So here I am, on the morning of our wedding. Edgar and I have spent the night apart, out of respect for the Crown and because we both like the idea of seeing each other in our nuptial couture for the first time at the altar of Westminster Abbey. Booking the abbey hadn’t been easy, because of the conservative outcry. Queen Catherine had settled matters by issuing a statement expressing her affection for Edgar and me and explaining that every royal couple deserves the abbey, and that was that. When I thanked her she’d gestured to herself and said, “Queen of England. Done.”

Abby and I were in a suite with my friends and family at a hotel near the abbey. I was wearing a custom-made morning suit in navy, with a rainbow-striped vest. I’d worried about coming off as a queer ringmaster, but the tailoring was so precise that even I had to admit I looked tall, dashing and broad-shouldered. “You finally have the body you’ve always wanted,” Abby said admiringly. “Just never take off the suit, because it’s built in.”

Earlier in the morning, for a personal touch, Adam had added a subtle, royal blue stripe to my hair. He inspected it, concluding, “It’s the perfect accent. It says ‘I love being a royal and I just couldn’t help myself.’” He and DuShawn were dressed in matching jumpsuits hand-painted with images of their heroes, from James Baldwin to Patti LuPone. “You all look fabulous,” Louise informed us. “And the proceeds from the Royal Wedding Ken dolls are going to the American Civil Liberties Union.”

Edgar had promised to find Louise a new girlfriend, and at our rehearsal dinner he’d sat her beside his cousin Lady Isabelle, who was spearheading a drive to repatriate artworks from British museums to the countries they’d been stolen from. She also had waist-length red hair and a tattoo of a medieval sorceress covering her back, so Louise had been very pleased, because, in Abby’s words, “Louise likes drama.”

“We couldn’t be more proud,” my mom told me, “not because you’re marrying a prince, although that doesn’t hurt, but because you’re marrying the man you love.”

“But if you’re not sure,” said my dad, “there are precedents for canceling a royal wedding. In 1528, Princess Hildegarde of the Netherlands—”

“I’m good, Dad, I’m ready. But thank you for the research, and you both look fantastic.”

“Is this all right?” said my mom, referring to her flawless pale yellow shantung dress.

“No,” I said. “You’re a disgrace. You look like you went to the mall and shut your eyes. You’re embarrassing everyone on two continents.”

“You have such a smart mouth. I hope Edgar knows what he’s getting into.”

“We can leave now,” said a voice. “I’m here.”