Cake Eater

by Allyson Dahlin

Genres: YA Historical Fiction; YA Historical Fantasy; YA Romance; YA Science Fiction

Synopsis

"With a love story for the ages, this vivid tale takes the history we know and recasts it into an exciting, technicolor, future world that challenges what we know here in the present, and how we know it. I loved it! I couldn't put it down!" —Beth Revis, New York Times bestselling author of the Across the Universe trilogy

Decadent, thrilling, and romantic, this Black Mirror-esque retelling of the reign of one Marie Antoinette is perfect for fans of The Belles and American Royals.

The year is 3070, and Marie Antoinette has just arrived at the glittering, thrilling palace of Versailles to marry the shy, soft-spoken Louis-Auguste.

But beneath the luxurious world lies a sinister underbelly and an uncompromising elite who want to keep Marie and Louis pawns in a deadly game.

Will history repeat itself? Or will these doomed lovers outwit their enemies and escape their grisly fate?

Cake Eater will take readers to a dazzling world full of breathless luxuries, deadly secrets, and a thrilling romance that attempts to rewrite history itself. 

 

Read more

Release date: August 9, 2022

Publisher: HarperTeen

Print pages: 459

Sample

One

May 13, 3070, 8:14 p.m.

Our empire is fading.

My mama told me this an hour before I boarded a cruiser and left the Austro Lands forever. We were in her stateroom, one of the few ancient places left in Schönbrunn Palace. The tall, echoing ceiling was full of cracks that turned up faster than the repair droids could detect them. Sometimes, I imagined I could smell candles in there, phantom scents from a thousand years ago. My mama liked that ancient aesthetic. She had barely any neon or holos, just a bit of purple glowing around the red curtains.

She stood at the huge windows with her back to me. Big gray snowflakes fell like ash, making the light strange and greenish as it slanted through the clouds like a bad photo filter. Snow in the middle of May was usually a sign that the weather was going to glitch even more. Big storms with high winds or blazing heat for three weeks.

Her holo-cat circled her feet, twitching its big white tail. I tried to avoid its giant yellow eyes, which flickered just slightly, showing the hem of my mother’s dress through the projection. Holo-cats always creeped me out, but Mutti was allergic to the real ones.

Her giant black dress made a crinkling sound as she turned to me. It looked like a heap at a plastics landfill, all shiny, crumpled ruffles. Her crown twinkled to match her eyes, the delicate twists of white LEDs and gold filigree catching a neon glow. “Our empire is fading, Maria. You and your husband will have to forge a new path into the future if we’re to survive.”

“What do you mean, Mutti?”

“You’re still a frivolous young thing glued to your holofone. But you’re only seventeen. You’ll grow, and you’ll learn, until you find your way as a queen in your own right. It won’t do to repeat the mistakes of your parents. I hope you’ll learn from mine.”

I couldn’t remember her admitting to a mistake before that day. Not once. Not the empress of the Austro Lands. I asked, “Which mistakes, Mama?”

“There are those who will tell you that tradition is the way to victory. . . .” I expected her to continue, but she trailed off.

“What do you mean, Mama?”

She was silent. We watched the little worker droids in the courtyard as they blasted air over the paving stones to stir the snow away. When my mother was a little girl, snowfall used to be pure white and shimmering. My tutor told me that. Then some eco disaster happened. It turned the snow into the dull, dirty stuff that swirled around the chrome columns of the palace, leaving dark streaks as it melted that had to be scrubbed away by worker droids.

“It’s hard to see past yourself . . . past the crown. You’ll find out soon enough what I mean. Change is not just inevitable, it is natural. We may not like to think in such terms, but I believe it’s foolish to ignore reality. Now that I’m older, I can see. Our empire is fading.”

That phrase again. . . . It meant nothing to me yet made my stomach a glitch of fluttering nerves.

“I don’t understand.” I had been prepared for a lecture about how small-minded I was. This was . . . something else.

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure if she meant about the supposed fate of the empire or about the fact that within twenty-four hours, I would be sent to marry Louis-Auguste, dauphin of the Franc Kingdom, a complete stranger, a total mystery with almost zero social media presence. Of course I was scared. But when you’re a princess, you say what people want to hear, not how you really feel. I had strong smile muscles, so I flexed them.

“I’m excited, Mama. I’m going to be the Franc dauphine. I’m going to make you proud.”

