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, Your Highness,” Dr. Steve said, looking gravely at my grandmother. “As well as a marriage proposal.”