His office was so elegant: red lacquer walls filled with family diplomas going two centuries and three countries back, japanese antiques, glass cases exhibiting all sort of professional relics, from strange, threatening instruments to yellowing dental models. The address was one of the finest in Paris. He was tall and disjointed, a sort of tired aristocrat with perfect pronounciation and a boyish flare. I put myself in his hands and found them surprisingly harsh: my lips seemed to be on his way, my jaws those of a horse. Days later, as my gums continued to swell, I called my old doctor. Thick red neck and fingers, a dismal waiting room with hand-me-down furniture and a dusty plant. It took him several weeks to undo what the other had done. I came and went, yoga mat on the back, skipped appointments, begged for mercy, cried. Utterly disappointed that the prince almost left me crownless. And that, once again, I fell for the charm.
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