The Queen was having a very strange day.

It had begun as usual, with all those letters before breakfast, and even more letters after morning tea. Letters she wasn’t allowed to read.

She glared at the space left for her signature. ‘When I grow up,’ she mumbled under her breath, ‘I will demand to know what the letters say. And she will have to tell me.’

‘What was that, Felicia?’ Aunt Delilah handed her the fountain pen with the purple ink. ‘I hope you are not complaining. A queen does not complain.’

‘No, Aunt,’ said Felicia.

But when she signed the letters, she added an extra name in protest.

Felicia Augustina

Alexandrina Dreadfullybored

Rose Regina

Aunt Delilah didn’t notice.

After morning tea, however, something interesting happened.

For a start, Felicia had two new dressmakers. They were younger than her usual dressmakers, and when they were introduced—

‘This is Mansie Undercroft, Your Majesty. And her cousin, Dashy Slove.’

When they were introduced, they smiled at her!

Not ambassadorial smiles, which were shiny and shallow. Or prime ministerial smiles, which were oily and overbearing.

Proper smiles, as if Felicia was a real person and they were prepared to like her.

Felicia didn’t smile back. (‘A queen does not smile at servants.’) But she blinked in a friendly fashion and hoped they would understand what she meant.

And then—

And then, when Aunt Delilah had been called away to deal with something important, and the two dressmakers were pinning up the hem of Felicia’s new dress, and Felicia was trying to stand still but finding it awfully hard because they were so nice, and she wasn’t used to people being nice—‘We’re both awfully sorry about your parents, Your Majesty,’ murmured Dashy.

Felicia froze.

No one talked to her about her parents. Not ever. The only reason she knew what they looked like was the gold-framed painting behind the throne.

Her mother, Queen Alyss, had red hair like Felicia’s, and a determined smile. She wore a small crown of white gold, and looked straight ahead, so that when Felicia stood in front of the painting, she felt as if her mother was smiling right at her.

Her father, Prince Malik, gazed into the distance with his hand on his hip and one foot forward. He had black hair and a pointed black beard, and he looked very noble.

They both wore ermine robes and carried swords.

No one had ever told Felicia what had happened to them. Just that they had died when she was six months old, which made her the Queen, no matter how much she hated it.

‘Fancy a dragon coming right into the middle of Hallow to steal the Queen and Prince Malik,’ said Mansie, shaking her head. ‘What a terrible thing.’ Felicia opened her mouth to say, ‘What dragon? What are you talking about?’

But before she could utter a single word, Aunt Delilah reappeared. She grabbed Felicia’s arm and marched her away, saying, ‘It is time for your deportment lesson, Your Majesty.’

Aunt Delilah walked very fast when she was cross. ‘Deportment was yesterday,’ gasped Felicia as they bustled past the schoolroom.

‘So it was,’ said her aunt, without slowing down. ‘Never mind. You need the practice.’

She pushed Felicia into the royal bedchamber. ‘I will return in half an hour. Use the back straightener. I expect to see grace, Your Majesty. Grace and dignity.’

Then she slammed the door and left Felicia alone, with her hem half up and half down, and her mind a-whirl with questions.