The Quarantine Princess Diaries, page 1
Author’s Note
Warning: This book contains references to the COVID-19 pandemic.
If you’d like to help those in need because of the pandemic, I invite you to join me (and Princess Mia) in supporting the work of VOW for Girls, a growing global movement to end child marriage founded by real-life Princess Mabel van Oranje of the Netherlands. While most weddings are a cause for celebration, the COVID-19 pandemic has put more young girls than ever at risk of becoming brides.
VOW for Girls partners with individuals like us to end underage marriage and support every girl’s choice to love on her own terms. One hundred percent of funds raised go directly to local organizations advancing girls’ rights. Ten percent of my proceeds of the sale of this book will go to VOW for Girls.
To learn how you can easily donate (or incorporate the cause into your own wedding or other special celebration), please visit vowforgirls.org.
Family Tree of Princess “Mia” Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo
Reigning Monarch of Genovia
Dowager Princess Clarisse Grimaldi Renaldo
|
Prince Phillipe Renaldo
married
Princess Helen Thermopolis
|
Princess “Mia” Thermopolis Renaldo
married
Prince Consort Michael Moscovitz
|
Princess Elizabeth and Prince Frank
(Mia and Michael’s toddler twins)
Lesser royals:
Princess Olivia Grace Harrison Renaldo (Mia’s paternal half sister)
Prince Rocky Thermopolis Renaldo (Mia’s maternal half brother)
Lilly Moscovitz (Mia’s sister-in-law)
Prince René (Mia’s second cousin)
Count Ivan Renaldo (Mia’s second cousin)
Epigraph
“She had many opportunities of making her mind think of something else, and many opportunities of proving to herself whether or not she was a princess. But one of the strongest tests she was ever put to came on a certain dreadful day which, she often thought afterward, would never quite fade out of her memory even in the years to come.”
A Little Princess
Frances Hodgson Burnett
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Author’s Note
Family Tree of Princess “Mia” Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo
Epigraph
Quarantine Day 1
Quarantine Day 1 continued
Quarantine Day 2
Quarantine Day 3
Quarantine Day 3 continued
Quarantine Day 4
Quarantine Day 5
Quarantine Day 6
Quarantine Day 7
Quarantine Day 8
Quarantine Day 9
Quarantine Day 10
Quarantine Day 11
Quarantine Day 12
Quarantine Day 13
Quarantine Day 13, later
Quarantine Day 14
Quarantine Day 15
Quarantine Day 16
Quarantine Day ?
Quarantine Day ?????
Quarantine Day Who Knows?
Later on Quarantine Day Who Knows?
Even Later on Quarantine Day Who Knows?
Quarantine Day (feels like) 5,978,364
Quarantine Day One Billion
Quarantine Day One Billion, continued
Quarantine Day Who Cares?
Quarantine Day ?????????????????????????
Quarantine Day Who Knows?
Quarantine Day Who Knows? continued
Quarantine Day Who Knows? continued
Quarantine Day After
Quarantine Day 255 (for real, I counted)
Quarantine Day 256, 2 a.m.
Quarantine Day 256, 2 p.m.
Quarantine Day 256, 6 p.m.
Quarantine Day 256, 10:30 p.m.
About the Author
Praise for Meg Cabot
By Meg Cabot
Copyright
About the Publisher
Quarantine Day 1
Royal Bedroom
Just got back from what was supposed to be a routine meeting with the prime minister about my composting program. Considering the fact that compost-treated soil helps protect plants from pests and diseases, and Genovian olive oil is prized throughout the world, it’s something we ought to have looked into years ago.
But instead of getting right into my soil treatment proposal, Madame Dupris said, “I’ve just received terrible news, Your Highness.”
Apparently there’s a worldwide pandemic.
Excuse me, but what??
I mean obviously I did hear a little something about a flu going around in China, but I’ve been slightly preoccupied with the twins, who are adorable but in their terrible twos (it turns out it’s not an exaggeration: the terrible twos really are terrible), not to mention ruling a small European principality and of course my composting program and this thing with Harry and Meghan.
But hello? A pandemic?
The prime minister says our top public health officer (good to know we have one) is telling her that the only way to contain it is something called “social distancing.” This apparently means closing the borders with France, Italy, and Monaco.
Great. Just great. The Genovian Hotel and Restaurant Association is NOT going to be happy with me if I do this, because this is peak tourist season. It’s 75 degrees outside, sunny, and absolutely perfect weather for yachting, bocce, dining al fresco, and strolling down the Place du Casino, shopping for luxury goods such as Louis Vuitton handbags and Gucci loafers.
But I knew from my princess lessons from Grandmère not to bother mentioning any of these things to Madame Dupris. A royal is only ever supportive of her prime minister during a crisis. Think of King George and Winston Churchill.
Instead, I said, “Okay, then! Let’s do whatever we have to do to beat this thing. Genovia strong!”
“Genovia strong!” the prime minister said.