“Good. There’s no reason to be afraid. All empires pass.”

She hugged me then. I can still remember exactly how warm she was, how her perfume smelled like roses and amber. She placed her hands on the back of my neck and my left shoulder blade.

I can feel it as clearly as if it were happening now, even though I’m miles and miles from Schönbrunn Palace and my mutti. The memory makes a lump rise in my throat, but I breathe in the cooled air of the cruiser and calm myself.

We flew across the border of the Franc Kingdom about an hour ago. I’ve looked at the tracker screen above Ambassador Mercy’s head a thousand times. It shows our clunky cruiser as a blue square, flanked by the white triangles of our escort, blinking toward the grid of lights labeled Parée.

My heart skips a beat. Parée is the most lit city in the world. Literally. It is filled with legendary amounts of neon. Thousands of Franc kids have been hashing me in photos and videos of parties and clubs and cafés leading up to my arrival, all to greet me.

I press my face to the cool glass for my first real glimpse of Parée. In the dark, I can’t see much but the realm’s escort cruisers. Way more chic than our model. They’re off-white, with 

a long, pointed nose and a curving pilot’s window like a big eye. There’s no passenger section because they’re small and made for speed, kind of like a sport cruiser. I bet they’re way more fun than our behemoth with red velvet seats, stiff as old antiques. I can barely tell we’re moving.

Except for the lights of Parée, growing closer and closer until they become a big tangle below us. Traffic flashes in the air lanes beneath ours, weaving a pattern of headlights over the multicolored glow far below.

Rising above the city like a dagger dropped into the earth, La Tour Ancienne shines brighter than anything in the city, a spire of old rusting iron twisting to the sky, pumping with neon lights. It sparkles and shimmers, defining modern marvel and old-world mystique. The Francs dressed up its ancient bones in gleaming color and gave it new life. They don’t know who built it or why, but the people have made it the epitome of Franc style.

The glow-grid covering the tower advertises JetVolt cruiser batteries. A rocket blinks upward, growing smaller and smaller as it reaches the top, then the lights shimmer to turn hot pink and form a bubbling bottle of Mountain Jam Lime drink.

“Ambassador Mercy, it’s La Tour Ancienne!”

I really should practice keeping the volume down, because Versailles will be very strict. I won’t be able to simply blurt things out. But for the first time since I left home this morning, I’m actually excited to be in the Franc Kingdom. Maybe I really am as lucky as everyone tells me.

Mercy doesn’t even glance my way. He’s sitting stiffly with a leg over his knee, wearing a perfectly starched suit, dark except for the iridescent dress shoes shining in the soft blue cruiser light. “Good. We’ll arrive soon.”

His eyes are glued to a news report where someone is yelling that androids are going to take over everything, like that’s even real.

I open the camera on my holofone and grab a selfie with the tower behind me—quickly, before it passes from view. Not my best work. The intensity of the glow blurs out the advert and clashes with my iridescent skirt and pale pink blouse.

To show my millions of followers a terrible photo or no photo at all? The influencer’s constant question. The answer is: perfection only, at all times. Especially when you’re about to become the Franc dauphine.

“Are you posting a photo of La Tour Ancienne?” Mercy asks.

“No.” I groan. “It looks bad.”

“Well, I was about to ask you not to.”

“Why not?”

“The entire kingdom doesn’t need a live update of our progress.”

I roll my eyes. “You sound like Mutti. Always yelling at me for being on the Apps.”

“I should be so fortunate as to sound like your esteemed mother. There’s more to life than posting on the Apps. You should be focused on making a good impression. We’ll land in twenty minutes.”

“The Apps are the whole reason everyone likes me so much, and that’s my entire job, is it not? Being liked?” I get sick of Mercy and the courtiers downplaying the hard work I do. One doesn’t simply gain a million followers and keep them without putting in the effort. One must be perfect. One has to be familiar, relatable, but not flawed, or at least flawed in the right way. Perfect, polished, and totally tradigital and original. That’s my brand. I’m the bubbly fashionista princess and icon. I take a glitching LED gown and accessorize to make it work. I take a rained-out garden party and turn it into an impromptu film festival highlighting young and trendy artists.

Mercy presses a hand to his graying temple. “I will not even begin to unpack that statement, Marie.”

