As the congregation rises from the cathedral pews, I spot Aunt Belinda through the crowd, and wonder if she would have done the same to her own children, had she ended up queen. Her daughter, Sukey, is third in line after myself and Uncle Albert. Sukey’s three-month-old, Augustus—the one whose christening just concluded—is fourth. Third-in-lines do not face much restriction in regards to who they marry. Not when the first in line is poised to take the throne without obvious complications. So, I suppose, it’s more than likely that baby Augustus’s parents were a true love match.

What a luxury. I wonder if Sukey appreciates her luck.

My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text. I check it surreptitiously, and break into a smile when I see Danni’s name. Unfortunately, I will have to respond to her later. It would be unforgivably rude of me to be caught on my phone during an event like this.

It was difficult for me to see Augustus during the christening—though the royal family enjoy front-row seats at an event like this, Saint Mariana’s Cathedral is notoriously large, and the altar is approximately three miles ahead. Now, however, I manage to get a better look at the bundle of joy as the guests file out of the cathedral into the dreary day and mill about in the attached gardens. Baby Augustus has a pursed mouth, a wrinkled forehead, and no hair. He waves tiny clenched fists in midair and scrunches his face up in a squishy, pudgy frown. Cheer up, I want to tell him. You get all the benefits of being a little prince, but none of the pressure. It’s a good deal.

I don’t mean for my lip to curl. It does it of its own accord. Luckily, the swarm of paparazzi bordering the gardens don’t see me, as I’m angled away from them. Unfortunately, Alfie, who attended the christening with his parents, does.

“Why’d you look at the baby like that?” he asks in a low voice.

“Oh,” I say, before blowing a noncommittal raspberry. “He’s just a bit…”

Alfie patiently waits for me to elaborate. I hold back until we’ve cleared enough space between us and the nearest potential eavesdropper to reply. Sidney and Theodore break away from my parents and follow Alfie and me down the dirt path.

“Well, he’s a bit ugly, isn’t he?”

“Rosie.”

“He looks like a grandpa!” I say, indignant at his indignance. “He’s got all those wrinkles, that little frown, like he’s reading a newspaper article that’s outraged him. That is an old man who’s been shrunken down and clothed in a little terry cloth one-piece.”

“Rosie.”

“But he’s not fooling me.”

Alfie folds his arms and gives me a stern, if somewhat amused, look. “Rosie,” he says, and I mouth my name along with him. “Where’s your soul?”