Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,45

the family she knows and, presumably, loves and feels comfortable with.”

“But it’s not right,” I said. “We’re her family, too. And we may never have a chance to see her again. Like in the 1991 docudrama starring Sally Field, Not Without My Daughter, based on the true story of the kidnapping of American citizen Betty Mahmoody’s daughter by her own husband, who refused to return her from Iran after his two-week visitation.”

Grandmère frowned at me. “I said overseas, Amelia, not Iran. You do know that I only shared this information with you so you would understand how essential it is that you provide a distraction in your role as royal bride this summer, not so that you could turn it into the plot of some terrible movie only you have ever seen.”

“That movie wasn’t terrible,” I said indignantly. “It was a moving portrayal of a brave woman who fought against a misogynistic regime for the return of her child.”

“May I remind you, Amelia, that this is a time of crisis, not a time for film reviews? Your father needs you. Your country needs you.”

“Well, I think my sister needs me, and I intend to do something about it.”

“You will not. You will do as I tell you. And stop twitching at me. It’s extremely unbecoming.”

But by then the door to the penthouse had already burst open, and Dad had come staggering in, supported under one arm by Michael, so the conversation (princesses never argue) had come to an end. My grandmother shoved me—with surprising strength for such an elderly woman—toward them, crying, “Well, hello, gentlemen! How lovely to see you both. This happy news calls for a celebration, don’t you think? What will you have?”

Dad is completely blotto—much too drunk to confront tonight—and I’m supposed to be in here making coffee (which obviously I haven’t been, because instead I’ve been writing this all down. I ordered coffee from room service).

Everyone is in too good a mood to notice, though, even Grandmère. Even Michael. He came in and kissed me.

Michael has not had as much to drink as Dad, though he did say that when he tried to broach the subject of toning down the wedding, Dad slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Now, why would we do that? Got to keep up with those Brits!” then cracked open a thousand-dollar bottle of 2000 Domaines Barons de Rothschild Chateau Lafite.

Even the new dog seems happy: she’s currently curled into a little white ball on my lap.

Everyone seems to be bubbling over with joy.

Everyone but me.

What am I going to do?

CHAPTER 25

8:27 p.m., Monday, May 4

In the HELV on the way to the consulate

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Ignored Grandmère’s advice about not sharing personal baggage with anyone but family and told Michael everything in the car just now on the way home—which means Lars heard it, too, but whatever. The fact that I have a secret sister is possibly one of the shortest-kept secrets of all time.

But I’m not not going to tell Michael something like this. We’re engaged.

Michael was surprised, but not as surprised as I would be if he’d told me his dad had a secret love child he’d been hiding in New Jersey for the past twelve years.

I suppose it’s easier to believe this of the Prince of Genovia than it would be of Dr. Moscovitz, a married psychoanalyst who lives on the Upper West Side and likes to read nonfiction about the fall of the Third Reich in his spare time.

“Well,” Michael said, after he’d gotten over his initial shock. “What are you going to do about it?”

I did not try to hide my bitterness. “Grandmère says I’m not supposed to do anything about it, for the good of the country. Not until after the election.”

“Right.” Michael rolled his eyes. “Again, what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know.” This is very distressing. I usually always know what to do . . . or at least I’m leaning in one direction or another. But in this case, I have no idea. “What would you do?”

“If I found out I had a little sister some ginger bohunk was threatening to take overseas, I’d go find her,” Lars volunteered from the front seat. “Then I’d put a bullet through the bohunk’s head. Probably a nine-millimeter. But possibly a forty-five, depending on how much I disliked him.”

Thanks for the input, Lars.

“I’m not sure that’s the most diplomatic way to handle it,” I said. “Nor would