I shot her a warning look, but it was too late. Olivia was already asking what kind of cooking our grandmother enjoys. “My best friend Nishi’s grandmother makes authentic Indian samosas and chicken tikka masala every Sunday night.”

Lilly choked on the cocktail she’d prepared for herself. “Yeah, Mia,” she said. “Tell your sister about the home-cooked meals your grandma loves to make on Sunday night. What’s her favorite ingredient again? Bourbon?”

“No,” I said, more to Lilly than to Olivia. “Our grandmother doesn’t cook. But she has many other talents. She’s very . . .”

How to describe Grandmère? For once, words failed me. And that’s saying a lot, because besides filling pages and pages of diaries like this one, I got A’s on every essay test I took in college, and occasionally they were described by my professors as examples of “exemplary work.” Well, okay, once.

“Your grandmother is very knowledgeable,” Tina said, finally.

Well, that’s certainly true.

“That sounds good,” Olivia said, pulling a sheet of paper from her backpack, which seemed to be filled with endless amounts of them. “Because we’ve been doing genealogy in my biology class, and I had to leave all these spaces blank on my work sheet because I didn’t know the answers. I was going to write to Dad to ask, but I knew by the time I heard back, the work sheet would be overdue. Maybe my grandmother could help me fill them out?”

I looked down at the work sheet. “Who Am I?” it read across the top in bold lettering.

Lots of people go through life not having the slightest idea what names to put in the blanks on their “Who Am I?” work sheets, and they aren’t bothered in the least by it. What does it even matter, anyway? You can get your blood tested now and find out what you have the genetic tendency for.

But it seemed terrible that my own sister shouldn’t know.

“And the truth is,” Olivia was going on, prattling with perfect ease, like she’d known me her entire life, “I sort of would like to know a few things for my own personal interest, like if diabetes runs in my family, and heart disease. Aunt Catherine never would tell me anything about my dad, just that he was too busy to take care of me because his work was so important. I understand that now, he has to run a whole country. But maybe”—Olivia had dug a pen from her backpack, along with the work sheet—“you know some of these answers? It’s due tomorrow, and it’s worth twenty-five percent of my total grade.”

“Oh, God,” I heard Tina whisper. I think about the aunt saying “Dad was too busy” to take care of Olivia, which caused my heart to break a little as well.

Lilly, however, only shook her head and said, “Yep. She’s your sister all right, Thermopolis,” probably as a result of Olivia’s concern about the possible diseases she might have inherited from the Renaldo side of the family, which I frowned at her for, both because Olivia’s worries are well founded (who isn’t worried about diabetes?) and also because I am not that much of a hypochondriac.

•   Note to self: Remember to look up later on iTriage what could be causing my boobs to hurt so much. They’ve been killing me for days. Could it be a side effect of all the magnesium?

“Well, fortunately I’m here to help you now,” I said to Olivia. “Shall we get started?”

“Yes!” Olivia smiled so broadly that I only just noticed the bright turquoise bands she has on her back teeth. “That would be great!”

So that’s the homework we’re doing. Filling in all the missing information on her “Who Am I?” work sheet as François drives us back to New York so that Olivia can meet her father (and grandmother), and maybe even go to the Central Park Zoo to see some of the wildlife illustrations there, if there’s time.

•   Note to self: Are there even illustrations on the plaques there? I’ve spent a lot of time at the zoo, but I’ve never noticed—because I was always too busy feeling traumatized from finding out I was a princess (or dealing with various other crises)—the signage.

I’m letting Olivia eat all the junk food she wants out of the minibar, and not just because she said, “Aunt Catherine doesn’t let me have sugar.”

(Tina disapproves, since “sugar really isn’t that good for children, or anyone,” but as Lilly put it, “How often do you find out you’re a princess? The kid ought to celebrate while she can, since I imagine her entire world is about to fall apart very, very soon.”)

This, like the rest of the day—this whole week, actually—​is probably going to be a disaster.

But oh, well.

What else is new?

CHAPTER 53

4:35 p.m., Wednesday, May 6

Limo back to New York City

Rate the Royals Rating: 7

Michael just phoned. It hasn’t taken long at all for the [REDACTED] to hit the fan.

Well, I sort of suspected that already, since Dominique stopped screaming long enough when she phoned earlier to say:

“I will take care of everything. Do not speak to anyone. Do not stop the car to eat, or even to go to the toilettes. Do not answer your telephone unless eet eez someone you know.”

“Uh . . .” I’d said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, you have done quite enough,” Dominique said crisply, and hung up.

Publicists are a lot like cats: super lovable until you cross them. Then the claws come out.