The Cook’s Daughter at His Majesty Academy

Eveline The Grand Dining Hall of His Majesty Academy was designed to look like a cathedral, mostly because the boys who ate inside it were treated like gods. Tonight was the Semester Feast, which meant every student was downstairs in full formal uniform pretending to care about the Headmaster’s annual speech. The upper residential floors were supposed to be empty for at least another hour, which meant this was my only chance. “You’re sure he’ll actually read it?” I whispered. Amelia nodded so fast it looked painful. “Leonard Kingsley notices everything.” “That sounds made up.” “It’s true.” I adjusted the tray carefully so the pastries wouldn’t slide. The lavender-honey glaze had taken me nearly an hour to get right and if they got ruined before reaching Leonard’s room, Amelia would probably cry directly into my apron. Again. “You do realize I’m risking my life for a boy who looked at you once,” I muttered. “He looked twice.” I gave her a look. Amelia grinned nervously and smoothed her cardigan. Even in the servant hallways she still looked overly polished, like she hadn’t fully accepted yet that a scholarship didn’t turn girls like us into nobility. We still carried trays, still bowed our heads, still came in through the servant doors while everyone else walked through the front. The only difference was that Amelia now did all of that while attending one of the most elite schools in the country. “You wrote the letter beautifully, by the way,” she said. “If Leonard falls in love with me, I’m giving you full credit.” “That’s exactly what worries me.” Because the words in that envelope sounded more like me than her. Amelia liked Leonard because he was smart and untouchable and always looked composed in interviews. Somehow I had ended up writing three pages about feeling lonely in crowded rooms and pretending not to care when people overlooked you, which said more about me than it did about her. “Evie.” Amelia grabbed my arm before I could walk away. “Please don’t leave it somewhere obvious. If Alexander finds it first, I’ll actually die.” “The future king is not going to arrest you over a love letter.” “You don’t know that.” Fair point. I sighed and shifted the pastries into one arm. “Go before Rosa notices you’re gone.” She squeezed my hand once and hurried back toward the kitchen corridor. I waited until she disappeared around the corner before heading toward the servant staircase. The lower levels always smelled like detergent and old pipes. The upper floors smelled different, cleaner, expensive. The carpets up here were thick enough to swallow footsteps and I had spent most of my life in this building and still felt like I didn’t belong up here. The Sovereign Quarters sat at the very end of the east wing. Private suite, restricted access, reserved only for the four highest-ranking heirs in the academy. Alexander Atwater, Cassian Atwater, Leonard Kingsley, Joffery Welling. Most students called them HM4 online like they were celebrities rather than actual people, and honestly maybe they were both. Old Martha had nearly kissed me out of gratitude when I offered to carry fresh linens upstairs for her tonight. “Just leave the towels inside, sweet girl,” she’d said, pressing the master keycard into my hand. “And don’t stare at the princes too hard if they come back early.” As if I planned on surviving long enough for that to happen. I swiped the card and stepped inside. Leather couches, hockey gear dumped near the entrance, coats thrown over blazers. I had delivered linens to these floors before but I had never actually stood inside long enough to look around. I didn’t let myself do it now. Four doors along the far wall. No names. The first room I backed out of immediately. Too ordered, too controlled. The second had magazines across the unmade bed and drawers left half open everywhere. Not Leonard. The third had marked books, handwritten notes spread across a desk, a blazer over the chair. Someone who actually worked in here. This was Leonard’s room. I set the pastry box on the desk, tucked Amelia’s envelope beside it, and turned to leave. “You know,” a voice said behind me, “most thieves try to be quieter than that.” I spun around and nearly dropped the tray. A figure on the couch shifted forward and the faint light reached his face. Prince Cassian Atwater. He was stretched across the couch like he had been waiting for something to make the evening interesting. White shirt unbuttoned at the throat, tie loose, sleeves