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Vigo looked at my grandmother. “What is this Halloween?” he asked. Then I remembered they don’t go in for Halloween much in Genovia.
“A pagan holiday,” Grandmère replied, with a shudder. “Children dress up in costumes and demand candy from strangers. Horrible American tradition.”
“It’s in a week,” I pointed out.
Grandmère raised her drawn-on eyebrows. “And so?”
“Well, that’s so . . . you know. Soon. People—” like me “—might have other plans already.”
“Not to be indelicate, Your Highness,” Vigo said. “But we do want to get the ceremony out of the way before your mother begins to . . . well, show.”
Great. So even the royal Genovian event organizer knows my mother is expecting. Why doesn’t Grandmère just rent the Goodyear blimp and broadcast it all over the tristate area?
Then Grandmère started telling me that, since we were on the topic of weddings and all, it might be a good opportunity for me to start learning what will be expected out of any future consorts I might have.
Wait a minute. “Future what?”
“Consorts,” Vigo said, excitedly. “The spouse of the reigning monarch. Prince Philip is Queen Elizabeth’s consort. Whomever you choose to marry, Your Highness, will be your consort.”
I blinked at him. “I thought you were the royal Genovian event organizer,” I said.
“Vigo not only serves as our event organizer, but also the royal protocol expert,” Grandmère explained.
“Protocol? I thought that was something to do with the army. . . .”
Grandmère rolled her eyes. “Protocol is the form of ceremony and etiquette observed by foreign dignitaries at state functions. In your case, Vigo can explain the expectations of your future consort. Just so there won’t be any unpleasant surprises later.”
Then Grandmère made me get out a piece of paper and write down exactly what Vigo said, so that, she informed me, in four years, when I am in college, and I take it into my head to enter into a romantic liaison with someone completely inappropriate, I will know why she is so mad.
College? Grandmère obviously does not know that I am being actively pursued by would-be consorts at this very moment.
Of course, I don’t even know Jo-C-rox’s real name, but hey, it’s something, at least.
Then I found out what, exactly, consorts have to do. And now I sort of doubt I’ll be French-kissing anyone soon. In fact, I can totally see why my mother didn’t want to marry my dad—that is, if he ever asked her.
I have glued the piece of paper here:
Expectations of any
Royal Consort of the Princess of Genovia
The consort will ask the princess’s permission before he leaves the room.
The consort will wait for the princess to finish speaking before speaking himself.
The consort will wait for the princess to lift her fork before lifting his own at mealtimes.
The consort will not sit until the princess has been seated.
The consort will rise the moment the princess rises.
The consort will not engage in any sort of risk-taking behavior, such as racing—either car or boat—mountain-climbing, sky-diving, et cetera—until such time as an heir has been provided.
The consort will give up his right, in the event of annulment or divorce, to custody of any children born during the marriage.
The consort will give up the citizenship of his native country in favor of citizenship of Genovia.
Okay. Seriously. What kind of dweeb am I going to end up with?