“You know it’s true,” I mumble, and turn back to watch the Tour pass out of the corner of my window. It’s still strange to hear my Franc name. Just one little syllable’s difference. Marie, not Maria . . . The Francs will totally transform me, morphing everything Austro into something Franc. Even my name.

Ahead, I see something strange and murky blurring out the city lights with a different kind of glow. It isn’t neon, but something orange and inconsistent. “Is that a . . . fire?”

Mercy wouldn’t get out of his seat for the Ancient Tower, but apparently he’ll get up for this. He frowns, furry brows pinched together. Then he goes to the tracker screen and presses a few buttons. My window goes solid black.

“Was zum Teufel machst du? I’m trying to look at the Franc Kingdom!”

“I need to speak to the pilot. You ought to settle, Marie. We land very soon, and you have a lot to remember. Like speaking Franc. Franc only. You’re perfectly fluent, and Austro will not be acceptable in any circumstances.”

I thump my head back against the blacked-out window.

Mercy pauses as the pilot’s door slides open. “Please compose yourself. You look like a sulking girl. We need you to become the dauphine.”

A nervous jolt streaks through me. He’s right. I can’t mess this up. If I do, I will be sent home disgraced, and the Austro Lands will lose the tie that makes the Franc Kingdom our ally. Mama said my marriage will end our hundred-year feud, so my job is very important. If the Francs love me, they’ll start to love Austros too.

I sit up straight and tug out the creases in my skirt. I practice my smile. I can feel it nudging at my cheeks when it’s just right. Tip of my tongue pressed to the back of my teeth, chin forward like I’m having a photo taken. I tell myself a few times that I am lucky. It’s how I get through pretty much any situation—repeat it until it is real. Just like finding the perfect angle and filter for an image—framed the right way, and cast in the right light, just about anything can seem beautiful and perfect. Even when it’s not.

Watching the tracker get closer to the little gold Versailles icon is making me kind of sick. I yank out my holofone and open Pixter. This App is my most popular. Currently I’m at 1,254,376 followers.

A

few pastel-themed photos are matched perfectly for my Top 6. One has my brother, Josef, in a light blue sweater, and another has my pug, Mops, curled up on a pink satin bed.

Ugh. Home. Looking at Pixter was a mistake. I smack my holofone facedown on the seat beside me. They wouldn’t let me bring Mops to my new home. He’s an Austro dog. And I’m Franc now. I can only have a Franc dog.

The minute my toe touches Franc soil outside this cruiser, I will be the dauphine. The Franc dauphine doesn’t cry. The Franc dauphine is going home, and she is delighted to meet her people and her lovely future husband. I repeat those things twice.

It doesn’t really work. My stomach knots up again.

I’ve known my whole life I’d marry young. Younger than girls who aren’t the duchess of the Austro Lands. I found out a few years ago that my husband would be Franc. After I got that news, I dreamed up all these pictures of what he might be like. Probably handsome, dark-haired, and suave. Franc guys are all charming and cultured. Or at least that’s how it seems on the Apps, and the Franc diplomats who arrived at Schönbrunn acted like they were born with perfect manners.

Nothing could have prepared me for the text I got last week.

With a glance at the pilot’s door, I pick up my holofone again. Not that Mercy pays attention to what I’m doing on the Apps anyway.

I open Pixter and click to my old messages before my eyes can linger on Josef and Mops. I bring up the message thread from “Anon4427.”

It was a bizarre thing to land in my in-box because my permissions are set up so that chats from randos are blocked. I’d be flooded if my in-box were public. All the messages would probably crash the App.

For at least the sixteenth time, I read over the thread.

It says:

Anon4427: Hi 

Duchess_MariaAntonia: hi?

At the time, I wrote it off as a spammer or a bot. The timestamp shows that it took forty-eight minutes for him to respond. When he did, he wrote:

Anon4427: sorry it’s Louis

Anon4427: like the Franc guy

Duchess_MariaAntonia: Oh! Hi

As if it wasn’t obvious from the fact that he wrote in Franc. I remember thinking there was no way this was Louis. Like, my fiancé, Louis. I thought someone was trolling me. When I learned we would be engaged, I asked Mama if I could chat Louis, but she said we weren’t allowed to talk.

Anon4427: yeah just wanted to say hi before we meet and everything.

Duchess_MariaAntonia: that’s sweet. But how did u chat me? I’ve got it blocked & we aren’t allowed to talk

Anon4427: yeah . . . i’m not supposed to do this. Don’t tell anyone ok?

