Work Text:
Andy Sachs never has the opportunity to meet her father. He leaves her mother when Andy is little more than a tentative spark of life deep in the womb. Over the years, he sends presents for major life events. A music box for her fifth birthday. A tiara, of all things, for her tenth.
He signs the cards, “Dad.” His name, like everything else about him, is a mystery to his daughter.
She decides, in high school, that journalism is her future. She hates public speaking, but writing is her passion. And uncovering secrets—that’s something she’ll learn to do. Her best friend, Lily, is equally enthusiastic about investigative work.
She meets her paternal grandmother for the first time at her high school graduation. The impressively regal woman looks Andy up and down in unmistakable dismay. Andy’s not sure if she’s more horrified by her haircut, her cheap polyester graduation gown, or her Converse shoes. Still, Call-Me-Clarisse offers Andy an all-expenses-paid pre-college vacation to Genovia, which is so generous, but—
“Mom and I are backpacking through Europe all summer,” Andy explains. They’ve been planning this adventure for two years, sifting through websites about hostels and train schedules and hiking trails to construct the ultimate mother-daughter bonding trip. Their itinerary does not include Genovia, because Genovia doesn’t appear on most maps of Europe except as an insignificant blob. “Maybe some other time, though?”
Andy goes to college and excels. Lily, her roommate in the dorms and then in her first apartment, changes her major to art history. Andy, though, stays committed to writing, joining the school paper and working her way up the ranks through focus and hard work. She hits it off with a boy named Nate, who has ambitions of being a chef.
Call-Me-Clarisse reappears at Andy’s college graduation, and this time she’s got Andy’s mom on her side to make it clear the weirdly generous vacation to Genovia is no longer optional. So Andy flies first class for the first time and she and Lily spend six wonderful weeks exploring every corner of this tiny country, eating the famous pears straight off the tree, attending cricket games, getting lost in medieval streets, and visiting art galleries.
Andy stumbles upon a small protest regarding workers’ rights, which leads her to do some research into Genovian business practices. Before she knows it, she’s submitted an editorial to Genovia’s sole newspaper, Genovia Today, and the next day she’s receiving an irate phone call from Clarisse, who would very much like Andy to “keep a low profile.”
At the end of six weeks, a car arrives at the hotel to take Andy and Lily to the airport. Instead, it deposits them in front of a castle. Andy and Lily exchange a look.
A footman—an honest-to-God footman—escorts them to a small room where they find Clarisse and Andy’s mom seated at some kind of Arthurian round table.
“Lily, would you mind waiting outside?” Andy’s mom says.
“Why?” Lily laughs. “You don’t want me here while you break the news Andy’s a secret princess?” She reads the room. “Oh, shit.” She leaves them to it.
“You’re not serious,” Andy says, but by now she’s not really surprised. The man on the Genovian currency, King Richard, has Andy’s nose.
“You should sit down,” Dowager Queen Clarisse Renaldi tells her.
She and Andy’s mom take turns, then, explaining how Richard was a younger son, never expected to inherit the throne. They describe the whirlwind romance that led to a proposal and Andy’s conception (possibly not in that order—the details are fuzzy). Then, the death of Richard’s older brother, and the many, many conversations Richard shared with Andy’s mom about his duty to return to Genovia and assume the throne. Their debates regarding whether she would go with him, and marry him, and raise their child Genovian.
“We all agreed that we’d give you the most normal childhood we could, Andy,” her mom says, when the explanations are through and Andy’s head is spinning. She glances sidelong at Clarisse. “Your father and I promised your grandmother, though, that when you were old enough we would introduce you to Genovia and the possibility of a future here.”
Andy considers the euphemism. A future here. Royalty, and ruling. Making that strange little blob on the map her home.
She presses her palms against the arms of her uncomfortable, medieval chair. “Why isn’t he here?” she says, very quietly.
Her mom bites her lip.
“My son does not approve of me asking you to do this,” Clarisse admits. “And he felt it would be too difficult for everyone involved to see you—either of you—under these circumstances.”
Andy's brow furrows. “What, exactly, are you asking me to do?”
Her mom and Clarisse exchange a look.
“Clarisse would like you to…do some preparation,” her mom says. “Read some books. Study a little. You know, the kind of thing you already enjoy doing.”
“Preparation to become queen,” Andy says flatly.
“Preparation to maybe become queen, someday. A long, long time from now.”
“There are alternative heirs, Andrea,” Clarisse says. “You have distant cousins who would be acceptable in the role. But…” She sweeps her eyes over Andy and there’s no dismay this time, though her hair and Converses are about the same as they were four years ago. “I think you would do well here. Genovia would be lucky to have you.”
Six weeks in Genovia, and Andy is already more than a little in love with the place despite its many obvious flaws. Clarisse, she thinks, is clever, and conniving.
For graduate school, Andy was accepted to Stanford Law, but she chooses instead to attend Northwestern University in Chicago for her master’s degree in journalism. She becomes Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Northwestern, and in her free time attends the informal Clarisse Renaldi PhD program in the Benevolent Ruling of Genovia, which involves a great deal of assigned homework and self-imposed additional study.
She memorizes ranks and names and faces. She learns about laws and governance. She studies history that goes back over a thousand years. She develops a basic understanding of the botanical cross-breeding that led to the development of the famous Genovian pear. She subscribes to Genovia Today and devours all of the back issues she can find online.
She has vague fantasies about the day she will stand in front of her father for the first time. She wants him to be proud of her. She also wants him to revise many of his policies and make sweeping changes to Genovian law.
Clarisse attends Andy’s grad school graduation, and she is dressed all in black.
“No,” Andy says, and again, "no!" She has become an expert in Genovian customs and knows what this attire signifies.
Her mother’s face is tear-streaked.
Clarisse, always so regal and elegant, has aged a decade in two years. “I’m sorry, Andrea. Your father passed away two days ago, thrown from his horse. We haven’t informed the public yet. I wanted to tell you in person, first.”
Standing there in the last cap and gown she'll ever wear, Andy struggles to process the loss of something she has never had.
Later, over tea, a pale but poised Clarisse lays out the situation. For the time being, she will occupy the role of regent and see to the governance of the kingdom.
“Genovian law provides that the throne may remain unoccupied for a certain period of time while succession is determined."
“Eighteen months,” says Andy, who knows Genovia’s legal system backwards and forwards.
“Yes.”
It’s one of those strange, archaic laws that can only be found in strange, archaic monarchies.
“You’re saying I have a year and a half to decide,” Andy says. A year and a half to decide her future. A year and a half to decide Genovia's future.
“Yes. Well, a little less than that, to be precise.” Clarisse sweeps her eyes over Andy, from thick hair to worn sneakers, and sighs. “With guidance from some advisors, your mind would be ready for this role tomorrow, Andrea. Your appearance, however…that will take some time to repair.”
Andy tries, and fails, not to take offense at this.
Before she leaves, Clarisse tells them that Richard, just before he died, set aside funds to cover all of Andy’s student loans. Andy thinks about recent articles in Genovia Today regarding inequitable taxation and doesn’t know how to feel about that.
If Andy has a little less than a year and a half to make the decision that will determine the rest of her life, she intends to make the most of it. She packs up everything she owns, which isn't much, and drives to New York, where Nate and Lily moved immediately after undergrad. They’ve become close friends with an accountant named Doug, who quickly becomes fast friends with Andy as well, and immediately New York feels like home. She doesn’t think about the fact that Lily’s the only one who knows about her Genovian connection, or that she’s never tempted to tell Nate and Doug her secret.
She and Nate have been long distance for two years; with some reluctance, she agrees to move in with him rather than rooming with Lily, which is only one of many errors in judgment she makes over the next months.
A little less than a year and a half to see if she has the chops to make it as a journalist. The clock ticks. Andy hits the pavement running, armed with her résumé, her transcripts, and the national award for her series on the janitors' union.
Many doors open for her, at first. Then she arrives at the interviews and hears things like, “We’d love to have someone with your political perspective on our staff,” and she knows Clarisse has placed well-meaning phone calls that will, if Andy lets them, always leave her wondering whether she deserves what she’s been given.
Which is why she does not end up at the Times, or the Post, or the Mirror, and instead finds herself interviewing at Runway—a fashion magazine—of all places.
Everyone keeps telling Andy how terrible her sense of fashion is. A niggling voice at the back of her brain says they're right, but she's only got eighteen months; there are more important things to worry about.
The interview is horrible, so bad that Andy’s tempted not to take the job even after Emily catches up to her with the surprising offer. She doesn’t need it, after all. She could catch a plane to Genovia tomorrow.
But…she has to take the job. She saw the disdainful sneer on Miranda Priestly’s face during that interview. She wasn’t offered this job because of her résumé or her transcripts or her national award. Nor was she offered the job because of a well-placed phone call. The only reason she was offered this job is because she stood there, looked the intimidating Editor-in-Chief in the eye, and insisted she was smart enough to pull this off. If she leaves now, Miranda Priestly will think—rightly—that she’s running away.
Andy Sachs doesn’t run away.
She's not sure whether it makes her determined, or just plain foolish, that she stays and endures weeks, months, of abuse. Not just from Miranda, who sweeps her disdainful eyes over Andy’s body daily, but from Emily and all of the other clackers who wonder what the hell a poorly-dressed size six elephant like Andy is doing at Runway.
The clock ticks. One year as Miranda Priestly’s assistant is supposed to earn her a job at any publication she wants, which means she might, if she’s lucky, eke out six months at a newspaper before she has to make the big decision.
“Six weeks,” Clarisse says one day during the weekly call to get Andy up to speed on what's happening in Genovia and, more importantly, make sure Andy hasn’t changed her name and absconded to Arkansas.
With the time difference, Andy can only talk to Clarisse during work hours. “I’m sorry?” she replies quietly, with a glance at Miranda's office to see if her voice is bothering the editor, who seems to be using her red pen an awful lot on an essay Runway solicited from Gloria Steinem, of all people.
“We said eighteen months originally, Andrea, but we’ll need to save six weeks on the back end for styling and deportment. I'm sorry. I know that isn’t what you want to hear.”
Miranda draws a vicious red line. Andy, in that moment, empathizes completely.
Three days after this conversation, Andy’s mom comes to visit. She listens worriedly as Andy rants about her impossible job, her impossible boss, and the impossible decision that lies ahead of her. They have tickets to Chicago, but those plans are derailed when Andy ends up spending the whole evening unsuccessfully trying to arrange Miranda a flight through a hurricane.
