Royal Crown

by Meg Cabot

  I found everyone sitting in an exhausted heap around the pool … everyone except for Luisa and the duke.

  Prince Gunther’s game of water polo had apparently tired out even the Marquis of Tottingham, who’s been known to go for thirty-six hours without sleeping, thanks to the number of energy drinks he regularly consumes, even though Mia says those are quite bad for children.

  “Where are Luisa and the duke?” I asked.

  Nishi lifted a drowsy head. Amazingly, Baby Prince Frank was dozing happily in her arms, having finally been lulled to sleep by a now completely hoarse Victorine.

  “I saw them going into the palace a little while ago,” Nishi said. “I think they said they were hungry and were going to get a snack.”

  The day Lady Luisa Ferrari says she’s hungry is the day I’ll join the Stockerdörfl ski team. She’s been on a diet since she was six years old, thanks to unhealthy body images she’s picked up from all her grandmother’s European fashion magazines.

  “I believe Lady Luisa and the duke may have gotten lost on their way to the kitchens,” Grandmère said, as she burped a recently fed Baby Princess Elizabeth. “Perhaps you and Prince Khalil ought to go look for them, Olivia, and help them find their way back here.”

  Prince Khalil and I were only too happy to do so, since this meant we finally got a little alone time together.

  We just never expected to find Luisa and the duke doing … well, what they were doing.

  As we searched—first in the kitchens, where there was no sign of Luisa and the duke: Chef Bernard said he hadn’t seen them—Prince Khalil asked how my dress fitting had gone, and I told him. Then I asked how Paris had been, and he told me. Then I asked how things were going in his native country. It had been a while since we’d had a chance to talk alone together in person, so it was nice to catch up.

  Things weren’t going so well in his native country since his uncle had taken it over in a military coup and Khalil and his family had been forced to flee. But he likes living in Genovia—even though he hopes to go back someday, if his uncle can be dethroned.

  “Being a royal is complicated,” I observed, as we searched in the Hall of Portraits for Luisa and the duke.

  “It really is,” Khalil agreed.

  “I mean,” I said, “I guess my family could turn out like yours if the courts rule that Prince Morgan is the true heir.”

  “Well,” Khalil said. “Not really. What happened in my country would only happen in yours if Prince Morgan’s dad has an army and tries to take the throne by force.”

  I thought about that. “You’re right. That would never happen in Genovia. Mia would immediately step aside. She’d be too worried about people getting hurt not to.”

  Khalil nodded, his adorably thick eyebrows slanted down into a troubled frown. “Exactly.”

  I realized I probably shouldn’t have brought it up, since the whole thing made Khalil look sad. “Hey,” I said, reaching out to take his hand. “Do you know what Rocky and I like to do sometimes?”

  He looked at me bewilderedly. “No. What?”

  So I told him how Rocky and I like to slide down the Hall of Portraits in our socks, then asked if he wanted to try …

  I knew that my cousin Luisa would say I was being hopelessly immature. Thirteen-year-olds do not spend their recreational time sliding up and down hallways, particularly in palaces.

  But Prince Khalil’s dark eyes lit up, exactly the way I’d hoped they would. “Yes, please!”

  So we tried it.

  But of course it didn’t work, because we didn’t have socks on. We were wearing sandals, since we’d been at the pool. And everyone knows you can’t slide on floors while barefoot: the bottoms of your feet stick to the parquet.

  “Wait,” I said finally, nearly breathless from all the laughing we’d been doing, watching each other getting a running start, then attempting to slide. It had been so funny, and the perfect antidote to his depression over his family situation. His eyes were no longer sad. They were bright with joy …

  … And maybe a little something else. I don’t know what, but I liked it!

  “Let’s run upstairs and get some socks from my room,” I said. “We’ll be able to slide much better then.”

  “I thought we were on a mission to find your cousin and the Duke of Marborough,” he said with a smile, still with that strange look in his eye. “And what about the Royal Babysitting Service? We’re shirking our duty.”