Duchess_MariaAntonia: ok

Anon4427: thought this would make everything less weird. Maybe. It will prob be weird anyway. I’m not really sure what people expect from a prince. So FYI or something.

Duchess_MariaAntonia: expect? In what way? 

Anon4427: all the ways 

Anon4427: ur really hot

I’m not usually a blusher, but my face caught fire when I got that one. I buffered, trying to decide if I was being trolled. Franc guys are meant to be confident. And I suppose I should have been happy my husband-to-be liked the look of me, but this message made me even more nervous. Luckily, the feeling didn’t last long.

Anon4427: omg. I’m so sorry. That was my brother. He took my holofone. Sorry.

Anon4427: he says I’m a turbo-nerd and can’t talk to girls.

Duchess_MariaAntonia: Which brother? Philippe?

Anon4427: yeah. How’d you know?

Duchess_MariaAntonia: I’ve checked out the Bourbon bros on the Apps  Easy to figure out from that. I’m basically an App genius.

Anon4427: yea  I could tell from your pixter.

Duchess_MariaAntonia: you looked at my Pixter? 

Anon4427: srry g2g

The thread ends there. I close out the App window on my only conversation with my husband-to-be, Louis the Unexpected.

I had stalked his Pixter, of course. He wasn’t exactly the suave prince I’d dreamed about. I wouldn’t call him handsome. But he’s cute, I guess, with a round face and dark brown hair that curls up at the ends. He’s really tall and he always looks serious, like having his photo taken is torture. The only posts I saw with any personality were one of him cuddling a hound puppy and one bizarre snap that looked like a bunch of computer code.

I can’t figure him out, even though I can usually dig up every account someone has on any platform and get a read on them. Knowing Louis’s youngest brother, Philippe, is a flirt and a brainlag? Not exactly nanotech science. He never fails to post a photo on #AbDay. Then there’s the middle brother, Stan. He clearly sees himself as the smart one, with his très chic watches, designer ties, and opera photos. They have a sister, Elisabeth, who doesn’t post as much. Nature photos, some latte art, biology stuff . . . She strikes me as the brainy type.

But Louis? Who knows. All I have is that string of messages.

The pilot’s door  opens with a quiet whir.

We’re starting the descent,” says Mercy. “When we land, you’ll be greeted by Countess de Noailles and begin the garb change.”

“Of course.” I’ve been briefed on every step in emails from Countess de Noailles herself, my publicist and guide on all things Versailles. “Will you take the dimmer off the window so I can see the palace?”

“You’ll see it soon enough.”

My stomach is fluttering like crazy, and it’s not just from the sinking cruiser. The garb change is to strip me of all things Austro. When I exit the cruiser, I will leave everything about my old life behind except Ambassador Mercy. My mother and brother will still be a text away, but I won’t be Austro anymore.

I am Franc now. Marie Antoinette. I wonder how many times I’ll have to repeat that before it becomes true. If it ever will.

The sinking feeling stops, and the cruiser stills. I remember my posture. Chin raised and extended, stomach drawn in, shoulders straight. With a hiss, the cruiser door swings up and open. I have a second to be dazzled by neon light and a pattern of black and white tiles before a stern woman with a tight ponytail and a navy-blue pencil skirt marches in. She’s followed by a small army of attendants dressed in royal blue and two ladies of the court in satin gowns with blue LED collars.

“Bienvenue, mademoiselle.” She curtsies expertly, hand poised in front of her chest. “I am Countess de Noailles. I’m pleased to be of service.”

I reach my hands out, thinking, I don’t know . . . that I should embrace her? “I’m so happy to meet you in person, Countess. I’m sure I have so much to learn from you.”

Much more to learn than I thought, because she stiffens right up like an old-school droid. I’ve already done something wrong. Have I been too informal? But I’m going to work closely with this woman. That’s so silly.

Not silly. I must not think of Franc court rules as silly.

Noailles’s smile is as mechanical as a bot’s when she says, “Ah, yes. No sense in waiting. Let’s begin the garb change.”

I follow her to the cruiser’s bathroom, with the attendants flocking behind like ducks after crumbs. My stomach is cramping with memories of my final Austro dinner. I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.

The cruiser bathroom holds all of us somehow. If Josef were here, he’d say there wasn’t enough room to load a gigabyte. Noailles looks at me, waiting for permission to begin, so I nod.