She’s ready to quit the next morning. A talk with Nigel, though, and the memory of her recent conversation with Clarisse, leads to a stroke of genius instead.
Under Nigel’s guidance, she raids the Closet. She spends most of her next paycheck on a visit to a stylist Jocelyn recommends. She borrows six books on deportment from the library.
The results are gratifying.
Nigel whistles. “Am I, or am I not, one hell of a fairy godmother?”
Serena, Emily’s usual co-conspirator, gives her an appreciative grin. “You look good, Andy. Let me know if you ever want to get dinner.”
Emily sniffs and says, “At least you’ve gotten rid of that wretched sweater.”
Of course, the response that pleases Andy most is Miranda’s. She tries not to think too often about how Miranda makes her feel. The way Miranda’s eyes have a visceral effect on her body. How simple proximity to Miranda makes her heart pound in a way that isn’t entirely, or even mostly, a result of fear.
The day after Andy’s transformation, Miranda’s eyes don’t sweep up and down her body. They drag their way from her head to her feet, like fingers trailing along bare skin. And when Andy turns to walk away, she can feel those eyes glued to her ass.
Maybe there's something to be said for this fashion stuff, after all.
The clock ticks. Andy, after a little hiccup involving the frenzied, frantic acquisition of an unpublished Harry Potter book, writes several more scathing editorials for Genovia Today under a pseudonym. These editorials are so well-received that the paper reaches out to ask whether she has journalistic credentials, and if so, whether she has any interest in writing a weekly column for the paper.
She does. She spends late evenings at the office, waiting for the Book, studying current events in Genovia and drafting her column, which sometimes takes the side of the throne—of Clarisse—and more often does not. She expands her research beyond Genovia to study the structure of other governments. She writes an entire series criticizing Genovia’s strangest and most archaic laws.
In the meantime, Andy becomes the best assistant Miranda Priestly has ever had. She is confident that this is neither hubris nor exaggeration. Her friends mock Andy's hard work and fierce dedication; they don't understand that what she receives in exchange is worth everything she has to sacrifice in order to excel at this job.
Years of prestigious schooling, and these months as a low-paid PA are the best education she’s ever had: observing Miranda is a master class in how to be absolute ruler of one's domain.
She admires Miranda’s attention to detail, her drive for perfection. Sometimes, she imagines Miranda on the Genovian throne and all that she would be able to accomplish in that small blob of a country. She takes literal notes on the many ways Miranda finds to keep her underlings so firmly under heel, always bending over backwards to ask, “How high?” It's clear to her that Miranda, in tearing people down, forces them to be better than they were.
She sees, too, Miranda’s casual, needless cruelty. Her isolation, as queen of this kingdom. The simmering frustration that always precludes contentment.
She studies Miranda’s wayward forelock and wonders, constantly, whether it is as soft as it looks.
The clock ticks, and Andy feels Nate slipping away. He doesn’t like how consumed she is by her job. He feels she’s becoming someone he doesn’t recognize.
He doesn’t know the half of it.
Miranda catches Andy perusing Genovia Today one evening. In fact, Andy’s not sure how long Miranda’s been leaning over her shoulder, watching her scroll the site, before she notices her.
“Strange choice of reading material,” Miranda observes, sauntering into her office as if she hasn’t just given Andy heart palpitations.
Andy smiles weakly. “It’s an interesting country.”
“God forbid you read Runway and actually learn something useful for your job." Miranda dons her reading glasses and picks up a glossy photograph, eyeing it with distaste. "Get me Patrick.”
Andy isn’t expected to attend the Met Gala, but then Emily catches a "viral plague" (Miranda is funny, sometimes) and suddenly Andy’s presence is required. She spends the day memorizing a binder of names and faces, lets Nigel dress her, submits to the Runway team’s styling, and tries not to feel guilty over not feeling guilty about missing Nate’s birthday.
The Gala is, of course, a fabulous event, and Miranda is in her element. Andy loves watching the way she glows under the attention, turning on the charm as the movers and shakers of the world come to pay homage to the high queen of fashion.
Andy doesn’t have much to do for the first twenty minutes or so, with Emily eager to fulfill her role as first assistant. When she stumbles over a name, though, Andy steps in to help, and after that she finds herself close enough to breathe Miranda’s perfume for a good long while. When she actually recognizes the regal figure who glides up to them next, she chokes on that lovely scent.
Miranda tilts her head, waiting for the reminder. Andy coughs. “Um, Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia.”
Miranda smiles her false smile. “Clarisse, how wonderful to see you.” She offers her patented air kisses.
“Miranda, always a pleasure,” Clarisse greets. Her eyes flit past Miranda and widen. “Andrea!" She says Andy’s name with the usual pronunciation, not the strange, lovely inflection that is Miranda’s alone. "You look…wonderful.” She sounds both sincere and stunned by Andy’s transformation.
As awkward as it is to receive such a compliment in front of Miranda Priestly, of all people, Andy has been thirsty for praise from her grandmother for years. She beams. “Hi, Clarisse.”
Miranda is quite still, like a viper startled from slumber. “You know each other?”
Andy isn’t ready for the I’m-a-secret-princess reveal now, or perhaps ever.
Clarisse has already agreed to respect her wishes on this point, and says, simply, “Yes. It was lovely to see you both. Come, Joseph, I wish to dance.” She sets her hand on her escort's arm and departs.
A B-list actor and his girlfriend swagger up as Miranda turns to pin Andy with a glare, and Andy has never been more grateful for an interruption.
As the evening progresses, Andy loses herself in an absurd fantasy: it is one year later, the next Met Gala, and Emily—or the next Emily—is leaning towards Miranda and whispering, “Queen Andrea Sachs Renaldi of Genovia.”
“Andrea,” Miranda murmurs warmly, and takes her hands, and brushes her lips against Andy’s cheek.
The craziest thing about the fantasy is that it could actually happen. Minus the hand-holding and warmth and cheek kissing, that is.
Andy’s competence at the Gala is the tipping point; afterwards, Miranda invites Andy to Paris Fashion Week, on the condition that Andy, in turn, un-invite Emily.
Andy goes for a long walk and agonizes over what to do. The clock ticks, louder and louder now. She’s been at Runway eight months. She has less than ten months until she must give Clarisse her answer. At least she’s pretty sure, after that Met Gala encounter á la Eliza Doolittle, that at this stage they’ll be able to skip the six weeks of styling and deportment.
Can she really take this opportunity away from Emily, she wonders. Go to Paris in her place?
She wants to, and that desire flies in the face of everything she's always believed about herself.
She ponders what will happen if she doesn’t go. Miranda won’t fire her, not for this. But Andy pictures her in that off-the-shoulder sweater, so relaxed and comfortable in her home office, and knows she’ll never see Miranda like that again, not if she refuses this opportunity. If she passes on Paris, she will remain Miranda’s insignificant second assistant until her year at Runway is up and she moves on.
Of course, she could always hop on a plane to Genovia tomorrow, but that would be running away.
Andy Sachs doesn’t run away.
She stabs Emily in the back. Emily is more upset about this than the actual car that hits her the same day.
Andy and Nate break up. It's long overdue.
“Is it because of the queen-of-Genovia thing?” Lily asks, suspicious. “Or is it the Miranda Priestly thing?”
Andy can tell that only one of these options is forgivable in Lily’s eyes. When she doesn’t answer, the chasm between them becomes too wide.
Paris Fashion Week starts off overwhelming and wonderful and ends overwhelming and awful. Miranda’s husband, the absolute dickwad, faxes divorce papers instead of showing up, which is the most passive-aggressive thing Andy’s ever heard. Andy makes a poor, Christian Thompson-shaped decision. Miranda screws Nigel over to save herself.
The worst part about the Nigel thing, Andy thinks, gazing at Miranda standing up at that podium, is how happy Miranda looks right now. She isn’t happy, of course, but anyone not privy to the hellish 24 hours Miranda has had would never be able to tell, not with how she preens in the spotlight. To Nigel, it must seem as if she’s reveling in his loss.
Later, in the car, Miranda explains herself. This is as much of a shock as anything else that has happened today, but Andy can’t bring herself to appreciate the novelty of the experience.
“I must say,” Miranda says, looking at Andy with those eyes that have always had a tangible effect on her, “I was impressed with you, how intently you tried to warn me.”
She compares Andy to herself. It is intended as a compliment, and Andy takes it that way, but it is also a terrible warning. Miranda means to imply that someday Andy can achieve a level of success comparable to Miranda’s. She doesn’t know that Andy already has that power at her fingertips, just waiting for her to reach out, and take it, and abuse it.
Andy tries to protest—to herself as much as to Miranda—but Miranda reminds her of Emily. Of how callously Andy stole Emily’s dream.
She thinks of Miranda’s needless cruelty. Her isolation. The simmering frustration that always precludes contentment. She wonders how much Andy Sachs has in common with Miranda, and whether Genovia would thrive or perish with a Miranda Priestly on its throne.
She stares helplessly at Miranda, at her high cheekbones and red lips and that enticing, disobedient forelock. “What if this isn’t what I want?”
Miranda is the one to look away, turning to gaze out the window at the passing lights. There's something hollow about the way she says, “Don’t be silly, Andrea. This is what everyone wants. Everyone wants to be us.”
The car rolls to a stop. Abruptly, Miranda’s face transforms, taking on the false, smiling mask she uses to greet her adoring fans.
She goes out one door. Andy goes out the other, and keeps going, and does not look back.
The Editor-in-Chief of Genovia Today is thrilled to set up an interview with his mystery political columnist when she emails about the possibility of a full-time job.
Andy hops on a flight, economy class, to Genovia. She does not tell Lily, her mother, Clarisse, or anyone else. She rents a small flat in the heart of the city and arrives at the meeting fifteen minutes early.
She feels it necessary to be upfront with her potential employer. Integrity, after all, is key not only to her future career but to the person she is desperate to be. She explains some things about herself, off the record, and watches his eyes get wider and wider.
“You're either a lunatic just escaped from an insane asylum,” he says slowly, “or…”
The “or” is too preposterous to verbalize, really.
“I’m looking for a full-time position,” Andy says. She crosses her knees, comfortable in her True Religion jeans and leather jacket.
“If what you say is true, you already have one.” He waves in the vague direction of the castle.
She grimaces. “There’s still nine months before the succession has to be written in stone. I can do a lot of good here in nine months.”
