In the glittering, postcard-perfect principality of Monaco, where diamonds might as well sprout from the cobblestones, a new Grimaldi princess was born, twinkling with the name Mia. She’s a sugar-spun confection of a creature, as delicate as lace and twice as enchanting, with a voice that drifts like the lull of a faraway flute, an absolute gem for a kingdom that costs more than a billion wishes.

Meanwhile, across the Channel, where the clouds sulk and the tea is strong enough to hold a grudge, another babe made his entrance. Coriolanus Snow, because, of course, only a name that frostbitten could fit someone born into the endlessly grey and stiff-lipped English monarchy.

And wouldn’t you know it, the stage is set for a match of royal marriage. Our Miss Mia, lounging in Paris at Angelina, spooning decadence from a porcelain cup, when who should glide over but Coriolanus himself, shadowed by bodyguards who think they’re invisible.

"Good afternoon, I’m Coriolanus," he murmurs, eyes flickering like moths, and with a flourish only slightly awkward, points to the chair. "Mind if I sit?"