Anyone could be royalty. You just had to earn it.

Ten-years-old, I sat cross-legged on the dirt floor of the main room, watching Lady Victoria twirl with her latest suitor. Her dress was all gold ruffles, and the light of the ballroom's candelabras made it seem like the fabric was liquid metal, flowing with her graceful movements. It was enchanting. The life of royalty was always enchanting.

From one of the wooden crate-seats behind me, Mama said, "This guy's not even a prince. What's our Lady doing dancing with him? The last one was a prince, you know."

"Oh, Mama." I scooted back so I sat against her crate, her legs on either side of me. "Prince Henry was a jerk. And he was kissing other girls. Remember?" I titled my head back to look at her, and she tweaked my nose. I wrinkled it and turn to focus back on the viewer.

We didn't have one of the fancy viewers that let you see straight from the royalties' eyes. In fact, our viewer took up a space on the wall barely bigger than my parents' crate-seats. Someday when I was royalty like Lady Victoria, I'd buy Mama a real nice one.

They said there were ones that displayed so big, there wouldn't even be a surface you could project on in our house. Some kids also said there were ones that you could hear not just what the royalty were saying, but also what they're thinking. It was like living with them, inside their head. When I was royalty, I'd get Mama one of those. If they existed. It'd be nice to know what Lady Victoria thought of this new guy. He seemed nice. I hoped she thought so too.

Mama twined her fingers through my hair, and I reminded her, "Don't knot it, Mama. I just got done brushing it straight."

"I know, Emmy," she sighed. "Can I at least braid it, though?"

"Uh-uh. Braiding it causes 'breakage and split ends.' That's what Margie says, anyway."

"Oh, what does little Margie know?" Mama released my hair, and I gently combed it back out with my fingers.

Mama knew well enough, so I didn't bother saying. Margie's sister was Lady Victoria. And if anyone could teach me how to earn my way up, it'd be her.

Just, when I was royalty, I wouldn't leave my family in the slums.

You couldn't audition till your sixteenth birthday, and you double couldn't audition if your Daddy knew you'd snuck out of the house to do it. So I didn't let him know.

He worked nights in the factories, so he was always dead-dog tired when he got home for breakfast. I wore my normal clothes to eat, he chowed down bleary-eyed, and I waited to change till he was passed out in his and Mama's room. I didn't get my own, but that was okay; Daddy wasn't about to wake up anytime soon. I got real-dressed in the main room and shut the front door softly behind me.

I was careful to keep the skirt of my dress up off the street. It was a little long since I didn't have any high-heels to wear with it, but it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever owned. It was rose pink with little bead patterns on the bodice and soft petal-looking pieces for the skirt. Mama'd given it to me secretly as a birthday present. If Daddy ever found out she'd spent that much money... I'm not sure what he'd do. He wasn't a violent man—we were lucky like that—but he did have a temper sometimes, especially when it came to money. He was mad when she bought me the brush too, all that time ago, and it was just a little thing. This...

This was a big thing. The start of a new life thing. A keep it out of gutter-sewage thing.

And I did. I did like my life depended on it. Today, it sorta did.

Because anyone could be royalty. I would just have to earn it.

The audition was different than I expected. They had what they called 'Layers' to it. I didn't realize I'd passed the first Layer till they'd already whisked me off to Layer 2. Excitement bubbled up in me. They turn a lot of people away straight at the door. That's what Margie said anyway. She couldn't get an audition, even with her sister being royalty.

So I'd made it further than she had.

They poked and examined in Layer 2, but never asked me anything, and hardly talked to one another either. They mostly just keyed stuff into a device in their hand—but when you looked a little closer, you realized the device was their hand, like a screen had been implanted inside.

I was in awe.

Layer 3 was a big long questionnaire, and I was awful grateful I'd paid attention in primary, because there was a stupid amount of words in those questions. It was the most reading I'd done since I was twelve, when the school started making you pay if you wanted to go on. I wanted, but we couldn't pay, so that was that.

The questionnaire wasn't like a primary test, though. It wanted to know what colors I liked, and what kinda stuff was important to me, and if I'd rather be in the center of a party or close at the walls. I didn't have any guide to go off here; Margie didn't make it this far and her sister never came back to visit after she turned a Lady. So I answered mostly honest, but did my best too to say what I thought they'd want royalty to think like.