“You think you can do more at the Today than you can as queen?” He sounds intrigued rather than skeptical, perhaps a little impressed. He shrugs. “Maybe you can, at that. I’ll tell you our circulation has spiked since you started writing for us.”
"Give me a chance," Andy says. "There's so much that needs to be said."
He looks at her for a long time. “You know, I called Runway for a reference after you asked for this interview.”
She winces.
“Standard policy. I talked to some snooty girl, and next thing I knew I was getting a fax from Miranda Priestly herself.”
Andy's adrenaline spikes. “Really? What did she say?”
“Of all the assistants she’s had, you are by far her biggest disappointment. And if I don’t hire you, I’m an idiot.”
Andy breaks into a grin.
“She also said to give you this.”
He hands her a slip of paper with a phone number written on it. Andy recognizes the number. It’s not one she would ever have imagined receiving in this context.
Job offer in hand, she leaves the building in a daze. She spends some time wandering the city, reacquainting herself after her long absence, before settling in at an outdoor café. She places her phone (a recent acquisition) on the table beside the paper with Miranda’s number on it. She orders a pear tart and an espresso.
The number, she decides, is not an invitation or an offer. It is a command.
She sips the espresso, which is fine, and nibbles the tart, which is exceptional.
She picks up her phone, saves Miranda’s number as a new contact, and calls.
“Yes,” is the distracted response. Given the time difference, Miranda should be in the car on the way to the office.
“Miranda,” Andy says, and takes another small bite, “have you ever tried a Genovian pear?”
She waits for it: Andrea, have you lost your mind?
“Andrea. Of course,” Miranda replies, and now she doesn’t sound distracted at all.
“Wasn’t it the best pear you’ve ever eaten?”
“The ones I’ve consumed have been acceptable.”
“That’s high praise from you. And they don’t even export their highest quality pears, unlike a lot of fruit markets, so if you want the best of the best you have to actually try them in Genovia. I’m telling you, they’re out of this world.” To emphasize this point, Andy swallows the last bite of her tart and hums with pleasure.
“I have been to Genovia on more than one occasion,” Miranda informs her dryly.
For some reason, Andy finds this disappointing. “Oh.”
“I take it from this call that you have safely arrived in that blip of a country and obtained a position at the local rag.”
Andy interprets this as a statement of near-concern rather than an insult to her new home and employer. “That’s correct.”
There’s a pause. “I did not blacklist you in New York, Andrea. You did not need to flee across the Atlantic to escape my wrath. I wanted you to know that.”
So that’s why Miranda gave Greg at Today her number. She must have been perplexed to receive a request for a reference from a paper in Genovia, of all places.
“I never thought you did,” Andy assures her. “I have family in Genovia. They’ve been pressuring me to move here, and this seemed like as good a time as any.”
The clock ticks.
Miranda sighs. “Genovia is a beautiful country, Andrea—I actually own a summer home there—but there are limited opportunities for a woman such as yourself, with some modicum of ability. You will never meet your full potential at Genovia Today. New York is really a much better fit.”
It almost sounds as if Miranda wants her to come back. Which is absurd, because Andy abandoned her job in the least professional way possible. She ran away, which was the one thing she swore to herself she would never do. Also, she threw her phone in a fountain like a two-year-old.
“I’m not saying I’ll never move back to New York,” Andy says, even though she’s afraid it’s probably true, “but Genovia’s the right place for me right now. And hey, I’ve been writing for Genovia Today for a while, so I’ve got an established presence to build on. That’s kind of nice.”
“Hm.” Miranda sounds distracted again. Andy can tell she’s about to lose her.
“Listen, about the way I left in Paris—”
“Give my regards to Clarisse Renaldi if you see her, won’t you?” Miranda ends the call.
Fortunately, the next few weeks are far too hectic for Andy to spend much time thinking about Miranda Priestly. (Only about thirty minutes a day.) Writing a weekly column was one thing, but joining the bullpen of a paper—even a small one—is a different learning curve.
Andy’s smart, though, and determined. She adapts quickly. The other reporters are cautious of her, and then curious, and then accepting. Greg tells them there’s something big coming down the pipe and that Andy’s part of it and that they aren’t to go digging until he gives the okay.
Andy slowly, steadily develops a reputation around town. She gets along with shop owners, the police, the protestors. Pretty much everyone except the very rich, whom she frequently lambasts. People like her. They trust her.
She has given up her pseudonym and goes by Andrea Sachs once again, which means that Clarisse knows where she is and what she is doing. Clarisse does not contact Andy, and Andy does not contact Clarisse.
The clock ticks, and the deadline starts to feel real. Andy realizes there will come a time, soon, when she will have to tell the world who she is, and take the throne. Or not tell the world and continue as she’s been. Or tell the world, but let her oaf of a second cousin Tyler become king and run the country into the ground in five minutes.
All of her options suck, basically.
There is one store in town that offers a few of copies of Runway each time there's a new issue. Andy always makes sure to snag one. She likes flipping through the pages and admiring their artistry, but most of all she enjoys reading the Letter from the Editor and remembering the way Miranda’s voice used to brush down her spine like a promise. She wonders if she'll ever hear that voice again.
This question is answered in the form of a buzzing cell phone in the middle of the night.
“Whuzzat?” Andy mumbles, eyes still closed.
“That is hardly an appropriate way to answer the phone, Andrea,” Miranda informs her.
Andy struggles out of her blankets to sit up, wrestling her mind to some semblance of wakefulness. “Miranda? It’s midnight.”
“Nonsense. It’s 6 p.m.”
“Not in Genovia.”
“Who on Earth operates on Genovian time?”
Andy refrains from pointing out the obvious and instead asks, with immense patience, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I want to know how you know Clarisse Renaldi.” Miranda says this calmly, as she is always calm, but Andy has the strong sense that she has been stewing over this question for weeks.
“I told you I have family in Genovia,” Andy reminds her. “It’s a small country.” Both of these things are true. The second is unrelated to the first.
There’s a pause while Miranda contemplates. “As a journalist in that country, I’m sure you’re aware that there will be a coronation in Genovia later this year.”
Eight months. The clock ticks.
“October at the latest,” Andy agrees.
“I have had a, shall we say, vision about the November issue of Runway.”
Andy has no idea where this conversation is going. “Okay…”
“September and October are the height of the Genovian pear season. The Genovian countryside will be particularly spectacular at that time of year. I have decided the central Runway spread—most likely Prada, but we’ll have to wait and see—for November will be shot in Genovia. We’ll need to include pictures of the new king, as well—hopefully he isn’t as ghastly as that fellow in Monaco. I’ll want a feature article about the coronation, of course. A local journalist would be a good fit, if we can find one with a shred of ability.”
It is only long experience with Miranda that enables Andy to follow this dizzying monologue. Andy furrows her brow and processes.
“Andrea?” Miranda prompts. “Do keep me waiting all evening. I have nothing better to do.”
That’s rich, coming from someone who wasn’t just woken from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream involving a tangle of limbs and a soft white forelock.
“I mean, that sounds great,” Andy says, fumbling for a reply. “Genovia could really benefit from the income a Runway photoshoot would bring.”
“Yes, I did receive that impression from your column about the government’s gross mismanagement of funds.”
Andy takes a moment and chooses not to remark on the extraordinary implication that Miranda reads her column in Genovia Today.
“In terms of a local reporter to cover the coronation, I can try to get you some names,” Andy goes on.
Miranda scoffs. “My team is perfectly capable of acquiring lists of names, Andrea. I already have a particular reporter in mind.”
Andy reads between the lines and bites her lip, smiling. “So what is it you need from me?”
“Genovia is too small for a formal Elias-Clarke presence. Runway will require a liaison to organize everything on the ground level, including coordinating with the regent. You and Clarisse Renaldi appear to be on cordial terms.”
Andy thinks about some of her recent articles and wonders if that’s still true. “I guess you could say that.” Her brain catches up to everything else Miranda just said. “Wait, you want me to be your liaison?”
“You’re ideally situated for the role, one would think.”
“I have a full-time job.”
“You were asleep at 6 p.m., Andrea. Clearly, your new position leaves you with plenty of time to take on side projects.”
Andy wonders if it is possible to smother oneself with a pillow.
“It will be a paid position.” Anyone else in Miranda's Manolos might make an effort to sound persuasive; Miranda just seems irritated. “Nigel and Emily are looking forward to working with you on this.”
Andy snorts. “Nigel, I’ll believe. Emily, not so much.”
“Will you do it, or not?”
“Tell me something, first.”
“What?” Miranda huffs.
“How are you? How are the girls?” Andy has been dying to know how they’re handling everything. The divorce, the near-mutiny. It's been agony, going from seeing Miranda every day to never seeing her at all.
Miranda sucks in a breath. “We are—well. We will be well.” Her voice is soft, like a caress.
Andy smiles. “I’m really glad to hear that.” Her smile fades. She knows she’s going to regret this. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Thankfully, the liaison position doesn’t really require Andy to interact with Clarisse at all. Instead, she applies for permits from the public works department—and then writes a column about the inefficiencies in the system—and scouts locations around the city, sending snapshots to Nigel, who is baffled by Miranda’s decision to pour the bulk of the year’s budget into a photoshoot in an insignificant blob on a map of Europe.
Greg, Andy’s boss, is thrilled by Andy’s ongoing connection with Runway. He proposes a shared feature article regarding the coronation and thinks it would be a fantastic idea, really, for said article to be written by the object, or potential object, of said coronation.
“Anyone else would have to wait for the formal announcement to write the feature,” he points out. “You’re literally the only person who already knows the outcome.”
She doesn't correct this erroneous assumption.
The clock ticks. The permits come back, approved. Miranda rejects all of the locations Andy suggested. Andy sends an extremely sarcastic email suggesting that Miranda come see them for herself.
There’s a growing anti-monarchy movement in Genovia. The protestors gather in public squares, waving signs that often bear quotes from Andy’s articles. Because Genovia has strange, archaic laws, there is no right to free speech or public assembly, and the protestors are regularly rounded up, held overnight, and sent home in the morning like escaped pets.
Andy is often among them. She uses most of her Runway liaison money to provide lunch to her fellow protestors. The third time she is arrested, she is not released with the others. Instead, she is brought to the castle.
Clarisse waits for her in the same room where Andy once learned she was a secret princess. The regent looks tired, yet her posture is painfully correct as she watches Andy slouch into a chair.
