?

When I See the World's Most Disappointing Dress

It's a big fat baby dress. Sort of off-white with gigantic, puffy sleeves and completely plain except for about seven hundred buttons going up the back. Oh, and a sash that I'm 100 percent sure will be tied in a huge bow above my behind.
How
embarrassing.
I'm going to look like my baby cousin Caitlin at her preschool graduation. What a letdown after the totally delicious dress I just saw and will never get to wear.

Maybe the shoes will be better. They're in a beautiful silver satin box and I'm hoping they're some elegant pumps with a just-right heel that I'd never be able to wear back home. But no. I open the lid to find a pair of boring baby flats with a strap across the top.
Well,
so
much
for
making
the
Style
File
page
of
Tween Scene
. I wonder if they'd ever put a princess on the Worst Dressed List.

“It's brilliant, Amelia, really,” I say, trying to sound upbeat.
It's just a dress,
I tell myself.
I'm not going to let it ruin my day.

“I'm glad you approve, Princess,” she says. “Let's just hope we can do something with that hair. Did your maids forget to braid it last night? It looks as if something could be nesting in there!”

“Umm…well,” I say, running to my vanity to take a look. I have to say, she's right. Maybe switching time zones cranked up the frizz factor on my curls. I try not to panic. I'm sure the palace has someone who can fix this mess.
Okay, Malone. This is no time to get your knickers in a twist. You're a princess. Do something ROYAL!

“I was thinking we could straighten my hair today,” I say with all of the confidence I can muster. It didn't work when I was Becca Starr—turned out Becca's fans really dug these curls. I hope I'll get luckier this time around.

“You'll be wearing your hair
up
today, of course,” Amelia says. “Are you feeling all right this morning, Princess? Forgive me, but you seem a bit…off.”

Haven't even had breakfast and I'm already rocking the palace. Yikes.

“Oh, no, I'm jolly good, ma'am,” I say, trying to get in the swing of things.

“I'm happy to hear that. Now let's go over your schedule. Let's see, you're set to leave the palace at precisely 9:23, and we must not be late,” Amelia tells me. “That gives us exactly two hours and eleven minutes. Just a quick ride with Darling today, Princess. We've got to get you packed for your trip to the island estate tomorrow. And then we must bathe you, of course. Not a lot of time, I'm afraid.”

“No problemo!” I say, since I figure princesses are probably fluent in a bunch of languages. I get to ride Darling? Princess Mimi is all into horses and Darling is her beautiful black Arabian she's always posing with in pictures. Somebody pinch me!
Wait, did she just say bathe me? As in, get lathered up like a baby? I don't think so!
Not to sound ungrateful or anything, but I think I'm perfectly capable of applying soap to my own body. I wonder if I'm allowed to do that.

“Amelia?” I say. “After we pack and take care of Darling, I was thinking I might like to
shower
this morning. By myself.”

Her rosy cheeks turn as white as the inside of a York Peppermint Pattie. A hundred years later, she answers.

“As you wish,” she says, backing toward my door. “I'll lay out your riding clothes now, and when we get back from the stables, I'll run your water for you.”

Princesses don't even have to run their own shower water? It seems crazy to me, but seeing as I have a chore list a mile long waiting for me at home, I'm going to enjoy the royal treatment while I can.