FATED: Servant girl to princess.

The palace kitchens of Astoria had two rules: 1. Never burn the King’s bread. 2. Never be seen. Alice broke both before breakfast. The King’s bread was, in fact, black around the edges. And she was currently very seen, because she’d slipped on a piece of onion and was now sliding across the kitchen floor like a panicked penguin, with a tray of hot rolls balanced on her head. “By the stars— Alice!” Madam Ruth bellowed, grabbing her arm before she crashed into the pantry. “If you die, who will I blame for the spoiled stew?” Alice popped up, hair wild, cheeks red. “The stew, Madam. It’s very talented at spoiling itself.” The other kitchen girls snorted. Even grumpy Baker Tom cracked a smile. At 19, Alice had lived in the Astoria Royal Palace for twelve years. She had no last name, no family portrait, no memory of anyone calling her “daughter.” The orphanage had left her at the palace gates with a note pinned to her dress: _Alice. She talks too much. Good with dishes._ So she became a kitchen girl. Scrubber. Errand girl. Palace pest, according to Lady Maids who thought mopping was beneath them. But Alice didn’t mind. The palace was loud, warm, and full of people. And she was very good at making them laugh when the work got heavy. She’d once convinced a new guard that the statue of King Roland I came alive at midnight to steal pastries. The poor man hadn’t slept for a week. She was cute. She was chaos. And she was invisible to royalty. Exactly how she wanted it. Until the day the King decided his son was a problem. *The Grumpy Prince Problem* Crown Prince Alexander of Astoria hated three things: Court politics. Smiling. And being told what to do. At 24, he was tall, broad-shouldered, trained to kill with a sword and with a stare. His black hair was always slightly messy because he ran his hands through it when irritated. Which was often. “The King is dying,” Duke Hale, his aide, said that morning as they reviewed ledgers. “The Council is restless. They want an heir. A married heir.” Alex didn’t look up from the parchment. “Then they can crown a married horse. I’m not interested.” “Law is clear, Highness. No wife, no crown. If you do not choose a bride within 90 days of the King’s passing, the throne passes to your cousin, Lord Cedric.” Alex finally looked up. His eyes were dark, cold. “Cedric is a fool who thinks war is a festival.” “Then choose, Highness. Any lady. A noble. A foreign princess. Just choose.” Alex leaned back. “Fine. I’ll pick the most unsuitable girl in the kingdom. Someone who can’t speak Court, can’t dance, and won’t follow me around sighing. Then the Council will annul it and I’ll be free.” Duke Hale looked horrified. “You cannot—” “I can. Find me a list of palace staff. Unmarried. Unimportant.” And so, a list was made. Alice’s name was not on it yet. Fate had other plans. “His Highness is inspecting the east wing!” Madam Ruth hissed at lunch. “All servants to your posts! No talking! No singing! No— Alice, why are you humming?” “I wasn’t humming. That was the floor. It’s joyful today.” Madam Ruth pinched the bridge of her nose. Alice was sent to mop the east corridor. It was punishment, really. The east wing was where the Prince’s private study was. And the Prince hated being interrupted. She dragged her bucket, whistling. She was halfway done when she heard footsteps. Heavy. Military boots. She didn’t look up. Looking up got you noticed. Noticed got you beaten or wed. Prince Alex rounded the corner with Duke Hale, talking in low tones about border tariffs. He was not in a good mood. He never was. Alice turned the corner with her bucket. They collided. Well, _she_ collided. He stood like a stone wall. Water went everywhere. Soapy, freezing water soaked his boots, his black coat, and splashed up his face. The corridor went silent enough to hear dust fall. Alice’s brain short-circuited. She dropped to her knees. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you! You’re very tall! I’m very — oh stars, your coat! I’ll clean it! I’ll lick it clean if you want— I mean, not lick— I mean—” She was babbling. Tears were already building. She’d seen girls whipped for less. Duke Hale’s face went white. “You imbecile girl! Do you know who—” “Enough.” The word cut through the air. Alex stood there, dripping. Water ran down his jaw. His expression was unreadable. Fury? Disgust? Alice peeked up. Big brown eyes, wet with panic. Freckles across her nose. A smear of flour on her cheek. She looked terrified. And ridiculous. And... real. Court ladies never looked real. They looked painted. This girl looked like she’d fight a rat for the last bread roll and then apologize to it. Alex should’ve had her dragged to the dungeons. Should’ve set an example. Instead, he heard himself say, “Leave her.” Hale choked. “Highness?” “She’s clumsy. Not treasonous.” Alex’s voice was flat. “Clean this corridor again. Do not speak to me