Then we elbow-bumped one another because Dr. Muhammad, the public health officer, said handshakes are not proper social distancing protocol.
Then I came right home to the palace and poured myself a glass of wine, even though it’s only eleven in the morning.
But that’s okay. Lots of people drink wine at lunch, especially in Europe. One glass of wine before lunch is nothing. Moderation is the key. Everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be fine.
Quarantine Day 1 continued
Two Hours Later
Royal Bedroom
Oh. My. God.
Decided to Google the virus. Why did I do that? Michael has told me time and time again to stop Googling diseases.
Why don’t I ever listen to him?
I also probably should not have had that second glass of wine before lunch, or that third one while I broke the news to my mother that school will have to be canceled, effective immediately.
We have to cancel school, of course, because Dr. Muhammad says children can be “a serious vector of infection,” though of course it’s too early to say if this is true of this particular virus. Better to be safe than sorry, etc.
Canceling school does not actually affect me as much as it does Mom, since the twins are still too young for school.
But Mom has Rocky and Olivia to worry about (not that I don’t worry about them, too, especially Rocky, since Olivia is sixteen and a reader and very self-motivated).
Rocky, on the other hand, would happily sit and do nothing all day but play video games, preferably with his friends and my bodyguard Lars, preferably at an excessively loud volume that you can still hear even though the palace walls are three feet thick, made of stone, and they’re in another room and wearing headphones.
HOW CAN THIS BE HAPPENING?
And I don’t just mean the deadly virus currently threatening my populace. I mean, how can I be a married thirtysomething woman and still living with my parents, half siblings, and grandmother???
And yes, Dad does keep promising that Miragnac, the summer palace, is going to be finished “any day now,” and that he and Mom and Rocky and Olivia (who is a sweetheart despite now being an age during which I know from rereading my own diaries that I was completely mentally unhinged) and Grandmère are all going to move into it, allowing Michael and me finally to have the main palace to ourselves (as we rightfully ought to have years ago, when Dad abdicated).
But I’ve seen no actual sign of this happening.
Instead, something is always wrong: Dad’s contractor can’t find the right roof tiles for the parapet, or the turrets are crumbling, or the moat isn’t draining properly, or the foundation is sinking, or Grandmère’s dog Rommel has developed an allergic reaction to the algae growing in the cistern.
And I know none of this is Dad’s fault. It’s Grandmère’s palace. She’s the one who basically let it sit and go to rot since her sisters—my aunts Jean-Marie and Simone—moved out after deciding they preferred living in a hotel in Gstaad, with rooms overlooking the Alps and costing something upward of $2,000 per night. I’d prefer living in a hotel in Gstaad, too, if my other choice was a castle with a sinking foundation and crumbling turrets.
Anyway. I told Mom, “I’m sure this virus thing is all going to be fine! I’m sure it’s just a bad flu that will go away in no time!”
“Sure!” she said. “You’re probably right!”
And then she g
I mean according to Google, it probably will be fine . . . after we’ve achieved herd immunity or gotten a vaccine.
But they had to vaccinate 95 percent of the population in order to wipe out measles, which has an R-naught of eighteen (I know what R-naught means from having watched the amazingly good pandemic movie Contagion, starring Matt Damon, Kate Winslet, and Gwyneth Paltrow, so many times. An R-naught is the number of people a single infected person transmits his or her disease to. So that means one person with measles can give it to eighteen other people).
They don’t know yet what the R-naught of this virus is, let alone how many people we’d have to vaccinate to keep whatever it is from spreading. But since there’s no vaccine anyway, it’s kind of a moot point.
The news about the virus was so grim that I decided to Google Genovia instead, because people are always saying such nice things online about their trips to my country. It really does make me feel so good.
This was an even bigger mistake, however!!! Because the first thing that came up was a video of MY GRANDMOTHER and a bunch of her friends and assorted other people I did not recognize dancing on a yacht while wearing very little except extremely large sun hats.
On my yacht. MY YACHT, THAT I OWN. On the dock down the beach from my palace. WHERE I’M WRITING THIS RIGHT NOW.
Then I had to have another glass of wine because these elderly women (who, according to Google, are at an increased risk of death if they contract the virus due to their advanced age) had been spreading their germs all over the EXACT spot on my yacht where I sometimes let my toddlers play with their toys!
It was at this moment that Michael came home from the hospital (where he’s been supervising the installation of yet another robotic thingie he’s invented to save people’s lives. I’m so lucky to have such an accomplished and handsome husband who also invents things I don’t understand and puts up with being a prince consort and having to walk three steps behind me at all times when in public though obviously not when we’re alone).
“Michael!” I cried, running to give him a hug and have him assure me that everything the prime minister and Google had said was all a big mistake.
But instead he threw out his hands to stop me.
“Not only is everything you’ve heard true,” he said, looking more serious than I’ve ever seen him, “but you can’t touch me—I’m a potential vector of infection now.”