  “Oh, it will be okay,” I said. “I think the Royal Babysitting Service can spare us for a few more minutes.”

  I took his hand again—his fingers felt so electric and alive in mine!—and pulled him up the Grand Royal Staircase after me, still breathless from all the laughing. He was laughing, too. It was a good thing there weren’t any public tours of the palace going on just then (the palace is closed to the public for the holidays), or the tourists would have seen Princess Olivia laughing her head off like a crazy person, running up the Grand Royal Staircase with the Prince of Qalif behind her.

  It wasn’t until we got to the top of the stairs and turned the corner to the royal apartments that I realized something was wrong.

  During the day, when we royals are out and about, the doors to our private bedrooms are left open so that the staff knows that it’s all right to go in and make the beds or replenish the fruit bowls or hang the dry cleaning in the closets or whatever it is that needs to be done.

  The only time the bedroom doors are closed is when a royal is inside his or her room.

  When Prince Khalil and I reached the top of the Grand Royal Staircase, I saw right away that the door to the bedroom that Princess Mia and Prince Michael share was closed.

  But that made no sense, because they were still at the courts. If they’d come home, I’d have heard about it, because first of all the majordomo would have announced it, and second of all, the first place Mia and Michael would have gone was the pool, to pick up the twins and give them kisses. That’s the kind of parents they are. They’re not the kind of parents who would come home and shut themselves up in their room. They love their babies. They can’t get enough of them, even if they jokingly complain sometimes about all the crying and the pooping.

  So why was their bedroom door closed?

  “Hold on a second,” I said to Prince Khalil, dropping his hand as I started toward the closed door of my sister’s room.

  “Is everything all right?” Khalil asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  I walked up to the closed door and laid my ear against it.

  I know it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but when you live in a palace, it’s sort of necessary. Grandmère told me that many monarchies have been saved by a little well-placed snooping, and that this is why the Throne of England employs James Bond.

  But one shouldn’t feel reluctant to do a little snooping oneself when the situation arises, so long as one can keep from getting caught.

  Through Mia’s door, I could hear giggling.

  But it wasn’t Mia’s giggle. It was …

  Tuesday, December 29

  5:30 P.M.

  High Tea

  Royal Genovian Gardens

  “Luisa!” I cried, throwing open the door.

  Luisa was in my sister’s bedroom, all right … with the duke!

  The two of them were still in their bathing suits. Roger, the 12th Duke of Marborough, was snapping photos of Luisa with his cell phone as she jumped on Mia and Michael’s bed, wearing the multimillion-dollar crown of Genovia. Beneath both their feet lay the Robe of State!

  “Oh yeah,” the duke was saying to Luisa. “You’ve got it. Work it, girl. Work it!”

  Luisa saw me first, and stopped jumping with a startled jerk … so startled, in fact, that the crown snapped from her skull, and tumbled forward. Lucky for her—and the crown—Prince Khalil dashed up and caught it at the last minute, before it crashed to Mia’s carpeted floor.

  The duke, finally noticing us, lowered his cell phone
and said, in his usual way-too-casual voice, “Oh hey, Leel, ’Livia. How’s it going, dudes?”

  I could hardly believe my eyes—let alone my ears. “How’s it going? How’s it going?”

  “Now, Stick,” Lady Luisa said, also sounding way too casual … but also a little scared. “Don’t make too big a deal of this. We were only having some fun.”

  “On my sister’s bed?” I nearly shouted. “In your bathing suits? In her CROWN?!”

  “Oh my God,” Luisa said, climbing down off the bed, accidentally kicking the Robe of State to an unceremonious heap on the floor. A sacred robe, woven and worn by my royal ancestors for centuries, was lying on the floor!!!

  I’m not going to lie: I darted forward and picked it up. It was even heavier than I remembered, and now smelled of Luisa’s suntan lotion.

