Oh, God! I can barely take care of myself. How am I going to take care of a baby, let alone two?

Oh, I forgot. I’m a princess. I have staff.

And if we move to the palace, we’ll have even more staff. Dad always complains that when he was a kid, he had a night nanny, a day nanny, and various tutors, and this was in addition to all his riding and fencing and language instructors. He said he saw his parents only twice a day, at breakfast and at teatime, and he thought this was normal and how all children lived until he was sent away to boarding school and the other boys immediately stuck his head in a toilet.

Thank God for Michael. When I pointed all this out to him just now, he said, “Well, that won’t happen to our children because we’re never going to send them to boarding school and they’re going to have only one nanny, who’ll be a lovable robot like the one on The Jetsons. I’m working up the plans now.”

“Michael,” I said, laughing, “be serious.”

“I am being serious.”

“If you invent a robot nanny, then I’ll have to deal with the ensuing social unrest that inevitably comes when automaton technology puts humans out of work. Thanks a lot.”

He looked contrite. “Sorry. I didn’t think of that. Maybe I’ll hold off on the robot-nanny plan.”

Then he ordered three extra-large blueberry muffins, in a to-go bag, from the server.

“Who are these for?” I asked bewilderedly. “Lars? You know he doesn’t eat muffins. He calls them fattins because he thinks they’re nothing but fat.”

“No, they’re not for Lars,” he said, looking at me like I was crazy. “They’re for you and the babies, in case you get hungry later.”

He’s going to be the best dad.

CHAPTER 65

3:00 p.m., Thursday, May 7

Grandmère’s Limo

Haven’t gotten a chance to break anything to anyone yet.

That’s because when Michael and I walked out of the diner, Brian pounced, and for some reason—possibly hormones—I was feeling magnanimous, so I actually stopped to listen to him for once.

“Princess, I know you must be very upset about the vile lies some of my colleagues are spreading about your father,” he said very rapidly. He’s obviously been rehearsing. “Would you like to take a moment and give the readers of Rate the Royals a chance to know the truth?”

And though I knew Dominique would disapprove, since Brian isn’t affiliated with a major (or even cable) network—and of course he’d done something completely unethical in the ladies’ restroom at the center the other day—I decided that while I didn’t have to forgive him, I could still use him to my advantage.

(That’s a very important distinction, and one often pointed out in Game of Thrones, Mad Men, and various other television shows. You don’t have to like or forgive someone to work with them.)

“Yes, Brian,” I said, noticing that he’d stepped it up a notch in recent days and had actually hired a cameraperson—well, a woman who was recording our conversation with a camcorder. “I would like everyone to know that my father, the Prince of Genovia, is the first to admit that he’s made many mistakes in his life, but his daughter Olivia is not one of them. In fact, he considers her one of his proudest accomplishments—and I agree. The only reason you’ve never heard about her before now is that her mother, who sadly passed away a decade ago, very wisely asked that she be raised out of the glare of the media. As someone who’s experienced what it’s like to be a teen princess in the spotlight, I can definitely understand her concerns. But now that the information is out there—for which I take full responsibility—I only ask that Olivia be given the space and time she needs to adjust to her new situation, and get to know her new family.”

When I was through, Brian appeared dumbfounded with joy.

“Oh, Princess,” he breathed into his recorder. “That was . . . that was . . .”

“Was that enough?” I asked him as Michael tugged on my hand. Other paparazzi, having heard through their mysterious paparazzi underground that I was giving interviews, were rushing over to shout questions of their own, and the scene outside the diner was getting a little chaotic. Lars was beginning to lose it. He doesn’t like uncontrolled venues.

“More than enough,” Brian gushed. “I’ll post it right away. Thank you. Thank you!”

“No, thank you,” I said, and allowed myself to be rushed into the waiting car.

Brian was as good as his word. He did post the interview about a half hour later. And less than fifteen minutes after that, it was picked up by every major news outlet, where it’s received overall positive feedback (though Dominique is upset that I didn’t clear it, or my talking points, through her first).

That’s the good news. The bad news is, when I finally located my grandmother, my worst fears were confirmed:

She was trying to give my little sister a makeover.

Maybe it’s the hormones (I guess I’ll be saying that a lot for the next few months), but suddenly I found myself running around Paolo’s salon, screaming, “There’s nothing wrong with my sister’s hair!”

Everyone stared at me in complete shock, especially Paolo.

“Principessa,” he said, holding a hair dryer over a smocked Olivia’s soaking-wet head. “Calm down. I only give her the blowout. You want I let her catch the cold going around with the damp hair?”