“If you have such a problem with how I’m running things, Andrea, you're welcome to assume the throne tomorrow,” Clarisse says in lieu of a greeting. “This eighteen-month delay is for you, not for me.”
Andy rubs her forehead tiredly. “If I take over tomorrow, I become part of the problem. You’re doing your best, Clarisse. I know that. But the system is rigged.”
Clarisse's eyebrows draw together. She scrutinizes Andy's face as if she's looking for the answer to a riddle. “You’re so much like your father,” she says, both a compliment and a curse.
After that, the police stop arresting the protestors. The protests grow.
“I hear there’s political unrest in Genovia,” Miranda says on another out-of-the-blue, it’s-only-6-p.m.-in-New-York call. “Should I be concerned?”
“For the Genovian monarchy? Yes,” Andy says, rolling over in bed and snuggling into her pillow. “For Runway? I can’t see why.”
“Did that chef you were dating move to Genovia with you?”
The change of topic is dizzying, but that’s Miranda.
“No. We broke up before Paris.”
“Hm. I suppose you’ve met quite a few eligible, unshowered bachelors at these protests you’ve been instigating?”
“I’ve met a lot of people,” Andy says, wondering if Miranda’s really asking what it sounds like she’s asking. For some reason, she feels the need to add: “Eligible bachelors and bachelorettes, both. But I haven’t met someone.”
A hesitation. “I should hope not. Genovia is such a small country, I'd think any full-blooded citizen is likely the product of centuries of inbreeding.”
Andy shudders at that particular mental image. She’s never been a hypochondriac, but now she wonders what horrible diseases lurk in her DNA if her great-grandparents were first cousins or something like that.
“What about you?” Andy says. “I don’t pass Page Six on the street any more, so I haven’t seen the headlines. Is there a new Mr. Priestly on the horizon?”
Miranda breathes a laugh. “Hardly. I haven’t yet rid myself of the current Mr. Priestly—on paper, at least.”
“Being single’s not so bad.”
“It’s far worse to be single and actively married than it is to be single and divorced,” Miranda muses, which is one of the saddest things Andy has ever heard.
“Six months until the shoot,” Miranda adds briskly. “You’d better have everything ready, Andrea. We cannot afford mistakes.”
The clock ticks.
Some of the lesser nobility, driven by demands from their constituents, begin making noises in court about instituting a constitution. Andy approves wholeheartedly, and spearheads an initiative to gather additional suggestions through the Genovia Today website.
A few of the protestors noticed that Andy was taken to the castle when they were last arrested. One, an elderly man who has had three businesses go bankrupt over the course of his life, waits a few weeks to make the rather loud observation, in the middle of the crowd, “You know, you have the Renaldi nose.”
Most of the people around them laugh it off. A few take a closer look at her, suspicious, but then they remember what she’s done and set their concerns aside.
The summer solstice hits and Andy’s mom comes to visit. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” she says as they walk arm-in-arm around the formerly quiet courtyards and public squares, now packed with Genovians waving signs and chanting about rights and accountability.
“Do you think Dad would be angry about what I’m doing to his country?” Andy says. She wonders this often, but cannot bring herself to ask Clarisse the same question.
“Oh, honey.” Her mom squeezes her bicep. “I think he would have done it himself, if he could’ve figured out how. I think you’re able to do it so effectively because you’re not part of this system. You see all of its weaknesses.”
Her mom joins her for a drive through the countryside. They put Nigel on speaker and try to describe what they’re seeing, but it’s impossible, even for someone of Andy’s linguistic skill, to accurately portray the rolling fields, the many different hues of green and blue, the serenity that feels like home.
Her mom departs, and several days later, Andy receives a phone call at the shockingly reasonable hour of 6 p.m. Genovia time.
“Hi, Miranda.”
“We’ll need a reservation,” Miranda says, as if they are picking up mid-conversation. “Better make it for 7:15.”
“I think you have the wrong number. This is Andy, not Emily.”
“Why on Earth would you think I meant to call Emily? When have I ever called you by accident?”
Andy pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Wait. Just—why do you need me to make a reservation? I’m not your assistant, Miranda.”
“No, you are not,” Miranda says. “You’re my liaison in Genovia. I am in Genovia. So, liaise.”
Dear lord, Miranda is in Genovia.
“7:15,” Andy says. “Got it. The reservation is for…?”
“Must I spell everything out for you? Caroline, Cassidy, myself, and I suppose you’d better join us. Honestly, Andrea, you invited me here. I'd think you'd be more prepared.”
Andy bites back a laugh. “I’ll get back to you.”
An hour later finds them in Andy’s favorite Genovian restaurant, a cozy family establishment whose owner believes both that Andy is in need of fattening up and that Andy should be his future daughter-in-law.
Andy tries not to stare too hard at the three Priestlys, so far from home. Caroline and Cassidy, the little demons, wrinkle their noses as they look around. Miranda, perched awkwardly on her wooden chair in haute couture, sticks out like a sore thumb.
She is stunning. Deadly. Andy is a Miranda addict, and this first hit, after months of withdrawal, is every bit as euphoric and dangerous as one would expect from an illegal drug.
“What’s good here, Andy?” Caroline asks, looking over the menu of unfamiliar Genovian dishes.
“Everything,” Andy says, admiring Miranda.
Miranda stares back, long and burning. Her iceberg eyes drift slowly across Andy’s torso, taking in her cleavage (a bit more exposed than usual, tonight), down to her waist (mostly concealed by the table), and back to her neck. Andy’s wearing her nicest designer outfit, which is still several steps down from the things she used to borrow from the Closet.
The food lives up to Andy’s promises, despite—or perhaps because of—the fact that all of the dishes come with Genovia’s ubiquitous pear sauce. Andy has been here long enough now to think that perhaps pear sauce does not need to accompany every appetizer, entrée, and dessert. She is careful never to say this in public. One of those strange, archaic laws makes it legal to challenge someone to a duel for insulting Genovian pears.
Caroline and Cassidy ooh and aah over their food, though, and even Miranda seems pleased by her steak with a pear glaze, so Andy counts the outing as a win, though Miranda’s lips purse very tightly when Marco, the owner, returns their billfold with a grin and an exuberant, “Andy, when are you going to call my poor son? He’s pining.”
Andy snorts. “If he pines, it’s only because he’s a tree. If you can convince him to read something in my paper other than the comics, maybe I’ll give him a call.”
Outside, Miranda sneers at her. “I had no idea your standards for a mate were so low. Is 'passably literate' really the bar?"
Andy rolls her eyes. “I had no idea you were so concerned about my mating standards. Hey, you guys are staying at your summer home, right? Is it in the city?”
“We—yes. Just outside the city, actually.” Miranda waves at an idling town car. “Bobbseys, Cara will take you home. Be good for her, won’t you?”
“Okay.”
“Love you, Mommy.”
Caroline and Cassidy clamber into the car and disappear into the night.
“Cara’s been sitting in that car all evening?” Andy says, astonished.
“It was your suggestion that I take this working vacation, Andrea,” Miranda says, which is the second time she's acted as if Come and see for yourself; it's not like you've got anything better to do was a genuine invitation. “The girls have been asking to visit the summer house and I felt the need to see in person these inadequate locations you’ve been scouting for us.” She glances around. “I presume you have a vehicle nearby?”
Andy leads her to her beaten-up Volkswagen Bug—Genovia doesn’t have car manufacturers of its own, so Andy went German—and holds the passenger door open. Miranda passes her with a cloud of perfume that makes Andy close her eyes, lightheaded, and clutch the door.
“Andrea?”
She hurries around to the driver’s side and eases in. “It’s too late to see the countryside tonight, but I can show you some of the sites I was thinking about in the city.”
“Fine.”
Andy begins to drive. The capital city of Genovia, which is also called Genovia, is magical at night. There’s a fairy tale charm here. Even Miranda isn’t immune to it, if her quiet contemplation is anything to go by.
Andy takes her to the market, where hundreds of merchants assemble to sell their wares during the day. It’s dark and quiet at night, but the sea of multi-colored tents still feel like something from a story.
“I’ll need to see it in the daylight,” Miranda murmurs.
“Of course.”
The main street winds along one of the most popular public squares for the protestors. Andy’s Bug has become well-known in these parts, so she slows as they pass and rolls down the window.
“Andy!” says Fanny, a middle-aged woman whose son was recently conscripted into Genovia’s obsolete navy. (Genovia, after all, is landlocked.) “We didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“Just passing through,” Andy says. “How were the sandwiches today?”
"Delicious, especially with the Genovian pear shavings. Thanks for having them sent. You're always looking out for everyone." Fanny reaches into the car to clutch Andy's wrist. "Honestly, we'd never have gotten this far without you."
A few feet later, she stops the car again when Constable Franklin gives her a nod. “Ms. Sachs, good to see you.”
Andy grins crookedly. “Keeping your handcuffs to yourself, right, Alex?”
“As long as those’re still the orders from on high.” He waves in the direction of the castle. “You have a good night, now. Keep out of trouble.” He thumps the top of the Bug and sends them on their way.
As she drives, Andy can feel Miranda’s incredulous stare burning a hole in the side of her head. “You seem to have made yourself quite at home here.”
Andy shrugs with one shoulder and shares more than she means to: “This is my Runway.”
There’s a small hill just on the edge of town. Andy’s tried to capture it with her little camera, but her photography skills can’t do it justice. Miranda breathes slowly and evenly as they gaze out over the lights of the city, with its medieval architecture and modern technology.
“Oh,” Miranda says. “Very well, Andrea. You were right. This will do nicely.”
Andy takes Miranda to her summer house, which should be a simple matter and instead involves six wrong turns and a drive up a long gravel road to a house that turns out to belong to a gruff man with an angry dog.
Maybe the confusion regarding directions is just because Miranda hasn’t been here for a few years, Andy tells herself, enjoying the way Miranda’s cheeks pinken. Or maybe, although this seems impossible, it's because Miranda has never actually been to this house before.
“Just how long have you had this summer home?” Andy asks, squinting at her.
The flush deepens. “What an irrelevant question. I will see you tomorrow, Andrea.”
The next morning, she introduces Miranda to an ecstatic Greg, who insists that Andy make herself fully available to Miranda for as long as she needs. Andy is not imagining Miranda’s evil little smirk at this declaration.
“Hey Andy,” one of her coworkers asks as she and Miranda make their way out, “what’s your dad’s name?”
