“I felt much like you: that I was disappointing everyone, severely. Because ever since I can remember, there’s been only one unthinkable sin, and that was disgracing my family, and my country, in any way. I was being held to a different standard, which I agreed with. I had one job: to represent the royal household and to make England proud, and I was a calamity. So even the briefest affair, even a questionable friendship, began to seem—irresponsible. Not befitting the Crown. Far too risky.”

“So are you supposed to just be alone? And shut down?”

“No. I’m supposed to be aware, at all times, of the dangers involved. So in certain ways, yes, I’m a prisoner, a necessary prisoner, of expectations.”

Edgar’s eyes were shining with tears, which he didn’t acknowledge in any way.

“But you said there were three relationships?”

“The last was two years ago, with a docent from the British Museum. His specialty was the architect Augustus Pugin and the Gothic Revival, so we bonded over our mutual crush on the House of Lords and Westminster. He was erudite and levelheaded and quite handsome. A swimmer.”

I was instantly jealous, envisioning every actor who’d ever appeared shirtless in a BBC miniseries as a chauffeur or a stable boy or a country parson revealing a trim torso, often while skinny-dipping in a Shropshire pond.

“So what happened?”

“He was lovely, almost fictional, which should’ve been a red flag. Long talks. Shared interests. Modest. Until after a drunken argument, over nothing, he shouted his intention of writing a book, exposing everything I’d told him about my childhood and my grandmother and my sessions with a therapist. The worst part was his justification—he said the world needed to know how damaged I was. He said I should be made an example of why the monarchy should be abolished.”

“Oh my God.”

“He was quite serious, and this had been his motive all along. He’d hired a literary agent and provided video, which I never knew existed. When I tried to reason with him, things became physical, but if I’d brought charges, it only would’ve made everything worse. The Palace legal team stepped in, a great deal of money exchanged hands and—here I am. The poor little prince sobbing over his absurdly privileged and extravagant life.”

He stood.

“I should go. You don’t deserve this, you’re far too kind, and I’ve begun to believe that I curse people. That I plunk myself down not merely with baggage but with a sign around my neck reading ‘Beware—No Fun At All.’”