• eHome
• New Media Search
• My Media Cart
•   My Media Account
•  Media Help 
• Log In

That is, it usually means those things. But when you're Princess Mia, nothing happens the way it's supposed to. For one thing, Grandmère seems determined to prove that boy (or Michael, as he is commonly known) isn't the right one for the crown princess of Genovia. And Mia isn't having much luck proving otherwise, since Michael has a history of being decidedly against any kind of exploitative commercialization (Valentine's Day, as it is commonly known).

Boris can declare his love openly to Lilly, and even Kenny comes through with a paltry Whitman's Sampler. So why can't Michael give in to Cupid and tell Mia he loves her—preferably with something wrapped in red or pink and accompanied by roses—in time to prove he's Mia's true prince?

Tuesday, February 11, 6 p.m.,
The limo on the way home from princess lessons

Today when I walked into my princess lessons with Grandmère after school, there was this totally creepy-looking guy occupying the pink brocade settee where I normally sit (because it's nearest the bowl of sugared almonds that I sneak whenever Grandmère isn't looking, even though they aren't actually that good, like not candy- or chocolate- coated or anything, but beggars can't be choosers, and why do old people always have such sucky candy, anyway?), and I was all, "Who are you?" because this dude had on one of those monochromatic tie-and-shirt thingies, like a TV talk show host or mafioso might wear, and that is not the kind of person you'd expect to see sitting in a dowager princess's living room suite at the Plaza. I mean, not to be pejorative. But it's true.

Then Grandmère came out in a blue feather-trimmed wrap, like she was the Queen Mum and not the princess's grandmum, and was all, "Oh, good, Amelia, I'm so glad you're here. Meet Dr. Steve," and I was like, "Whaty who?" and she was all, "How dare you speak that way to my astrologist???"

So yeah. Grandmère has an astrologist.

I will admit, I'm pretty worried because, of course, I thought of Rasputin—you know, that guy who was, like, "spiritual advisor" (aka mystic oracle) to the Russian royal family, before they all ended up getting shot by their angry populace. Not necessarily because of Rasputin, but the czar's subjects did kind of lose respect for him because he and his wife were listening to the advice of a dude who collected hair from virgins as a hobby.

Obviously, this didn't happen with Nancy Reagan, who was getting advice from astrologist Jeane Dixon, but that's just because Jeane Dixon's hobby was playing golf.

Anyway, I guess Dr. Steve isn't like Rasputin. I mean, he doesn't have a beard—in fact, he barely had any hair at all, being mostly bald. And he was wearing a suit, not monk's robes.

Still, I didn't like it much when he pointed at me and went, "Don't tell me! Let me guess! This is Her Royal Highness, Princess Amelia!"

Which made Grandmère clap her hands and do a jig, practically.

"Yes!" she cried. "You're right! He's amazing! Isn't he amazing, Amelia?"

I don't see what's so amazing about it, since he'd heard Grandmère say my name when I walked in.

Plus, it's not like a picture of my face isn't plastered all over the cover of Teen People every month. But whatever.

"Tell us what you've learned about Amelia, Doctor," Grandmère said, plopping herself down on one of the matching pink brocade chairs and snapping her fingers at me in her time-honored signal for Fix me a Sidecar. Now. "I gave him your birth date and time yesterday, Amelia, and Dr. Steve promised to read the results this afternoon, when you could be here to hear them."

"Um, that's okay," I said, as I headed for the bar. "I'm good. I don't need my fortune told." Particularly by someone named Dr. Steve.

"Dr. Steve doesn't tell fortunes, Amelia," Grandmère said, all scornfully. "He examines the positions of celestial bodies in the heavens at the time of someone's birth, and interprets the meaning of that placement to come up with an educated prediction about the future course of events in the subject's life. For instance, Dr. Steve believes I myself am currently in grave danger of incurring grievous bodily harm—"

"Assassination attempt?" I asked hopefully, as I mixed her brandy and Cointreau. Maybe there was more to this Rasputin thing than I thought.

But Grandmère just ignored me. "And will soon be pursued by an ardent suitor. Isn't that correct, Dr. Steve?"

"I definitely see danger for you,...

Meg Cabot is the author of the bestselling, critically acclaimed Princess Diaries books, which were made into the wildly popular Disney movies of the same name. Her other books for teens include the Mediator series, the 1-800-Where-R-You books, All-American Girl, Ready or Not, Teen Idol, Avalon High, and How to be Popular, as well as Nicola and the Viscount and Victoria and the Rogue. She also writes books for adults, including The Boy Next Door, Boy Meets Girl, Every Boy's Got One, Size 12 Is Not Fat, and Queen of Babble. She is still waiting for her real parents, the king and queen, to restore her to her rightful throne. She currently lives in Key West and New York City with her husband and a primary one-eyed cat named Henrietta, and assorted backup cats.