  “Trust you to make a way bigger deal out of this than it is,” Lady Luisa said. “I mean, we were only—”

  “It actually seems like kind of a big deal to me,” Prince Khalil said. “To me—and I’m speaking as an outsider, of course—it looks as if the two of you went into the Princess of Genovia’s royal chambers without her permission, jumped on her bed, and photographed yourself wearing sacred royal symbols you had no right to touch.”

  “Sacred royal symbols?” the Duke of Marborough sneered. “Don’t be a tool, okay? It’s just a ratty old coat and a junky old crown.”

  “A junky old crown?” I almost exploded. “This junky old crown,” I said, pointing at the crown Khalil held, “is worth over twenty million dollars and symbolizes hundreds of years of historic leadership!”

  “Whoa,” the duke said. “Chill, Princess. You don’t have to yell.”

  “I’ll yell if I want to!” I yelled. I handed the crown and the robe to Prince Khalil. “Would you mind putting these away for me?” I asked. “They go over there.” I pointed to the velvet box and dressmaker dummy in the corner.

  “Sure,” Prince Khalil said, and took the crown and robe from me.

  “Now,” I said, turning back to Luisa and the duke. “Give me that phone.”

  “Don’t do it, Roger!” Lady Luisa cried.

  “Do it, Roger,” I said. “Or I’ll tell my sister everything, and she’ll tell your parents.”

  The duke looked pale, and handed over Lady Luisa’s phone.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Luisa said, folding her arms across her chest. “Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything? No one in this family can take a joke.”

  “I can take a joke,” I said, as I scrolled through her photos and deleted every one that featured Luisa in the royal crown of Genovia. “It just has to be funny.”

  “This joke was funny,” Luisa said. “Or at least it was going to be, until you ruined it.”

  “Ha ha,” I said, handing Luisa her phone back. All the photos were gone. “I can definitely see the humor in the situation.”

  “You can?” she asked hopefully.

  “No,” I said. “Luisa, you and the duke need to find your clothes and leave. Now.”

  Lady Luisa bristled. “You don’t own this palace. You can’t kick me out of it.”

  “Yes I can,” I said. “When my dad and my sister aren’t here, I’m in charge.”

  “Listen, Stick,” Lady Luisa said, thrusting her pointy chin at me. “We were here way before you.” By “we” I guess she meant her and the duke, and by “here” I guess she meant the palace, before I arrived from New Jersey.

  “Well, I highly doubt my sister will ever invite you back if she hears about this…”

  The duke looked scared. “But you said you wouldn’t tell if I gave you the phone!”

  “Don’t listen to her, Roger. She wouldn’t dare tell on us.” Lady Luisa flipped her hair. “Only a stupid stick who can’t take a joke would do something like that.”

  It’s hard for me to write this even now, my fingers are shaking with so much rage. I was soooooo mad at her!

  “You need to leave NOW!” I yelled, and finally Luisa looked scared. The duke looked terrified, too. Even Prince Khalil looked a little frightened. The only person, in fact, who didn’t look scared was Serena, my bodyguard, who’d heard all the yelling and come upstairs to see what was going on, as is her professional duty.

  I had Serena escort Lady Luisa and the duke out of the palace (and make sure they didn’t touch any other artifacts of historical significance on their way out), and put them in separate royal cars back to their villas. I didn’t want them enjoying a make-out session in the backseat on their way home.

  “Are you going to tell your sister?” Prince Khalil asked me as we made our way back to the pool.

  “Of course not,” I said. “Mia’s got enough to worry about without learning that someone broke into her bedroom and tried on the crown and the Robe of State, too.”

  Khalil looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. I think maybe you should tell her. Maybe if you did, she’d know to keep her door locked from now on … especially when historical royal ceremonial objects are in her room.”

  It makes my heart hurt to think about us having to keep our bedroom doors locked against intruders, like the palace is some kind of apartment building, or something.

  “No,” I said. “This was just a onetime thing. I’m sure it will never happen again.”