Pink, green, and silver, but never that gaudy orange they kept flashing up—

Caring for other people and finding my true love, but not the "living a life of luxury" option they gave a couple times. I figured that was a trick question because whether or not it was true, it sounded awful shallow—

Definitely at the center of the party. Maybe I should have been more reserved or humble or something, but all I could see was Lady Victoria, swirling through the crowds and living life like she was the center of the universe—

It asked enough questions I stopped keeping track, and when I was done, they bustled me off to Layer 4—there they wanted me to interact with a hologram person, and I did my best not-from-the-slums voice possible—Layer 5—where they scrubbed me up and down, threw a coat of makeup over my entire body, and updid my hair—Layer 6—where they took lots of pictures of me in various outfits and I almost threw a fit because they wanted me to pose with nothing on once, but then I remembered myself and all the photographers were women anyway—and Layer 7. There, all I had to do was sign my name to a bunch of papers. And then I waited.

I was all fluttery nerves when they came back. I wondered if there was another level, or if I'd passed the audition, or—Queens forbid—if they were about to kick me out. I'd only had a taste of this fantastical world, and I didn't know what I'd do with myself if they dumped me back out on the streets now.

They drew me through hallways and into a room where a man sat behind a desk, different viewers splaying picture slides and video all over his walls. "Ah." He stood as we entered. "So this is our lucky girl. She's just as lovely as on the cameras."

The picture behind him switched, and with a start, I realized it was one of the photographs of me. Dread and horror twisted like snakes in my gut. It was one of the—

private—

photographs of me. I swallowed hard as he took a step closer. Anyone can be royalty. You just have to earn it. Don't botch this now! I steeled myself to keep from flinching as he lightly grabbed my chin, turning my face side to side. "She came in like this natural?" he asked the workers behind me.

"Yes, sir."

"And from the slums?"

"That's what the boys from Level 1 reported."

"Well. I guess that's why they say anyone can be royalty." He considered me for a moment more, but I got the most unsettling feeling that he wasn't looking at me. "I want her in front of cameras pronto. If she hasn't flopped in a week, do the whole package and move her up."

"The whole package, sir?" I knew I should have kept my darn mouth shut, but my lips moved before my brain did.

Now his eyes softened, like he was actually paying attention to the person behind my skin. "Don't you worry, sweetheart. We're going to take good care of you. These boys are going to take you to the gals in Storyline. They'll get you settled." He gestured me to go with them, and reluctantly, I turned, my question still unanswered. The men who brought me in started to lead me out.

"Oh, and sweetheart?"

I turned.

"Welcome to happily ever after."

My faith restored, a smile sprang to my face. I ducked my head in thanks and followed the men out to my future.

I was a nobody-courtier for a week, sipping bitter teas, forcing small talk in my not-slums voice, and sleeping in uncomfortable lace.

And I was in love with it.

The Storyline girls had given me the name Amory, and I chunked out my old one to cling to this one. Minor Madame Amory; a trash title tied to a beautiful name, and I was the happiest I'd been in my life. I wondered if any of my footage had made it to the viewers. I wondered even if they had, if Mama would be able to find it, or if she even had the channel. I wondered how mad Daddy would be when he realized I'd left, and how excited he'd be when he didn't have to work in those factories anymore.

I knew this week was a test, and I did my best to pass, but I was continuously in wonder. I lived in the viewer now; that's what it felt like, at least. I was a new person, living a new life, and the camera men were just something you ignored. They were as important as potted plants, less than, just part of the background, and no sane person talked to the background. I saw a different newbie make that mistake, and I vowed not to repeat it.

Day eight was there before I knew it, and I was back before the Storyline girls. They gave me a packet to read, and with no further explanation, called for attendants to take me to the surgeons.

"Surgeons?" I exclaimed.

I got no explanation other than a reassuring shush and was swept off to an austere room with machines and a cold metal table they told me to sit on. Hesitant, I did. The attendants left, making the room empty. My fingers tapped on the packet, nerves making my heart beat twice as hard.

Calm down. They're not going to hurt you. That rational thought couldn't quite calm me, though, so I opened up the packet. I froze at the first words.

PRINCESS AMELIANA DECANT
Nickname: Amory

I almost couldn't process it. I'd figured they'd make me a Lady like Margie's sister, or some low-level Baroness, a Countess if was luckier than a live rat in a house of cats—but a princess? A family member of some king or queen, who answered only to the Emperor himself?

If I was going to be a princess, these surgeons could do whatever they liked to me.

I settled back on the table and waited.