“Richard,” she calls back.
It’s a common name. They can do with it what they will.
It’s almost as if she’s Miranda’s assistant again, except that it was rarely just Andy-and-Miranda back in those days. But it’s Andy-and-Miranda now, as Andy takes Miranda on long drives through the countryside, pointing out various landmarks and the farmers who’ve proven eager to offer their land as backdrops. It’s Andy-and-Miranda who flit from restaurant to restaurant so Miranda can sample the different (Genovian pear-based) catering offerings Runway may come to expect. And it’s Andy-and-Miranda who visit Genovia’s two luxury clothing stores and emerge with armfuls of couture for Andy, which Miranda insists is part of her payment for acting as liaison.
“Really, Andrea, if you’re going to represent Runway, even in a backwater such as this, I expect you to dress the part.”
Miranda doesn't use her Elias-Clarke corporate card, though. It's her personal AmEx she hands the star-struck sales associate.
It’s Andy-and-Miranda-and-the-kids who go to dinner each night. Two nights, Miranda returns home with the twins afterwards, and Andy tells herself she is not devastated. The others, Miranda sends Caroline and Cassidy off with their nanny and then takes Andy off on one manufactured errand or another.
“What are you hearing about the succession?” Miranda asks on the last night of her trip.
They’ve left her rented Lamborghini outside of the restaurant. (Andy is a little worried that if the protestors ever take an off-with-her-head approach, Miranda might be the first to say, “Let them eat cake.”) Now, they are strolling among lamp-lit streets, trading bites of a small gelato. Genovian gelato is not as good as Italian gelato, of course. Genovian pear gelato, however…
“It’ll be decided in a little over three months,” Andy says.
“Surely there are rumors regarding who will take the crown. You’re an investigative reporter, aren’t you? Haven’t you been in contact with Clarisse?”
“It’s complicated," Andy explains. "There are six heirs with strong claims to the throne. The most qualified, unfortunately, is last in line. The least qualified is second. First in line has proven quite reticent to take the job. No one's sure what she'll decide.”
Andy has been trying to draft the feature article Miranda and Greg press ganged her into writing. So far, the words won’t come.
The clock ticks.
Coincidentally, or perhaps not, they come to a stop outside of Andy’s building.
“You’ll be back for the photoshoot, won’t you?” Andy asks, shoving her hands deep in her pockets to keep herself from doing something she'll regret.
“You think I would leave something this important in the hands of someone else? Honestly, Andrea.” Though the words are scathing, the tone is not. Miranda’s face is almost soft, and there’s a definite upward curve to her lovely, lovely lips.
“You’ve done acceptable work for us so far,” Miranda goes on. “After this is over, you will be more than qualified for any number of editorial or managerial roles at various publications in New York.”
Miranda's been dropping hints like this all week. Andy is flattered and charmed, and terrified of disappointing her.
“I’ll have to wait and see what the future holds,” Andy hedges.
She rocks back and forth on her heels, a little surprised when Miranda doesn’t shut down the conversation and leave with her usual abruptness. She licks her lips and, ever so tentatively, offers, “I have some Genovian pear brandy upstairs. Would you like—”
Miranda takes Andy by the hips, pulls her in, and kisses her.
Thirty seconds later, Miranda presses her forehead to Andy’s and breathes, “I am so very tired of the taste of Genovian pears, Andrea.”
“Okay,” Andy says, wondering when, exactly, her hand slid under Miranda’s shirt to caress the warm skin of her lower back, and how high, or low, that hand is allowed to go.
Miranda kisses her again. She does this in the same way she does everything else, with intensity and utter focus. Her tongue touches Andy’s and Andy moans, long and deep. Miranda breaks the kiss, her breathing ragged.
“I would very much like to go upstairs,” she says in a husky voice that makes Andy go a little cross-eyed.
“Okay,” Andy says again, abandoning the stubborn clasp of Miranda’s bra for now, and grabs Miranda’s hand, and pulls her inside.
The next day, Andy escorts Miranda and the girls (and Cara) to the airport. There are no direct flights from Genovia to the United States; they’ll have a brief layover in London before continuing to Newark.
“It was fun, Andy,” Cassidy says, giving her an unexpected hug.
“We really like the new house,” Caroline adds. “It has pear trees!”
Genovia has no paparazzi, so right there, at the gate, as they call Miranda's boarding group, Andy has no qualms about taking Miranda in her arms and kissing her with everything she's got.
“See you in three months?” Andy whispers after the need for air forces them apart.
Miranda tenderly cards her fingers through Andy’s hair. “Yes. Try not to start a revolution in the meantime.”
The clock ticks, though, and revolution foments. Nonviolent, thankfully—Andy is adamant about this, and her protestors don’t want blood, not really. They want rights, and justice, and affordable high-speed internet. Most of all, they want to have a voice.
With six weeks to go, Clarisse summons Andy to the castle.
“I know you haven’t committed to anything yet, but we must be prepared,” she says, gesturing for Andy to enter an unfamiliar room. “I believe you’ve met the Maestro.”
Andy trips over thin air, staring at Valentino Garavani.
He beams at her. “Ah, bellissima! Miranda's new Emily! You’re right, Clarisse. She is simply lovely. Turn, please.”
Andy turns, then, upon his instruction, takes off her outer layers and—blushing in her undergarments—turns again while Valentino hums and mumbles to himself. Eventually satisfied, he permits her to dress and says to Clarisse, “I will design her a thing of beauty. Have Paolo send me the measurements.”
“Maestro,” Andy says hastily, one leg still sticking out of her pants, “I might not even go through with it.”
He raises an eyebrow at her. Flustered, she manages to get her clothes on and elaborates: “I would hate for you to put in all this work, and then for me to not actually get crowned.”
He chuckles. “I've dressed plenty of queens in my time. What care have I of crowns? I care about beauty, and you are beautiful. I care about Miranda Priestly, and she will enjoy seeing you in my creation. That is enough.”
After Valentino, Clarisse takes Andy to meet Paolo, the stylist, who, upon seeing her, flaps his hands and makes dramatic noises of horror she finds frankly offensive.
“This seems unnecessary,” Andy says, scowling into the brightly-lit mirror. “I regularly visit the salon in town. It’s not like I’ve let myself go!”
She does not say: If I look good enough for Miranda Priestly, no one else had better complain.
Paolo tsks and starts sifting through various torture devices, muttering to himself in Italian.
“You look lovely, Andrea,” Clarisse assures her. “For day-to-day life, you would do just fine. But at your coronation, you will outshine the sun.”
There are almost nightly it's-only-6-p.m.-in-New-York calls with Miranda now. Andy has finally figured out—Miranda, perhaps, has not—that Miranda is trying to keep Andy on New York time, as if that will inspire her to move back.
“They’ve commissioned a gown from Valentino for the first in line for the throne,” Andy tells Miranda that night. “In case she agrees.”
“Mm. The girls want to know the name of that dish we had at that restaurant they liked.”
Andy can’t help but smile, now, at Miranda’s mannerisms. “I think you're talking about the cassoulet with Genovian pear sauce.”
“Ah yes. I’ll remind Cara.”
“I miss you,” Andy says, splaying her hand over the empty space in her bed and remembering the sheer joy of waking up in Miranda’s arms.
“Yes." Miranda sighs. “Six weeks.”
“Six weeks,” Andy agrees.
The clock ticks.
Fall explodes in a riot of colors across Genovia. Andy has never seen such an autumn, with rich reds and oranges dominating the once-green canvas.
Most of Genovia goes on strike. Genovians take to the streets daily, shouting for change. Andy’s byline is consistently on the front page of Genovia Today.
“Is this a problem?” Miranda demands, with the level of energy that means she's pacing. “If things go wrong with this shoot, Andrea, the board will have my head. I have put everything on the line here.”
Andy yawns and settles deeper under the covers. “I promise, it's going to be fine. The protestors know what this photoshoot means for Genovia. They'll be on their best behavior. I'll see to it personally.”
“Very well. I’m trusting you a great deal, Andrea.”
Miranda is a woman who loves more easily than she trusts, and does both sparingly. Andy takes this as the deep compliment that it is.
“Your hair is so soft,” Andy says, half-asleep.
Miranda laughs in surprise. “What?”
“I love it. You.”
Miranda's voice is very soft when she says, “You're tired, Andrea. Go back to sleep.”
The clock ticks, and six weeks becomes one month. Andy’s mom temporarily moves into the Genovian castle, though she confides that if the revolution were to start tomorrow she’d be happy to slip the protestors a key.
Nigel, Serena, and a handful of other Runway staff arrive and begin preparations. Andy has laid most of the groundwork already, of course, and Miranda has already signed off on the locations. Prada is taking the central spread after all, and Andy, who still has no real yen for fashion, is awed despite herself when she sees sketches of the designs her country will help bring to life.
Valentino finishes her gown. Trying it on, Andy feels like a princess for the first time in her life.
Andy’s oaf of a second cousin, Tyler, commissions a custom tuxedo for the coronation, just in case. It is Genovian pear green. Andy sends Miranda a picture.
Utterly unacceptable, Miranda fires back. See to it I don’t have to feature that in my magazine.
The plan is as follows: the photoshoot will take place over the course of three days. Then there will be a day of downtime for the photographers and their assistants to ensure no reshoots are needed, at which time most of the Runway staff will go home, leaving a skeleton crew behind to cover the coronation the following day.
“I will be staying for the event, of course,” Miranda says.
Andy, who predicts an eruption of chaos following the coronation, winces and says, “You really think that’s necessary?”
“Necessary? Not at all. However, these occasions do not occur every day, Andrea, and I happen to enjoy royal balls. I assume you’ve secured us all invitations.”
Andy does not bang her head against a wall, but it’s a close thing. “Of course, Miranda.”
“Oh, and Andrea? Be sure to save me a dance.”
Ah, yes. Among everything else, there are dance lessons. The less said about those, the better. Andy’s mom, watching from the sidelines, just about gives herself a coronary from all her laughter.
The clock ticks ever more loudly, and the week of the coronation arrives. Along with it, delegates and representatives from countries around the globe, dozens of models, millions of dollars of couture and photography equipment, the eternally-frazzled Emily, and a much-missed Miranda Priestly. Genovia goes from a small, moderately bustling country to a small, frenzied hive of activity.