!!!!!!!
My husband is a potential vector of infection!!!!
So we can’t go near one another!!!!
!!!!!!
Quarantine Day 2
Royal Bedroom
Michael was in direct contact with someone at the hospital who had flu-like symptoms.
So he was told by Dr. Muhammad to come home, strip off his clothes, shower, disinfect his entire body, and quarantine until it was determined if the suspected case at the hospital was COVID-19 or not . . .
. . . which is going to take fourteen days.
I cannot be near my husband for FOURTEEN DAYS!!!!
I’m sorry, but something has to be done about this. Something more than simply closing the schools and borders.
That’s why as soon as I drank enough coffee this morning to stop my pounding headache from all the wine I consumed yesterday, I began searching the shelves of the Royal Library for a book that might have a solution. I thought perhaps I might come up with one as brilliant as my composting program.
And after a deep dive into a copy of The Great Influenza: The Story of the Deadliest Pandemic in History by John M. Barry, published in 2004 (apparently in 2004, they thought the deadliest epidemic in history was the Spanish flu of 1918. HA! HA! HA! How quaint this sounds now), I thought of something. Something that is probably more helpful than my composting program (although I will return to endorsing composting for every household in Genovia as soon as whatever this is is all over).
Of course my family doesn’t agree. They’re already annoyed with me for closing the schools and borders (except for Michael, of course, who continues to be a bastion of strength, even as he remains locked inside one of the guest rooms, unable to communicate with me except via phone).
“But I had an oral report due on the life cycle of the iguana,” cried my half sister, Olivia, when she learned there’d be no more school.
Honestly, I’ve never seen a teenager more disappointed that school’s been canceled in my life. If this had happened to me when I’d been her age, I’d have been turning cartwheels around the Portrait Gallery (which Rocky was, in fact, doing).
“You can give your oral report to me,” I said. “I’ll listen to it.”
“It’s not the same.” Olivia isn’t the sulky type, but she looked as close to sulking as she could get. “You don’t like iguanas.”
It’s true I did try to have all the iguanas—an invasive species to Genovia, with no known predators—eradicated from the palace grounds, but that isn’t because I don’t like them. I simply got tired of hearing Grandmère complain about how they were eating all her roses. And the iguanas were, by the way, regularly relieving themselves by the pool in which my toddlers were swimming. According to Google, iguanas can carry disease-causing bacteria.
My father was even more disappointed.
“What about the Genovian Grand Prix?” he asked. “How are drivers supposed to get their cars here if the borders are closed?”
I took a deep breath and broke the bad news: “There isn’t going to be a Grand Prix this year, Dad.”
He looked as if I’d stabbed him through the heart. But instead of saying anything more, he merely pushed away his (royal chef–made) duck confit uneaten, then got up and walked dejectedly from the table.
Oh, come on. Seriously?
“I suppose the Annual Spring Art Fair is canceled, too?” Mom asked, quietly.
“Not canceled,” I said. “Postponed. Everything is postponed until we get a vaccine or achieve herd immunity, whichever comes first.”
Mom nodded with acceptance. As an artist, she’s more used to disappointment, rejection, and loss than Dad—a prince born with a literal silver spoon in his mouth (or at least one that was shoved into his mouth soon after birth)—and can handle it better.
Of course I understand their feelings. It’s always disappointing when something you’ve been looking forward to doesn’t happen. How do they think I feel about my composting program? And the fact that it doesn’t look as if any of them will be moving out anytime soon?
But this is a global pandemic. How can they be so worried about art fairs and car races?
(Not to minimize their concerns. Art fairs are important, and so are oral reports. I will make sure that Olivia is able to give hers to her class via some sort of video technology. I’m sure Michael knows of something.)
But car races? I’ve told my dad how much carbon dioxide emissions from motorsports contribute to global warming, and he said, “The day I support Formula 1 going hybrid is the day I go vegan,” which means never since he eats animal products for every meal, including snacks, despite the warnings from his doctor about his triglycerides.
Only my good friend Tina Hakim Baba, when I called her, seemed to understand. She is in New York, doing her medical residency. She knows all about this new infection. She even knows about the Spanish flu (which was only called that because the first printed reports of it came from Spain during World War I. The earliest actual recorded cases were at a military fort in Kansas, of all places).
“Do it,” Tina said, when I told her about my plan.
“Really? Do you think I should? Because everyone is so—”
“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. SHUT IT ALL DOWN NOW, MIA.”
So I called the prime minister. I told her that now that the news is out that we’re closing the schools and borders, and everyone, particularly my family, is already thoroughly annoyed, we might as well close the beaches, hotels, casinos, bars, and restaurants (the smarter politicians, like the mayor of St. Louis, did this during the 1918 epidemic. The dumber ones—like the mayor of Philadelphia, who allowed a huge parade to go on at the height of the pandemic—didn’t, and suffered massive mortality rates).