unless I speak to you. Understood?” Alice nodded so hard her cap nearly fell off. "Yes, Highness! Thank you, Highness! I won’t speak! I mean, I am speaking now, I’ll stop—" "Now," Alex said. She shut up. He walked away, leaving wet footprints behind him. Duke Hale stared at Alice like she’d sprouted wings. "Consider yourself lucky, girl," he muttered. "Very lucky." When they were gone, Alice exhaled so hard she nearly fainted. "Did... did the Grumpy Prince just let me live?" she whispered to her mop. "He must be sick. Or possessed. Or maybe I’m dead and this is heaven." From the shadowed archway, a kitchen boy who’d been hiding snorted. "Heard he hates women. You must be the ugliest one he’s seen, Alice. He pitied you." Alice threw a wet rag at him. "I’m cute and you know it, Jonas!" By dinner, the entire lower palace knew. "The Prince got soaked." "By a kitchen girl." "He didn’t punish her." "He looked at her." "That last part isn't true," Madam Ruth said, but her eyes were calculating. "Or maybe it is. Stars help us if it is." Alice heard none of it. She was scrubbing pots and talking to them. "You don't judge me, Pot. You're a good friend. Unlike Lady Elise, who said my laugh sounds like a donkey." Pot did not disagree. That night, she lay on her thin straw mattress in the servants' dormitory with five other girls. The room was cold. "I'm nobody," she told the ceiling. "Orphans don't get noticed by princes. Princes marry princesses with diamonds in their hair and insults on their tongues. Not girls who trip over buckets." She fell asleep to the sound of someone else snoring. In the royal wing, Alex sat in his study. The fire crackled. "She was annoying," he said to no one. "Loud. She didn't bow right. She had flour on her face." Duke Hale, still in the room, said nothing. "She should've been punished," Alex added. "Mm." Alex glared at the fire. "Don't look at me like that." Hale didn't. He was very good at looking at nothing. Alex picked up a quill, then put it down. "She had... honest eyes," he muttered, before he could stop himself. Then he stood and left the room. The next morning, bells rang. A royal crier stood at the palace gates and unrolled parchment. Servants, guards, and merchants all gathered. "By order of His Majesty, King Roland of Astoria! Hear ye! The Crown Prince shall select a bride from within the palace within ninety days, to secure the line of succession! Failure to comply will result in forfeiture of the throne!" Gasps. Whispers. Marriage. From the palace staff? In the kitchens, Alice was elbow-deep in dough. "Marry? Me? Please. The Prince would rather marry his horse." She was wrong. In the King's private chamber, Duke Hale laid a parchment on the King's desk. "The shortlist, Your Majesty. Unmarried women of the palace. Nobles, ladies-in-waiting, and... staff." The King, pale and thin in his bed, squinted. "Staff?" "His Highness requested it. To... annoy the Council." The King's eyes scanned down. Noble names. Familiar names. Then, near the bottom, written in different ink, like an afterthought: *Alice. Kitchen. Age 19. Orphan.* The King paused. His eyes lingered. "Orphan," he murmured. Something flickered in his face. Recognition? Pain? "Leave it." Hale bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty." Neither of them noticed the royal seal being pressed beside her name. *That Evening* Alice was carrying firewood to the east wing storeroom when she saw it: a folded parchment dropped near the corridor. Probably from a messenger. She shouldn't have. She knew she shouldn't have. But she was Alice. She picked it up. It was a list. Names. Titles. Her eyes scanned... and stopped. *Alice. Kitchen.* Her breath caught. "That can't be right. That's me. But... why is my name here?" Footsteps. She shoved the paper into her apron just as Duke Hale turned the corner. "Girl. What are you doing here?" Alice plastered on her brightest, most innocent smile. "Delivering wood, Sir! The storeroom is cold! Very cold! Brrr!" Hale's eyes narrowed at her apron. "What's in there?" "Nothing! Crumbs! I'm full of crumbs, Sir!" He didn't believe her. But he was late for a Council meeting. "Go," he snapped. Alice curtsied so low she nearly toppled, then bolted. She didn't stop running until she was back in the kitchens, heart hammering. She pulled out the parchment. Her name. On a Prince's bride list. "That's a mistake," she whispered. "It has to be." Outside her window, the palace bells rang again. The King was worse today. And the 90-day count had begun. That night, a royal messenger knocked on the kitchen door. "Alice of the Kitchens? By order of the Crown Prince, you are summoned to the east wing at dawn. Bring yourself. Do not be late."[Cliffhanger] Alice stared at the messenger, then at Madam Ruth, then at her flour-dusted hands. "Me? Summoned? By the Prince?" She laughed, high and nervous. "He probably wants to drown me in the fountain this time."