  “Well, hopefully not,” he said. “But you never know.”

  But I did know. Luisa would never make the same mistake twice. She has a mean streak, but she isn’t brainless. “It will be fine,” I said.

  I really thought that!

  Then.

  But when Prince Khalil and I got back to the pool, things got even worse. Everyone asked if we’d found Luisa and the duke, so I had to tell them a little white lie:

  “We did,” I said. “Luisa wasn’t feeling well, so the duke took her home.”

  “Aw,” Nishi said. “That’s so romantic!”

  “Well,” I said. “If you call food poisoning romantic.”

  Prince Morgan looked panicky. “Oh no! What did she eat? Did I have any? I can’t get ill. I’ve got the coronation on Thursday! I’ve got to look my best for the public.”

  Prince Morgan is convinced he’s going to win the lawsuit, and that it’s him who’ll be crowned on Thursday. Right!

  “No worries,” I said. “She’s on a juice cleanse.”

  I figured that was the most diplomatic way to put it. Prince Morgan looked very relieved.

  I can’t believe that out of everyone I babysat today, the person who always accuses ME of acting like a baby is the one who acted the most babyish and immature of all.

  Even worse, it’s Luisa I should have been keeping the closest eye on all day, not Purple Iris or the babies or even Prince Morgan. She’s the one who needs the most looking after!

  The only good thing to come out of this is that I think it’s brought me and Prince Khalil closer. He’s the only one who knows the truth.

  And, despite my worries that I might have frightened him a bit with my yelling, he whispered a little while ago—while Grandmère was making me pour out the tea, which of course Purple Iris spilled all over the travertine tile—that he really admires the way I handled the situation.

  “It reminded me of that ancestress of yours,” he said.

  “Really? Who?” I had no idea.

  “Princess Rosagunde. The one who founded your royal family.”

  When I finally realized who he was talking about, I felt myself blush. I hope he’s right. I’d love to have the blood of a warrior princess in my veins!

  But all I feel like I have right now is a stomachache. I think I’ve eaten too many cucumber sandwiches.

  Tuesday, December 29

  6:30 P.M.

  Royal Genovian Gardens

  The news is not good. I knew it the minute Mia and Michael got home. I could tell by her face. My dad’s wasn’t much better.

  Of course they’re trying to act like everything is fine.

  But if everything is fin
e, why is Prince Morgan’s dad so happy? He and his wife, Princess Bella, are taking Morgan out to eat for dinner (I suppose it would be awkward for them to eat here with us when they’re about to steal our home).

  After Mia and Michael got done kissing the babies and saying how great they looked and what a good job we’d all done babysitting (and had sent Victorine and Marguerite and Prince Gunther and Princess Komiko and Nadia home, with thanks and generous tips for their services), Mia explained what had happened. The courts had heard all the evidence from both sides—ours and Cousin René’s—and had been unable to come up with a ruling, so now the case is going to have to go before the Genovian Supreme Court, which will have an emergency session tomorrow.

  “So we still don’t know whether there’ll be a coronation on Thursday?” I asked.

  “No,” Mia said. “Not for another twenty-four hours.”

  I thought I might break down and cry when I heard that, which really isn’t like me. I’m not a highly emotional person. I am about some things, of course—catching my cousin in my sister’s bedroom wearing the royal crown, for instance; or the fact that the glaciers are melting at such an accelerated rate that polar bears are literally getting stranded on them with no food to eat, separated from their families, and starving to death.

  Obviously those things make me want to cry.

  But that we might have to wait another twenty-four hours before we know whether Mia is going to be crowned? That shouldn’t make me feel weepy.

  I’m probably just overtired from spending the whole day with little babies. I don’t know how parents do it. Child-rearing is hard.

  The worst part was saying good-bye to Prince Khalil.

  He kissed me good night … on each cheek, like always, the standard Genovian hello and good-bye greeting. It takes a lot of getting used to for an American.