“The mix of flavors is surprising and completely delicious,” I said, meaning every word.

“It’s like a rainbow in my mouth. Congratulations, Harriet . . .”

Hold on. Had something caught in my throat? Had a ginger biscuit been waylaid? No. I wasn’t about to gag, I couldn’t. I went for a mild cough, covering a burp.

“Carter?” said Edgar, concerned.

“Mr. Ogden?” echoed Agatha.

“The aftertaste is even more appealing, it’s . . . it’s . . .”

Oh my God. I can control this, I can force my body, especially my esophagus, to brace itself, or at least wait till I’m off-camera. Except something’s rising. Why am I thinking about that scene in one of the Alien movies where the fanged creature bursts out of that guy’s shuddering chest?

“Carter?” asked Miles, worried. “Is there a digestive issue?”

“No, not at all, I love Harriet’s trifle . . .”

I was trying so hard. I was commanding my stomach to stop contracting and my body to stop sweating and shaking. But there was an ice-pick pain radiating from my gut into my throat, and my shoulders heaved as the trifle climbed higher and higher, clawing its way and unstoppably returning to my mouth.

“Carter, you’re white as a sheet,” said Edgar. “Is there a doctor standing by?”

“This is hard to watch,” said Gerald as I clutched at the tablecloth, to at least stay upright, while making uncontrollable gagging noises at a cement mixer volume.

“Perhaps it’s an American response,” said Maureen, turning away.

“I . . . I . . . I’m fine, I just, I just . . .”

I’ve always hated vomiting, because it’s gross and because it turns my body against itself. As a child I’d sworn that I’d never vomit, that I wouldn’t let it happen, not to me. Do not vomit, I shouted inwardly. YOU ARE NOT A PERSON WHO VOMITS.

And then not just a spoonful of trifle, but everything I’d eaten in the past week, or maybe since birth, rocketed volcanically up my throat and out my mouth, splattering Harriet, Agatha, Miles and all the royal judges, because my head kept whipping back and forth like a malfunctioning sprinkler system. I couldn’t stop vomiting, and the second I thought, This must be everything, my gullet upchucked more, until I expected to see my lungs and spleen hitting the ceiling of the tent. Whatever gag reflex I had was long gone; I was an open tunnel, a vomit superhighway. I might very well be birthing an island or a new continent made entirely out of regurgitated trifle, which was also now drenching the camera lens.