I had no doubt about that.

I said, “Grandmère, Mom and Mr. G were really planning on something very casual and simple—“

But then Grandmère threw me one of those looks of hers—they are really very scary—and said, in this deadly serious voice, “For three years, while your grandfather was off having the time of his life fighting the Germans, I held those Nazis—not to mention Mussolini—at bay. They lobbed mortars at the palace doors. They tried to drive tanks across my moat. And yet I persevered, through sheer willpower alone. Are you telling me, Amelia, that I cannot convince one pregnant woman to see things my way?”

Well, I’m not saying my mom has anything in common with Mussolini or Nazis, but as far as putting up a resistance to Grandmère? I’d place my money on my mom over a fascist foreign dictator any day.

I could see that reasoning wasn’t going to be effective in this particular case. So I went along with it, listening to Vigo gush over the menu he had picked out, the music he had selected for the ceremony and later, for the reception—even admiring the portfolio of the photographer he had chosen.

It wasn’t until they actually showed me one of the invitations that I realized something.

“The wedding’s this Friday?” I squeaked.

“Yes,” Grandmère said.

“That’s Halloween!” The same day as my mom’s courthouse wedding. Also, incidentally, the same night as Shameeka’s party.

Grandmère looked bored. “What of it?”

“Well, it’s just . . .you know. Halloween.”

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?

Actually, I’ll be lucky if I can get anybody to marry me at all. What schmuck would want to marry a girl he can’t interrupt? Or can’t walk out on during an argument? Or has to give up citizenship of his own country for?

I shudder to think of the total loser I will one day be forced to marry. I am already in mourning for the cool race car–driving, mountain-climbing, sky-diving guy I could have had, if it weren’t for this whole crummy princess thing.