A Lady in Waiting. Janice De Jesus

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      About the Author

      Janice De Jesus is a journalist, creative writing instructor and Pilates and yoga instructor based in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is the author of Not Just Another Pretty Face and Pretty as a Picture, Book One and Book Two of the Pretty Princess Trilogy and the YA novel, Culture Shock. Janice also published two books about yoga: Soulstice: Living and Loving On and Off the Yoga Mat, featuring fictional short stories and OmStruck: Healing Heartbreak Through Yoga and Meditation.

      Visit her at http://JaniceDeJesusAuthor.Blogspot.com and follow her on Instagram: @literaryyogini

       Also by Janice De Jesus

       FICTION

       Not Just Another Pretty Face

       Pretty as a Picture

       Soulstice

       Culture Shock

       NONFICTION

       OmStruck

       Proceeds from the sales of this book will go toward various animal welfare organizations. Thank you for your support.

       For Lilly (the Feline Editor) A “little lady” always in waiting

       “Tale as old as time True as it can be Barely even friends Then somebody bends Unexpectedly…”

      From Disney’s Beauty and the Beast

      Prologue

       Christmas Day

      Boxes wrapped in purple satin paper glittered with gold and silver ribbons were strewn around the foot of a Christmas tree as Sara began arranging the gifts.

      She recounted the many times she had been a bridesmaid and never the bride and the times she had helped prepare for various weddings including an almost-wedding, until the royal bride-to-be canceled the engagement.

      Such was the life of a lady-in-waiting to a princess. You got used to not being the center of attention, where most of your waking hours were dedicated in service to a life other than your own.

      Had last night really happened? She had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

      Now, looking back over the last two months, as she stood in her bedroom preening herself in front of a vintage oval mirror, her brown hair swept in a chignon, Sara knew that from this day forward, things would never be the same.

      Chapter One

       Two months earlier…

      Running her fingers on the silk train, Sara closed her eyes just as the aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted in the air.

      That unmistakable smell of cinnamon—no matter where she would encounter it—always brought her back home. When she would stroll along the cobble streets of Calle de Ayala in Santangelo, bakeries would offer up these delectable unforgettable slices of home. But now that she was actually back in Morada, a medieval village in the principality of Moradonia and her childhood town, there was truly no other place where one could find this bread made as moist and as fragrant as the ones baked by Tía Silvia.

      Her aunt had been like a mother to her ever since her own mother passed away several years ago. The cinnamon poppy seed bread recipe had been handed down at least four generations before it reached Tía Silvia’s expert hands.

      Opening her eyes to the intermittent crowing of a rooster followed by a cacophony of birds singing a sweet morning song, Sara noted that cinnamon bread wasn’t the only reminder of home. She stood up and glanced down at the ivory satin wedding gown, which had once been her mother’s, laying out on the second bed in the room which had been her sister’s. Indeed, Sara considered herself quite lucky to get time off from being of service to one beautiful young woman in order to cater to another. What an honor it was to now serve as maid-of-honor at her sister Amaia’s wedding.

      Before heading downstairs for breakfast, she glanced at the full-length mirror, assessing her long auburn-brown hair, the layers framing her oval face, her olive complexion sun-kissed from the remnants of the past Mediterranean summer. Her navy and white polka dot blouse, skinny blue jeans, black boots and pink leather moto jacket exuded more city flair befitting her current lifestyle.

      Even the wood creaking as she descended the stairs was a warm welcome home embrace. As much as Sara enjoyed her job at the palace, her childhood home cocooned her safely like no other abode would ever do. Her family’s country home boasted of period features, including a vast fireplace, a wooden staircase, an attic, a wine cellar or “cave,” as they were called in these parts, and a profusion of alcoves and annexes.

      But it’s the kitchen, or la cocina, that’s considered the most important room in the house. With its large wood-burning stove for cooking, hot water and heating, a huge solid wood dining table and a bread oven, where Sara felt most at home. Her family’s Moradonian country kitchen—a nod to earlier, traditional times, with stone and tiled floors and a predominance of wood, tiles and marble—was a stark contrast to the modern kitchen at her palace apartment in the city.

      “There you are,” cooed Tía Silvia, wearing an apron as she took the baking pans filled with the heavenly breads out of the oven. “I knew the scent would draw you here in no time.”

      “You’re an angel, Tía,” Sara said, rewarding her aunt with a peck on the cheek. Surveying the kitchen, she asked, “What can I help you with?”

      Silvia shook her head. “Nothing. Just sit and relax. You’re on vacation remember? Plus you have enough to do as it is with the wedding.”

      Sara emitted a light laugh, pouring herself coffee in a mug. “There’s really not much to do for this country wedding. The perks of planning a minimalist event.”

      It was true. Sara’s older sister, Amaia, was the queen of simple living. Just a small church gathering followed by a no-nonsense luncheon reception at home. What could be simpler than that?

      “I bet helping Her Royal Highness prepare for a state dinner or ball is more stressful,” Silvia said, arranging the bread pans on a cooling tray then gathering ingredients to prepare for her next dish.

      The blend of songbirds twittering, chickens clucking outside the house and church bells tolling from the village at a distance caused Sara to rise from her chair. The view of the olive trees and golden fields from the kitchen window may not exactly rival the view of the Mediterranean Sea from the hilltop palace balcony but the groves and fields held a reminder of precious years past when she and Amaia would run around playing hide-and-seek among the rows of corn on one field in the summer then along the rows of lavender fields in the spring and, later in the year, rows of vineyards in the autumn and olive trees in the winter.

      “It’s a good kind of stress, Tía,” Sara said, staring at СКАЧАТЬ