While I’m only an occasional fan of The Great British Baking Jubilee, my dad DVRs every full season, and while he’s watching he’ll text me every few seconds: “Betty’s adding currants to her scones! She’s living on the edge!” “Eleanor is shaving lemon curd onto her aspic—I can’t watch!”

The show’s billowing white tent is erected on the grounds of various National Trust manor homes and ruined cathedrals that only my dad knows the details of (“That’s where Ethelred the Unsteady married Helen of Bramwich!”). He has strong opinions on the show’s longtime host, Agatha Benwhistle (“She really understands tarts”) and her current cohost, a younger loose cannon named Miles Tanney (“He went to culinary school, so he thinks he knows everything about marzipan. As if.”). He duplicates the recipes and poses each lemongrass loaf or elderberry compote atop a velvet ottoman in our living room to catch the sunlight from a picture window, posting photos on Instagram at Professor Yummy Jubilee.

So I was well-prepared when the show’s production manager led Edgar, James, the security team and me backstage on the lawn of Hallinghurst Castle, and when I sent my dad photos he texted back, “Drooling. Jealous. Bring back a spatula!”

“Your Highness,” James asked, “while I know it’s an inexplicably popular program, is this really a proper environment for a royal appearance?”

“Did anyone catch the episode on sweetbreads?” asked Ian. “There were real eyeopeners.”

“Who gives a damn?” argued Clark. “Compared to the olive and garlic rolls.”

“I adore this show,” said Maureen, joining us with Gerald; they were slated, along with Edgar and me, to act as surprise guest judges on today’s episode. “I’ve had our chef copy the mango and cardamom tea cakes.” Gerald and Maureen were, as always, overdressed in coordinated outfits. In their forest green blazers, pink gingham shirts and, oh my dear Lord, ascots, they looked like prissy Mercedes-Benz sales reps, or Hansel and Gretel as cruise ship social directors.

“When I told Maureen that you and Carter were going to be here,” said Gerald, “she insisted we chaperone. I went along, because you chaps can’t afford another epic mishap.”

They had a private chef. We had epic mishaps.

Gerald and Maureen were keeping a close eye on Edgar, and I suspected something: if they could somehow rejigger the line of succession, Gerald would get to be king. They were like conniving understudies, wishing the star every success while spiking his latte with antifreeze.

Or maybe I was being paranoid. But while Abby and I would kill for each other, there was a polite distance between Edgar and Gerald. I’d never heard Edgar say a bad word about his brother, but they didn’t hang out together, aside from their royal obligations. This made me even more protective of Edgar; I was starting to feel responsible for him. Which felt good.