Maggie Malone Gets the Royal Treatment Read Online Free PDF Page B

remember how you say hello in British. Oh, yeah—I got it. “Cheerio, you guys!” And do you want to know the coolest thing? I have a real British accent! I don’t sound a thing like Stella did the time she played Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady . Or Mr. Mooney at the assembly. This is the real deal.
    â€œYour breakfast is served, Princess,” the tray lady says with a curtsy, lifting the silver lid.
    A real, royal breakfast in bed? Not a bad way to start my day as a princess! I’ll bet it’s fit for a king! And I am capital-s STARVING. I scamper up the steps onto that giant bed and smooth the covers over my lap. Please let it be chocolate chip pancakes and bacon , I say silently.
    I reach over and pull the tray into my lap. It’s not chocolate chip pancakes or bacon, that’s for sure. The plate is ice cold and has a handful of button mushrooms, a shriveled-up slice of tomato that looks like somebody tried to cook it, a few baked beans, and a black blob of something that could possibly have come straight from a can of cat food.
    Great. My breakfast looks like skunk meat and smells even worse. I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come.

Chapter 8

    When I Almost Have to Eat Blood Pudding
    As I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to quietly dispose of my cat food breakfast, there’s a quick knock at the door. In comes another woman, an older one, wearing a stiff skirt and buttoned-up jacket.
    â€œGood morning, Amelia,” the black-dress trio says all together.
    â€œGood morning, Princess Mimi,” she says to me first, before turning to the crew. “Ladies.” They curtsy again. She notices my full tray of what I think is supposed to be food.
    â€œIf you’re not hungry this morning, I shall have this taken away,” this Amelia person says, looking at me oddly.
    â€œOh, no, sorry,” I say. “I mean, I beg your pardon. I’d love a bite to eat, actually, it’s just…” Man I do dig this accent of mine. I sort of want to keep talking, but I’m not sure what to say.
    â€œThe Royal Chef prepared your blood pudding just the way you like it,” Amelia says, “but should you rather have something else, I can see to that right away.”
    Blood pudding? I think I just threw up in my mouth.
    â€œUm, well, actually,” I say, desperate to know what a princess would do in this situation. Besides eat something called blood pudding — whatever that is—because that is not going to happen. “Is there any…cereal or maybe a slice of toast in the palace?”
    â€œI’ll have some brought up, of course. But if it pleases the princess, perhaps you could eat it after your fitting,” Amelia says. “Mr. Roberto D’Angelo is here and ready for you.”
    The Roberto D’Angelo, as in the legendary Italian fashion designer? He makes all the dresses that the famous actresses wear to the Big Screen Awards and he’s on that show Escape from Style Siberia , where they rescue people from all sorts of fashion disasters. He’s kind of mean on that show, but to get to wear a dress designed by him? To the royal wedding of the century—and to be photographed and on TV in a trillion countries? What could be better than this?
    â€œJolly great!” I say. Last summer Stella and I found this hilarious British comedian on MeTube and watched about eleven thousand of his performances. It’s coming in jolly handy already (jolly is British for very ), and with my awesome accent and all, I’m sure I can pull this off.
    Amelia nods and opens the door. When she does, Roberto D’Angelo steps into the room, wearing a long cape, dark glasses, and one of those hats that French painters wear—a beret, I think. He’s followed by at least five assistants who are swarming around him like drones serving the queen bee. One assistant takes his sunglasses and swiftly replaces them with