Every hotel, hostel, inn, and B&B is booked to capacity. Most of Runway is based at the Marriott. Miranda quietly gives up the Presidential Suite at the Ritz to the Italian ambassador. She shows up, unannounced, at Andy’s drafty one-bedroom flat with two suitcases and a glimmer of uncertainty that makes Andy's heart melt.
"Hi," Miranda says.
Andy presses her against the door for a long kiss. When she pulls away, minutes later, she says, still close enough for their breath to mingle, "Hi."
"Emily's downstairs with more luggage."
Andy laughs. "Get rid of her, will ya? I'll take care of the bags. I want you all to myself."
They stay up too late each night, learning what makes each other sigh and whimper and cry out the other's name. Miranda adores the bumps of Andy’s spine and spends long minutes drawing her fingers along them, feather-light, before replacing those fingers with her lips and tongue.
Andy can’t get enough of Miranda’s hair. She spoons behind her in bed and nuzzles the back of Miranda’s head, pressing her lips to that sensitive spot behind Miranda’s ear and treasuring the soft warmth of that arctic hair against her nose and eyelids.
In the mornings, their legs twine together and one of them wakes the other with slow, wet kisses and gentle touches. Miranda learns to operate Andy’s Nespresso machine. They enjoy a light, early breakfast over Genovia Today. One morning, Miranda points out a typo in Andy’s front page article about the mail workers’ strike. Andy is forced to kiss the mockery out of her mouth.
The photoshoot goes more smoothly than even Andy, who’s worked so hard to arrange things, could have dreamed. They spend a day deep in the countryside, where the stark colors and fierce lines of the models' clothes stand out vividly against the autumn colors of the rolling hills. They spend a night on that magical hill overlooking the city. "Most acceptable," Miranda says when she sees the scene, and Nigel gives Andy a high five.
The next morning finds them in one of Genovia’s premier orchards, working among idyllic lanes of golden trees bedecked with firm, ripe pears. During the lunch break, Andy and Miranda wander among the trees, far from prying eyes. Andy plucks a particularly luscious fruit and offers it to Miranda.
Miranda makes a face. It's adorable. “I still haven’t regained an appetite for pears, I’m afraid.”
Andy eats the pear in small, careful bites. Still, some of the juice dribbles down her lip. The next thing she knows, Miranda is on her, sucking the juice away and stealing the last bite from her mouth with an eager swipe of her tongue.
“So much for no appetite for pears,” Andy says in mock annoyance, sometime later, as she reapplies her lipstick using the small compact from Miranda’s handbag.
“Do you truly intend to stay here forever?” Miranda inquires. She’s already touched up her own makeup, which took quite a bit of damage over the past twenty minutes. “In Genovia?” She straightens her blouse.
“I’m not sure. It’s complicated.”
Miranda looks at her evenly. “I cannot plausibly engineer a yearly Genovian photoshoot, Andrea.”
Andy grabs Miranda’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I know.”
They spend a day among the stalls and tents of the marketplace. Genovian goods are on prominent display in many of the shots, while rail-thin models strike dramatic poses and the photographers and their assistants call out encouragement and adjust the lighting.
The Genovian merchants gather around, enjoying the spectacle. Andy watches, amused and a little bit in love, as Miranda puts on her most charming smile and peruses their wares, admiring homespun wool and Genovian silk, handcrafted toys and delicate jewelry featuring diamonds from Genovia’s one very small mine.
There’s a blip in the day when the protestors threaten to spill into the market. This is not intentional; their numbers have swelled to the extent that they can no longer limit themselves to their usual locales. The models duck for cover and the merchants sigh and protect their goods as the protestors stumble over stalls and inadvertently whack each other with their signs.
Andy crosses her arms over her chest and scowls. “Seriously, guys? We talked about this.”
“Sorry, Andy,” mumbles Tony, one of the leaders, ducking his head. “We’re on our way to the castle. We’ll get out of your hair in a minute.”
She raises her eyebrows. “The castle, really?”
They’ve never protested there before. Archaic Genovian law prohibits disruptive activity anywhere in the vicinity of the royal domicile.
He grins. “We’re going to plant ourselves there through the coronation. It’s all happening.”
The ominous ticking of the clock is ever louder.
“It really is,” Andy agrees.
“By the way,” Tony says, faux casually, “I hear your dad’s name was Richard.”
Andy pretends not to notice the way Miranda listens intently to this conversation.
“It was.”
“He was Genovian, right?”
“Yep.”
“That’s why you moved to Genovia?”
Andy sighs. “My grandmother wanted me to move here.”
He gives her a look, then shakes it off. “Listen, join us outside the castle if you have some time, all right?”
“I’ll be pretty busy until after the coronation, but we’ll see,” Andy says. “Power to the people, right?”
He pumps his fist. “Power to the people!”
Andy turns to Miranda, who regards her with an unreadable expression. “You don’t talk about your grandmother."
“She doesn’t approve of most of my choices."
“And yet you moved to Genovia for her?”
Andy sighs. “I moved to Genovia for a lot of reasons.”
The rest of the afternoon’s shoot goes off without a hitch. After, Andy takes Miranda out for a pear-sauce-accompanied dinner. At the end of the meal, Miranda slides a jewelry box across the table.
“What’s this?” Andy asks dumbly.
Because Miranda does not answer inane questions, her romantic response is to roll her eyes and nudge the box closer. Gingerly, Andy opens it, and gasps at the delicate diamond-studded bracelet within.
“When did you—”
“While you were distracted arguing with the city affairs office about the parking permits.”
Andy holds out her wrist, trembling, and Miranda gently drapes the bracelet around it and fastens the gold clasp. They both take a moment to admire the way the Genovian diamonds catch the flickering candle light.
“Two days,” Miranda says, probably referring to how little time she has left in the country.
“Two days,” Andy agrees, and listens to the clock tick, and presses her lips to Miranda’s palm.
They make love all night.
Andy spends the next day sequestered in her office at Genovia Today, polishing and rewriting and deleting and rethinking her feature article. The agreement Miranda and Greg have formed is simple: Genovia Today will be the first to publish the scoop about the coronation; Runway, in next month’s issue, will carry the exclusive exposé delving into the life of the new Genovian monarch, including a private photoshoot at the castle from the day of the coronation.
A certain amount of crossover between the articles is both expected and encouraged. Both publications foresee unprecedented sales.
Miranda passes the day in Runway’s makeshift office in the Marriott’s conference room with Nigel and the others, reviewing the previous days’ work product.
“So?” Andy asks when Miranda calls late in the afternoon.
“No reshoots,” Miranda confirms in a bland voice that means she is extremely pleased. “The team will head home tonight, as planned.”
“Fantastic! Congratulations, Miranda.”
“Perhaps we could dine in, to celebrate. I'd like to make something that does not involve pears.”
Andy winces. “I'd love that so much. Unfortunately, I’m going to be swamped tonight. I don’t think I’ll make it home, in fact.”
A silence. “I see.”
“We’ll see each other at the coronation,” Andy offers weakly.
“I suppose we will,” Miranda replies.
Andy determines that her article for Today is as good as it’s going to get. She completes an alternative article she’s almost certain will not be needed, just in case she has an insurmountable attack of nerves tomorrow, the way she used to in tenth grade. She uploads both articles to a drive for Greg, shoulders the Marc Jacobs handbag Miranda bought her, and makes her way to the castle.
The massive royal courtyard is packed with protestors. Most of them recognize Andy; they call her name in greeting. She shakes hands and bumps fists, wading through a sea of friends, and hopes they won't hate her when all is said and done.
She reaches the front of the crowd and keeps walking, approaching the wrought iron gate where two members of the Royal Guard stand at stiff attention. They look at her in clear recognition. She sighs and gives them a nod. They click their heels together and offer her a crisp salute. In unison, they open the gate.
The crowd falls into a silence that is not quite as confused as it might have been, if Andy hadn't been dropping hints these past couple of months. Andy, standing in the shadow of the castle gate, turns to look gravely at these people who have become hers, not by birthright or blood but through the power of words and empathy.
She waits. For what, she isn’t sure. Condemnation, perhaps. Quite possibly a shower of rotten fruit.
“Give ‘em hell, Andy!” someone shouts, dropping his sign and pumping his fist in the air. The call is echoed by another, and another, and taken up until it becomes a cacophony.
She grins, echoes the fist pump, and goes inside.
Clarisse and her mom are waiting for her, along with about a dozen house staff and politicians. Tyler, her oaf of a second cousin, is also present, glaring at Andy like a toddler who’s just had a piece of candy snatched from his mouth.
“Is this a yes?” Clarisse asks, and looks at Andy with unfamiliar warmth.
“If it’s a yes,” Andy says, “tell me what I should do tomorrow.”
If it’s a yes, Andy should wear the Valentino gown. (She doesn’t tell Clarisse that she intends to wear the gown either way.) If it’s a yes, then she should wear the royal tiara, the one her father sent on her tenth birthday, which her mother has brought from Cincinnati, and no other jewelry. If it’s a yes, she should be present at the eastern entrance to the castle basilica before 10 a.m. tomorrow. If it’s a yes, she will know her cue to enter when she hears it.
Andy spends the night in a suite of rooms that belonged to her father when he was a prince. She feels like an intruder as she explores, poking through empty drawers and looking through bare wardrobes. She’s desperate for some hint of who he was. Any indication that he would understand what she’s trying to do here.
Eventually, she gives up, collapsing onto an extremely uncomfortable loveseat, and calls Miranda. “What are you up to?”
“Attempting to locate your cheese grater,” Miranda says, and Andy would give just about anything to be physically present for this moment of domesticity.
“Bottom cabinet on the left. What are you making?”
“Got it. A simple spaghetti. Where are you?”
Andy looks around the room, taking in the stone walls, faded tapestries, antique furniture, and rusty radiator. “My grandmother’s house.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Wondering what would happen if I moved back to New York.”
There’s a pause. Water boils in the background. “What would happen…”
“With us, I mean.”
Another pause. A clink as Miranda sets down the cheese grater. “What do you want to hear, Andrea?” she says in that quietly caustic voice that has felled corporate kings. “That I would open up my home to you until you found a place to live, or perhaps permanently? That we would, what, declare ourselves some sort of couple?”
“I didn’t—”
The kitchen timer goes off in Andy’s flat, but Miranda, having hit her stride, keeps going. “Do you want to hear that we would play happy families, you and I? That you are in fact the ‘next Mr. Priestly’? Do you want to hear me make some declaration of love?”
