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“I am serious, Mia. This totally happened in The Sheik’s Secret Baby…and I bet that’s why Lilly is so mad at you.”
“Because I gave away the fact that she had the sheik’s secret baby?” I couldn’t help giggling. It’s really hard to feel depressed when you’re around Tina. Even when you’re trapped at the bottom of a cistern.
Tina looked disappointed in me. “No. Because she suspects you’re the real reason why J.P. dumped her. Because he loves you. Which is totally unfair of her, because it’s not your fault. You can’t help it if guys fall in love with you, any more than the princess in The Sheik’s Secret Baby could. But still, you have to admit—that’s totally what happened. It explains EVERYTHING.”
I laughed for, like, ten more minutes. Seriously, Tina lives in the cutest fantasy world. She really should write her own romance novels for a living. Or do stand-up comedy.
Too bad she wants to be a thoracic surgeon instead.
Sunday, September 19, 5 p.m., the loft
Hanging out with Grandmère is hardly ever fun.
Hanging out with Grandmère on basically zero sleep in the Genovian Embassy royal archive room is the total OPPOSITE of fun. Whatever is the least fun thing you can think of.
That’s what my day today with Grandmère was like.
Don’t get me wrong. I am totally interested in the lives of my ancestors.
It’s just…after a while, all those wars and famines? They kind of start seeming the same.
Still, Grandmère insists the royal archives are where I’m most likely to find material for my speech to Domina Rei.
“Now, remember, Amelia,” she kept saying. “You want to INSPIRE them…but at the same time, it’s important to AWE them. While also INFORMING them, of course. So that they go away feeling that you’ve fed not just their minds and hearts, but their SOULS as well.”
Okay, Grandmère. Whatever you say.
Also, hello, pressure much?
Grandmère, of course, gravitated toward the writings of the more well-known Renaldos and asked to be brought the complete works of Grandpère.
But I was more interested in some lesser-known works. You know, that maybe I could crib from without crediting, so it seemed like I made it all up myself?
Because I’m depressed. That’s not exactly a big boon to creativity. Despite what certain songwriters might say.
The guy in charge of the archives—who actually looked a lot like the way I expected Dr. Knutz to…you know, elderly, bald, and goateed—did a lot of gusty exhaling as Grandmère sent him climbing around the files. We don’t keep, he tried to explain, ALL of the royal writings in the embassy. MOST of them are at the palace. They’d just brought a few tons over when the Genovian Embassy celebrated its fiftieth anniversary a decade ago, and they hadn’t had a chance to send them back yet, due to no one having expressed an interest in seeing them since….
Grandmère wasn’t interested in hearing any of this. Nor was she interested in hearing about why she shouldn’t have brought her toy poodle, Rommel, to the archive room, since animal dander can be harmful to ancient manuscripts. She kept Rommel exactly where he was, on her lap, and said, “Don’t stand there looking like a nutcracker, Monsieur Christophe.” (Which was actually really funny, because he DID look like a nutcracker!) “Bring us tea. And don’t scrimp on the finger sandwiches this time.”
“Finger sandwiches!” Monsieur Christophe cried, looking, if such a thing were possible, even paler than before (which is hard for a guy who clearly spends practically zero time out-of-doors). “But, Your Highness, the manuscripts…were any food or beverage to get on the manuscripts, it could—”
“Good heavens, we aren’t toddlers, Monsieur Christophe!” Grandmère cried. “We aren’t going to have a food fight! Now get us the complete writings of my husband, before I have to get up and do it myself!”
Off Monsieur Christophe went, looking extremely unhappy and giving Grandmère an excuse to turn her hypercritical eye toward me.
“Good Lord, Amelia,” she said after a minute. “What are those…THINGS in your earlobes?”
Crud. I forgot to take out my new chandelier earrings.
“Oh,” I said. “Those. Yeah. Well, I bought them the other day—”
“You look like a gypsy,” Grandmère declared. “Remove them at once. And what on earth is happening with your chest?”
I had tried to go conservative by putting on a Marc Jacobs dress with a Peter Pan collar that Lana assured me was the height of chic urban sophisticate. Especially when paired with brown patterned stockings and platform Mary Janes.
Unfortunately, it was what was beneath the brown wool bodice that had Grandmère up in arms.
“I got a new bra,” I said from between gritted teeth.
