Maggie Malone Gets the Royal Treatment Read Online Free PDF

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.
    â€œI wish,” I whisper, half nervous and half excited, “I was Princess Mimi.”
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    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.
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œOh, hey,” I say, trying to