“Your pasta’s done,” Andy says numbly.
Miranda growls, “Let it burn.”
Andy breathes in and out.
In and out.
In and out.
She says, in a small voice, “And what if that was what I wanted to hear?”
She braces for Miranda’s casual cruelty, the brutal dismissal the other woman will use now to shield herself from the looming pain of their parting.
Instead, like the flip of a switch, Miranda is once again serene. “Move back to New York,” she says. “Find out.” She hangs up.
The clock ticks. Andy could leave Genovia in Tyler's hands and hop on a plane to New York with Miranda tomorrow, but that would be running away.
Andy Sachs doesn’t run away. Neither, for that matter, does Miranda Priestly.
She adjusts herself on the uncomfortable loveseat, feels something sharp dig into her thigh. She reaches under the cushion and pulls out a journal.
She opens the cover.
This diary belongs to Richard Renaldi. I am fourteen years old, and my father is the king of Genovia.
A knife twists in her chest. The penmanship is tidy but hasn't yet developed the elegance it exhibits in her old birthday cards, always in that one word: “Dad.”
Andy wrestles with her conscience. These words were never meant to be seen by prying eyes. But she has never spoken to her father, will never speak to him, and the clock is ticking.
She stays up all night reading, which means that when Paolo arrives at her door at 7 a.m. he makes many squawks of despair at the bags under her eyes. Nevertheless, he works his magic on her face and hair and she looks fresh and beautiful by the time he's done.
She steps into Valentino’s gown and feels, not like a princess, but like a queen.
She knows her father a little bit now. Enough to decide that it was a compliment, indeed, when Clarisse compared her to him. Enough to finally allow the concrete she’s been stirring these past nine months to settle, and harden.
Andy dons the tiara. She does not remove Miranda's bracelet. If Genovia has a problem with her wearing a Genovian bracelet to her coronation, let them depose her.
She sweeps out of the room, head held high, and feels rather than sees the two guardsmen who fall into step behind her. She navigates the castle not by actual familiarity, but based on past study of the layout.
It’s 9:45 a.m. when she arrives outside the small eastern door to the basilica. A larger honor guard awaits her there, along with Tyler, the oaf of a second cousin. Everyone else is already inside, and has been since the event commenced 45 minutes ago. Andy is thankful, at least, that she hasn't had to endure the bishop’s droning for the better part of an hour.
“So you’re really going to do it?” Tyler grouses.
Andy, despite everything, laughs. “You should thank me, Ty.”
His jaw drops in outrage. “Thank you—”
She straightens his Genovian-pear-green bowtie. “I’m saving you from pitchforks and guillotines. You’ll see.”
The bishop goes on. In Latin, which seems frankly unnecessary. There’s a reprieve for a short aria from a choir boy.
Finally, the bishop switches back to English. “At this time, we, the people of Genovia, call upon our next ruler, heir to the throne—”
Well, Andy thinks, that’s her cue.
For the first time in eighteen months, the ticking stops.
The door swings wide. Andy thinks of the ease with which Miranda always manages a smile in situations such as this. Well, maybe not quite like this. With slow, measured steps, she enters to dead silence.
The interior of the basilica is magnificent. It holds some five hundred people, Genovia’s most prominent citizens and visiting dignitaries, all of them watching Andy as if she's the only person on Earth.
Her Christian Louboutins clack against the marble floor, the only sound as she makes her way past the front row to the center aisle. The train of her gown flows behind her like a shallow stream. Her tiara and bracelet glow with the light of the many chandeliers.
She reaches the middle of the floor. She’s supposed to immediately turn to the bishop, but first she faces the crowd, letting them get a good look at her, taking her look at them in turn. None of the protestors have been permitted inside, but this event is being televised worldwide. She wants them to see her.
Andy makes eye contact with Clarisse, front and center and smiling with the relief of one for whom certain crisis has been averted. Beside her is Andy’s mom, who beams with pride.
Several rows back sits the Runway contingent, easily located by Miranda’s iconic hair. Nigel and Emily stare at Andy in absolute shock. Emily mouths something that looks like, "You cow." Andy gives them a wink, then turns her eyes to Miranda.
The expression on Miranda’s face isn’t surprise; instead, she looks like a woman who has finally reached the period at the end of a very long sentence. Her mouth is a flat line, but she gives Andy a small nod. Her eyes sweep up and down Andy’s body, from tiara to custom Valentino to stilettos, but the defiant bracelet is where her gaze lingers.
Andy turns 180 degrees, climbs two stairs, and gracefully drops to her knees before the bishop. The next forty minutes pass in a blur. She makes a series of oaths. She is anointed with holy water. There is, unfortunately, a great deal more Latin. The bishop removes her tiara and replaces it with a crown.
When she stands again, she is a queen.
“Long live Her Majesty, Queen Andrea Sachs Renaldi!”
The applause is resounding, inside the basilica and out.
Already, a late printing of Genovia Today is hitting the stands with the news.
Andy descends the stairs, careful in heels that no longer feel familiar, and spends some time shaking the hands of various dignitaries. A royal aide, a little older than Andy, hovers at her shoulder and whispers names and titles in her ear.
When the aide says, “Miranda Priestly, from Runway magazine,” Andy waves her away.
“Your grandmother’s house, hm?” is the first thing Miranda says, after an air kiss that will not leave an impression of her lips on Andy’s cheek.
Andy shrugs ruefully. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have some idea.”
Miranda’s eyes crinkle, giving nothing away. She would be an exceptional poker player. “This gown is…acceptable. You, Your Majesty, are extraordinary. Finish up here so we can complete our photoshoot before you spill something all over yourself.”
“I resemble that remark,” Andy jokes.
Now, Miranda smiles faintly, but there’s melancholy there. She looks away, as if to admire the archaic sconces. “I’m glad you’re so fond of Genovian pears, Andrea. It seems you’ll be partaking of them for a long time to come.”
Being the object of a Runway photoshoot is every bit as daunting as Andy feared. She is pushed, prodded, placed, pulled, poked. They photograph her with the crown, with the tiara, without the crown, with her hair up, with her hair down, with her shoes on, with her shoes off.
“Relax,” Nigel tells her, again and again, as the lights flash and the camera shutter clicks.
“I am relaxed,” she snarls through clenched teeth.
Whenever she gets too tense, Miranda is there to place a hand on her arm or whisper something calming—Andy can’t remember, five seconds later, what it was—in her ear.
After a couple of hours, Andy is utterly exhausted. She sprawls in a chair, gulping down a bottle of water, while Nigel, Miranda, and the photographers confer, hovering over the camera displays and flicking through pictures.
“This one for the cover,” Nigel says, reverent.
Miranda hums her agreement and tells them, “We’re through here.”
Nigel kisses the back of Andy’s hand. “Farewell, Your Majesty,” he drawls. “You’ve made your fairy godmother very happy.”
“I’ll miss you, Nigel,” she tells him.
“I need to pack,” Miranda says in an undertone as the Runway staff go about putting away equipment. “I’ll see you at the banquet.”
“All right,” Andy says, staring at her a bit helplessly. She worries that this is all they will have now, these momentary asides.
Miranda presses her hand and steps away.
Andy uses the afternoon productively. After changing out of her gown and scrubbing her face, she manages to locate the royal office. She plugs in her laptop and gets herself up and running on the wi-fi. Her aide helps Andy print the twenty documents she’s spent the past few months carefully drafting with the input of the Genovian people via Genovia Today’s online forum.
These documents take measures such as abolishing certain strange, archaic laws, providing for infrastructure improvements, legalizing gay marriage, instituting the right of free speech and public assembly, calling for the drafting of a Genovian constitution, and placing significant limits on royal authority.
This last decree has to come at the end, or it would prevent her from being able to issue the others.
Andy signs each page with a flourish, asks the aide to photocopy everything, and has originals sent to the Prime Minister for immediate enactment and copies sent to Genovia Today for immediate distribution to the public.
Andy arrives at the coronation banquet a fashionable fifteen minutes late, wearing a striking black pantsuit and deadly three-inch heels. There is distinct hostility in the way many of the attendees stare as she saunters across the room like a well-fed lioness.
News of this afternoon’s deeds has spread like wildfire. There are those who had convinced themselves, upon seeing Andy crowned, that her involvement with the protests must have been some sort of clever infiltration designed to solidify royal power. They now know that it was the other way around, that someone horrifyingly common has instead commandeered their throne.
Andy, who did some mucking about with the seating chart when no one was looking, slips into the empty chair next to Miranda. Ignoring the many eyes watching her, she picks up a gold-plated fork and pokes at her salad.
“Clarisse, will you please pass the salt?”
Clarisse, two seats over, obliges with a smile that's almost tender. “Please, Andrea. Call me ‘Grandmother.’”
There are too many strangers at the table for conversation of any real substance. Miranda talks briefly about Elias-Clarke’s recent green initiative, something Andy expresses interest in learning more about in light of the fact that most of Genovia is stuck in the 14th century. Andy’s mom complains about the recent cold spell in Ohio, which may or may not be a hint that she wants an invitation to permanently move into the castle.
Eventually, the meal ends and the string quartet strikes up the dance music. Propriety, revoltingly, requires Andy to dance the first waltz with Tyler, who trods on her toes four times. She suspects that only once is an accident. Since she gets him at least six times in return, she supposes she can't complain. Subsequently, Andy finds herself passed from man to man like so much chattel, the room spinning around her in a haze of lights.
Finally, she manages to tear herself away. She finds an unattended crystal goblet—what a ridiculous excess—and downs its contents (Genovian pear cider). Catching her breath, she searches the room, wondering if she’s too late. She knows how rare it is for Miranda to linger at events like this.
But no—there she is, fabulous in her floor-length plum gown, speaking to some obscure prince, head tossed back in a fake laugh to expose that pale neck Andy so loves to press her lips to.
Andy crosses the floor intently, ignoring the hands that reach and grasp as she passes.
“Miranda,” she says, interrupting Prince So-and-So mid-sentence, “may I have this dance?”
Later, Andy will never be able to describe what it is about Miranda’s expression that changes in that moment. None of the muscles in her face move. Yet, in an instant, her smile is no longer feigned.
“I would be honored.”
Andy takes Miranda’s hand and leads her onto the floor. She lifts that hand high; the other, she slides around the small of Miranda’s back. She and Miranda look deep into each other's eyes. They’re both smiling. Andy waits a moment, listening to the music, counts the beat, and when the timing’s right—
They dance.