pushed up. There was a fresh bruise along his jaw that he clearly hadn’t done anything about. No ice, no acknowledgment of it at all. It bothered me more than it should have because it wasn’t the face of someone trying to look dangerous. It was someone who had gotten hurt and simply didn’t care enough to deal with it, and those were two very different things. “I apologize, Your Highness,” I said, dropping my gaze. “Martha asked me to bring fresh linens upstairs.” He didn’t answer straight away. I made the mistake of looking back up. He wasn’t doing the bored appraisal I had expected. He was just watching me, quiet and direct, like I had said something interesting without meaning to. His gaze moved to the pastry box, then to the envelope, then back to me, and the corner of his mouth pulled slightly. “Martha,” he said, “has gotten significantly more romantic lately.” He didn’t move from the couch, didn’t reach for the envelope, didn’t make any move to expose what he had already figured out. He just waited, like he was curious what I would do next. That was more unsettling than if he had just been angry. “I can explain,” I said quickly. “Can you?” “I was just dropping off the pastries.” “With a love letter tucked beside them.” I opened my mouth and nothing came out. What exactly was I supposed to say? Sorry, Your Highness, the letter belongs to my best friend but I wrote it myself because she compared Leonard Kingsley to moonlight and constitutional reform in the same sentence? I stayed quiet. His grin widened slowly like my silence was entertaining him. Then he pushed himself off the couch. He was taller than I expected, and broader, and the couch looked small once he stepped away from it. I took a step back without thinking. “Sorry,” I blurted out, for reasons I couldn’t explain. He stopped in front of me. My head dropped automatically because looking him in the eye felt impossible. I was painfully aware of how ridiculous I looked standing there clutching towels against my chest. His gaze moved over me, not flirtatious, not kind, just observant. “I’ve seen you around before,” he said. “You have?” “You’re Rosa’s daughter.” Something loosened in my chest at that, not because he was right, Rosa wasn’t really my mother, but because it meant he wasn’t about to accuse me of trying to seduce one of the most powerful boys in the country. “Yes, Your Highness. Well, sort of.” He made a soft sound like he wasn’t interested enough to ask about it, then glanced at the letter on Leonard’s desk and walked back toward the couch. “I didn’t know the cook’s daughter had such terrible taste in men.” I blinked. “What?” He dropped back onto the couch and stretched one arm across the backrest. “Leonard Kingsley? Seriously?” He sounded genuinely disappointed. “It’s not—” “Out of all four of us, you picked the boring one.” He shook his head. “He spends his free time reading economic reports for fun. I’m pretty sure he’s never had an interesting thought in his life.” A laugh almost escaped me before I caught it. Cassian noticed and his eyes narrowed slightly. “There it is,” he said. “What?” “You looked terrified a second ago.” Heat came into my face. “I wasn’t terrified.” “You nearly dropped those towels when I spoke.” “That’s because you were sitting in the dark like a serial killer.” The second the words left my mouth the room went quiet. My eyes widened. I had not just said that to a prince. Cassian stared at me for one long second. Then he laughed, not politely, just a real laugh, low and genuine, and it caught me completely off guard. My face burned. I tightened my hold on the towels, suddenly very aware that I was standing in a prince’s bedroom arguing with him like I had lost all common sense. He was still watching me with that same look, like he was trying to figure me out. I cleared my throat. “I should go.” He nodded once. I moved toward the door, reached for the handle. “What’s your name?” I turned back slowly. “Eveline.” He tilted his head slightly. “Eveline,” he repeated, like he was testing how it sounded. “Any other names?” “Eveline Winter, Your Highness,” I said quietly. He held my gaze for a second. “See you around, Winter.” Not Miss Winter. Not the cook’s daughter. Just Winter, like he had already decided that was what he was calling me. I didn’t know why that was enough to notice. I lowered my head. “Goodnight, Your Highness.” I opened the door and walked out before he could say anything else. But even halfway down the hallway I could still feel his eyes on me.