A maid reaches for my zipper and it starts. A flurry of hands yank my dress over my head. I raise my arms to help, and they feel weirdly like both jelly and stone. The moment the dress is off, I’m freezing, goose bumps everywhere. My underwear goes next. I suppose I can say goodbye to privacy at Versailles.

I might start shaking, so I tense all my muscles, willing them still. I stretch out my arms as Noailles passes a UV wand over me. Gotta kill those Austro Land germs. But the worst is yet

to come. There’s a reason I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.

Noailles raises a Franc silk robe for me to step into, then hands me a small plastic cup. Her face is blank like a statue. I won’t even carry the Austro contents of my stomach out of the cruiser. I’ll be like a newborn. That’s how Mama described it to me. I toss back the liquid in one quick swallow.

I avoid the many eyes staring at me and instead focus on the dull glow of the soft lights above the sink. I’m pale in the mirror, truly stripped of myself and washed out in the bathroom lights. Cold sweat prickles at my scalp and my stomach clenches.

An attendant places a bowl beneath my chin. It might be real gold.

After a moment, it’s flecked with spatters of my spit and bile, thick and pale with a bit of yellow streaked in. I keep retching, puking mostly water. My throat burns and I think my brain is trying to push my eyes out of their sockets.

I’m gasping when I’m done. In the mirror, I find bright red eyes and a snot-smeared nose, and to my total embarrassment, I buffer and crash. Sobs claw up my throat to replace the retching.

No one seems to know what to do except a kind-eyed court lady with tight curls and a pink satin dress. She gently dabs at my face with a handkerchief. A toothbrush and a bit of mouthwash are shoved into my hands, and when I get control of myself, I use them, arms shaking and stomach sore. I’m so annoyed that I’ve cried, but at least I did it here instead of in front of the whole court.

I turn to find Noailles right in my face, nostrils flared. I think . . . she’s smelling my breath. It must meet her approval because fresh underwear appears, lacy and bright white. I step into it, just a little wobbly. Next, the waist trainer/bra combo is wrapped around me. Someone does up the three sets of clasps down my back. The material is stretchy, but meant to slim and smooth.

My dress is pale blue like my Austro one, a good color for me that matches my eyes. I raise my arms to slip the small ruffled sleeves over them. There’s no hiding my trembling.

Once it’s smoothed into place, I decide I do like the dress even if it’s a little plain for my taste. Cinched at the waist, flowing elegantly to my ankles, it leaves my shoulders bare and the collar makes a sharp, deep V. My hair and makeup aren’t done yet, but I’m beginning to look less like a scared girl and more like a dauphine should.

They powder my face, line my eyes, tease my hair to be full and dress it with ribbons. When I face the mirror again, I see a stranger. This can’t be me. Those aren’t my highlighted cheeks or long-lashed eyes. I’m not sure whether I’m thrilled because my makeup is celestial, or scared because I don’t know this girl. They put a diamond necklace around my neck and then I’m finished.

There’s nothing Austro left on me or in me—except memories and the Austro heart beating hard in my chest.

“Madame . . .” With an elegant tilt of her wrist, Noailles gestures to the doorway. I leave the bathroom and go straight for the exit of the cruiser. No looking back. If I look back, my knees

will shake so much I’ll fall over.

As I set one silver high heel onto the checkerboard stones of the Versailles courtyard, I let myself feel the slight impact. I am no longer Maria. I am now Dauphine Marie Antoinette.

A warm breeze stirs my dress and all my nerves tingle. The wind smells funny. Sort of like old garbage. It stuns me for a moment because it doesn’t at all match the glamour my eyes behold. The pure beauty of this place kicks my senses into overdrive.

Unlike Schönbrunn Palace, a lot of ancient Versailles remains. Schönbrunn was thrashed a lot harder during the wars and weather of the Event. I’ve never seen so much brick and marble on a building in my life. This is why thousands of people come to marvel at the old stones decorated with gorgeous busts, lit in pink to show off the features of ancient people with names we’ve forgotten. Things this old are très rare, absolutely priceless. This palace is built out of treasure.

My eyes skim the roofline, where gilded fleurs-de-lis have survived to line the eaves and many windows. The parts of the palace that fell apart are patched with modern material. Gold and iron replaced by bars of neon, like the building has veins of light and bones of shiny chrome. It would overwhelm anybody, even me, even though I grew up in my own palace. But no one can know. Not any of the hundred or so faces gathered can see one gigabyte of my fear, or awe.