Andy has been tripping over her feet all evening, terrible at following the lead of those anonymous, over-familiar hands. Leading, now, with Miranda, she is all grace and poise. Their bodies move in perfect sync, as if they’ve just pressed play on a dance that’s long been on pause.
“I can’t move back to New York right now,” Andy says as they whirl around the floor, hardly noticing the ripple of stillness that spreads in their wake as the other guests stop, and turn, and watch.
“I had deduced as much,” Miranda says dryly.
They continue to circle the dance floor. Miranda runs the tip of her tongue along her lips and smiles when Andy licks her own lips in unconscious imitation.
“I won’t be a prisoner to Genovia, though,” Andy tells her. “Not like my father was. The times are a-changing, and quickly.”
Now, they are the only ones still dancing. They glide languidly across the room, hand in hand, lost in each other.
Miranda leans in and inhales Andy’s perfume. “Andrea, you know I have never enjoyed vagueness. Do go on.”
In retaliation, Andy spins her, catching Miranda against her body with an oof. It’s a relief, to finally be able to explain herself.
She whispers in Miranda's ear: “I intend to become a powerless figurehead very soon. Genovia will still be my home. I’ll probably have to do photoshoots during pear season, for example, and I’ll continue to write my column for Today, but I expect to have a great deal of flexibility in terms of where and how I spend my time.”
The song should have ended long ago, but the string quartet is happy to drag it out as long as Her Majesty Andrea Sachs Renaldi wishes to prolong the dance.
In a deliberately provocative move, Miranda wraps one leg around Andy's, pressing their hips together, and drags her heel up and down Andy’s calf. “So when you say that you cannot move to New York…”
“I mean that I can’t move to New York. But I see no reason not to spend as much time there as I can. If that was what someone else also wanted.”
Something happens—a twist, and a jerk, and Andy finds the tables turned. Suddenly, Miranda has taken the lead. Andy is dipped, a strong hand supporting her arched back, and Miranda’s eyes blaze down at her with hunger beyond anything Andy’s ever seen.
“We’ll make it work,” Miranda declares, and kisses Andy, right there, in front of everyone.
A moment later, the doors burst open and the protestors pour in. Andy's mom strolls away, whistling, twirling an antique key around her finger.
Andy breaks off the kiss, grinning, and gives the order she’d told the staff to expect: “Break out our extra stock of Genovian pear brandy. Don't be stingy.”
The November issue of Runway features Genovia’s new queen on its cover. She stands on a majestic staircase, dangles a tiara from one finger, and looks with absolute focus at something—or someone—in the distance. There are other pictures of Andy inside. One is a striking shot of Andy and Miranda Priestly, cheek to cheek on the dance floor. It had taken seven days of groveling from Nigel, and one erotic phone call from Andy, to convince Miranda to include this image in the magazine.
The feature article will one day evolve into the first chapters of Andrea Sachs’ account of the early years of Genovia's democracy. One day, there will be a popular movie based on this bestselling book, and then a record-breaking hip-hop musical, of all things, based on the movie. (Miranda will purse her lips during her character’s tragic eleven o’clock number, and Andy, beside her, will cackle uncontrollably and inappropriately from the front row of the Gershwin Theater.)
The Prada spread, of course, is a triumph and a genuine work of art. The issue flies off the shelves. Miranda Priestly’s position at Elias-Clarke remains unassailable. U.S. supermarkets sell out of Genovian pears within two days.
Andy makes plans to visit New York for Thanksgiving. During their nightly it's-only-6-p.m.-in-New-York call, she suggests arranging a room for herself at the Genovian embassy. This offer is met with such frigid silence that her only option, really, is to fly in two days early and surprise Miranda at home with flowers and declarations of love. Miranda accepts the flowers with a sniff and the declarations with a suspiciously bright-eyed, "Yes. Well. I suppose you know I feel the same."
In December, they celebrate the finalization of Miranda's divorce. The girls suggest burning Stephen in effigy. Miranda settles for donating all of his furniture to Goodwill and making new, happier memories with Andy in every room.
Andy lingers in the city through the new year, reveling in lazy mornings in bed and domestic brunches with Miranda and the twins. Andy, who had been responsible for Miranda’s schedule a few thousand ticks of the clock ago, is touched by how earnestly Miranda works to make time for her. Miranda, in turn, is touched by how patiently, but resolutely, Andy refuses her grandmother's requests for her to hurry home. Andy is quite capable of conducting her Machiavellian scheming from afar.
They attend the theater together. They go for dinners, and lunches, and walks in the park. When Andy emerges from a long day at the U.N., Miranda and her town car are waiting to give her a ride home.
Genovia Today has a competitor now, The Genovia Times. Andy is thrilled. Her column receives more criticism than before, now that her identity is common knowledge; she values that criticism and often uses it to gauge how well her efforts are working.
Andy receives both an informal, verbal invitation and a formal, written invitation to the Met Gala. A memory she will cherish for the rest of her long life: Approaching a regal Miranda Priestly, whose new Emily leans in to whisper, “Queen Andrea Sachs Renaldi of Genovia.”
“Andrea,” Miranda says, and gives Andy an air kiss. She ghosts her lips along Andy’s cheek to her ear and whispers, “I look forward to peeling that dress off of you, inch by inch, when we get home.”
Miranda comes to Genovia for a handful of long weekends in February and March. Valentine’s Day is a particularly memorable visit, involving a romantic but ill-conceived afternoon on a blanket in a pear orchard, a pile of discarded couture, and a surprise blizzard.
Whenever she visits, they stay in Andy’s drafty little flat, where Andy continues to reside. Andy has only ever spent one night in the castle and does not intend to spend another.
Andy tries, and fails, to convince Miranda to sell the summer house, which Miranda finally admits to having purchased in a fit of temporary insanity two days after receiving a call from Genovia Today asking for a reference for one Andy Sachs. Now, she congratulates herself on her foresight; it's obviously an excellent time to invest in property in Genovia, whose economic and political future has never looked brighter.
The Genovian government partners with a major airline to develop a plan for direct flights from New York to Genovia, beginning next year. It's expected that this bold strategy will increase Genovian tourism (which, admittedly, is nearly nonexistent) by 50%.
By April, when Miranda and the girls visit for Spring Break, an independent committee of former protestors Andy assembled in November has composed a draft constitution. Andy hires some of the world’s most renowned legal scholars to examine it; they make very few suggestions for edits.
Andy is busy, busy, busy that summer as Genovia rages over the proposed constitution, more unsettled than at any time in its history. There are some who fear there will be civil war. Andy’s grandmother wonders aloud, often, whether Andy has tried to make too many changes, too quickly.
With Caroline and Cassidy on vacation in Switzerland with their father for the summer holiday, Miranda ignores Andy's halfhearted protests and travels to Genovia for a months-long stay despite the civil unrest.
During this time, she works remotely, but she also delegates in ways she's never done before. It's surprisingly easy. Lying naked on Andy’s bare back, her chin on Andy’s shoulder, she whispers fantasies of the future in Andy’s ear and draws lazy circles on Andy’s forearm. The word "retirement" comes up more than once, and does not sound so fantastical.
Andy exercises the royal prerogative she despises and forces various factions to sit down and engage in rational conversations. She hammers out compromises. She uses techniques she learned from observing Miranda Priestly in her element to put fear into the hearts of those who would stand in the way of what she is determined to accomplish.
When her invectives risk turning personal, or cruel, she thinks of Emily, and Paris, and reels herself in.
In September, the constitution is signed into effect, and just like that, Genovia is no longer a monarchy. Clarisse goes on vacation for the first time in 45 years. Andy donates the royal crown and the entire contents of the royal coffers to the new Republic of Genovia and tries to move to New York.
When she walks into the townhouse for the first time as a once-again-New-Yorker, Miranda wraps her arms around Andy's waist, buries her face in the crook of Andy's neck, and holds her, just holds her, for a long time.
In October, one year to the day after her coronation, Andrea Sachs Renaldi is overwhelmingly elected the first president of Genovia. By write-in ballot. She did not campaign for the job and had no formal nomination. According to an extremely amused Greg from Genovia Today, there was some sort of massive grassroots movement in her favor. Andy's so proud of her people, and utterly furious with them.
She delivers the bad news over dinner at their favorite restaurant.
Miranda stares at her. “You’re joking.”
“It’s a four-year term,” Andy says heavily. She fears that she is, in fact, a great deal like her father after all. “I want to be here, with you, Miranda, but…”
“But Genovia is your Runway,” Miranda remembers, echoing something Andy told her a year ago.
“And no one can do what I can. Apparently.”
Miranda's eyes sweep over Andy's miserable, hunched form. “You're in a great deal of anguish about this.”
“Of course I am." Andy breathes raggedly. "I love you, Miranda. I want to be with you all the time.”
Andy doesn’t know what to make of Miranda’s blank expression. She's terrified that this is finally a step too far. Miranda's been so patient, for so long, but she didn't sign up for an eternal long-distance relationship.
Miranda taps her lip with her fingernail. She comes to some decision and waves to their waiter.
“Then be with me all the time, Andrea,” she says as two glasses of Genovian pear brandy appear on the table.
Andy’s contains a diamond ring.
“No way,” Andy says, eyes wide.
Finally, Miranda smiles.
Andy has to drain the glass to get to the ring, which is something Miranda didn't think all the way through; Genovian pear brandy is very sweet and potent and not meant to be chugged. Nevertheless, once Andy has finished dry heaving and the ring has been given a quick rinse, they both admire how well it graces her finger.
“You’re really willing to be First Lady of Genovia for four years?” Andy says, disbelieving. “We’re going to have to keep splitting our time. There will be more sacrifices.”
“Don’t be silly, Andrea,” Miranda huffs. “They’re going to insist on re-electing you. It will be eight years, not four.” She frowns. “As you've had the lack of foresight to give up the lease on our flat, I trust you'll have no objection to using the summer house as the presidential domicile. And see to it you prioritize that direct flight. If I never see the inside of Heathrow Airport again, it will be too soon.”
Andy’s heart overflows. She leans forward to brush that soft, perfect forelock out of Miranda’s face. “I really couldn’t love you more.”
Miranda takes her hand, the hand of the woman whom she will have and hold, love and cherish, for the rest of her life. “Look around, Andrea. Everyone wants this. Everyone wants to be us. Whatever we have to do, we will make it work.”
And they do.