It was not a tiara. It was a headpiece of such towering, diamond-encrusted enormity that when I put it on, I couldn’t stand up straight. I wobbled down the hallway like a human disco ball.
“He is the father of the groom,” Grandmère said, as if explaining gravity to a toddler. “It would be a scandal if he were not present. The New York Post would have a field day. ‘Princess Snubs In-Laws.’ Do you want that on your conscience?” meg cabot royal wedding
I straightened my spine. “Helga. I am the Princess of Genovia. I want peonies. Fly them in from Japan. I don’t care. Also, my cat, Fat Louie, will be the ring bearer. He will wear a tiny velvet cushion on his back. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the Minister of Culture.” It was not a tiara