There are perfectly painted faces, hair teased tall, elaborate with bows, braids, and tiny lights. Gowns and suits in all colors. I’ve never seen people as fashionable as these, and I’m not sure my dress, or my makeup, or my Austro hair color and eyes measure up. Surely they can see my foreignness written all over my face and in my stupid, careless walk that I should have practiced more.

One foot, then the next, Marie. You can do this. I let those phrases circle my mind until I’m an appropriate five or so steps from the king of the Franc Kingdom. It feels like I use every muscle of my face to tug a warm, gracious smile into place.

The king steps forward. This is Louis the Well-Beloved, my grandfather-in-law, tall and strong for his age, with square shoulders and jaw. I admire the flattering cut of his royal-blue suit. A faintly glowing holo over the breast pocket depicts a rose. He carries a cane full of bubbling liquid lit neon blue. Dark-tinted glasses band across his face, making him look more like a fly than fashion-forward. I heard he has cataracts that he doesn’t like people to see.

Before I can stare at him too long, I do my very best curtsy, taking my time to make sure I do everything right. Foot forward, arm bent, I bend to sweep slowly and gracefully downward like a wave. I hear a rustle as Noailles and the attendants behind me do the same.

I rise with a small smile. The king must speak first.

The glasses weird me out a little. The tint obscures his eyes, making it impossible to read him. But he’s smiling too. I just don’t know what kind of smile it is.

He puts a foot forward and ducks into a sweeping bow. “Bienvenue, young mademoi selle. Welcome home.”

“Majesté, thank you. I’m so happy to be here, and you are responsible for that happiness.”

His smile twists up at the corners. “You’re very welcome, Dauphine. But I think you ought to meet my grandson if you want to know who’s really responsible for your happiness.”

He chuckles, head thrown back like he’s made such a great joke. I’m not sure if I should laugh too. A few of his retainers join in. He must mean well, but it kind of feels like he’s mocking either me or Louis-Auguste or us both.

I glance around at the faces, trying to pick out Louis. I thought he would be front and center, but he isn’t. I think I’ll fry a hard drive if I have to wait another second to meet him. A few shoulders shuffle around to make an opening. I spot his dark-eyed brother, Stan, before I pick out the prince himself.

“Come on, boy,” says the king. “Greet your fiancée.”

His Majesté reaches back into the crowd and yanks on the dauphin, who stumbles just slightly as his grandfather practically shoves him at me.

Louis-Auguste catches himself quickly, drawing his shoulders and chin up. He’s as tall as he seemed on Pixter. Something about his soft face and stooping bow make it seem like he really wishes he were smaller.

I so wanted the sight of him to make me brave or at least release an insta-crush wave of nervous butterflies, but it doesn’t happen. He’s just . . . there. I curtsy to him while he bows.

As we both rise, our eyes meet and he blushes.

“Bienvenue, mademoiselle.” His voice is soft, as if we’re in a library instead of the courtyard of Versailles.

Why does he look so terrified of me? He messaged so we could break the ice, didn’t he? All I can think to do is reach out my arms and walk the few steps to hug him. I hope this shows him that more than anything, I want us to be friends.

It’s like hugging a tree, he’s so stiff. He barely moves his arms to put two hands gently on my back. I think he’s shaking a little.

Does he hate me because I’m Austro? He wouldn’t be the only Franc with a super-bias, but we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives! We’re going to rule the country together—have a family together!

If we were alone, I would take his hands to steady them. If we were alone, we could ask each other some of the hundred questions that are swirling around my brain and probably his too. But we’re not going to be alone until after we’re married.

Louis turns back to his grandfather. Apparently our greeting is over.

The king stretches his arms out in a grand gesture. “Well, young Miss Antoinette. Let us give you a proper welcome.”

The court whistles and claps. A little extra glow lights the courtyard from a hundred holofones as the courtiers start snapping pics. All my mama’s etiquette reminders spring to mind, but there are so many people I can’t tell who I should smile at. As a cruiser swoops low over  the palace, probably filming us, two squat worker droids shaped like discs scoot ahead of the king to attach to the golden front doors and swing them open. With barely a glance at me, Louis offers his arm and we step forward to enter Versailles.

“