“But you can’t see anything!” I insisted. “And we just look happy!”

“And worst of all,” Marc continued, ignoring me, “His Highness appears to be mocking the dignity of the Crown itself.”

“So sorry I’m late,” said someone instantly familiar, entering the room.

“My brother, Gerald,” Edgar told me, but I’d already recognized Gerald, in his crisp blue shirt, blazer and gray flannels. Unlike Edgar, Gerald had typecast himself as a glossy young royal, meticulously groomed and proudly obedient. While two years younger than Edgar, Gerald seemed older; he was the child a teacher might put in charge of the classroom while she left to make a call, confident that Gerald would enumerate all infractions. I suspected that Gerald owned a large and exhaustively researched wristwatch with countless functions, including an orbital moon phase display. He stretched his arm so this watch peeked out from his French cuff, with a cuff link enameled with the royal crest. I didn’t mean to pigeonhole him, but Gerald reeked of trying-too-hard.

“How could you let this happen?” Gerald said forcefully. “Especially after so many previous incidents.”

“This isn’t the same,” said Edgar, but he sounded unsure.

“This photo has been viewed over fifty-eight million times,” reported Alison, “and has appeared on the front page of the Sun, the Daily Mail, the Guardian, the Observer and on websites around the world. And as for the comments, well, you can just imagine. The two of you are being referred to as the Burger Kings, the Burger Boys and the Burger Queens.”

Someone stifled a giggle, and I had the feeling it was James, which made me like him.

“I take no issue with your homosexuality,” said Gerald, “but I’m extremely upset by your exposing our family, and especially Nana, to open ridicule. This photo is salacious and adolescent and demands an immediate response.”

Of course I wanted to ask Edgar, “Do you and your brother call the Queen of England ‘Nana’? Do you ever have to say ‘Your Nanaship’ or ‘Your Nananess’?”

“I’ve drafted an official apology,” said Alison. “And a statement referring to Mr. Ogden as merely a misguided acquaintance with an unfortunate history.”

“As what?” I asked.

“We’ve come to believe that your phone has been hacked,” said Marc, “and additional photos have begun circulating, including shots of you and a group of friends dressed as Lady Gaga at various stages in her career, along with a gallery of you and an actor named Callum Turner wearing almost nonexistent swimsuits and a Halloween portrait of you costumed as Princess Leia.”

“The Jabba the Hutt metal bikini?” James inquired.

“The white sheath,” said Alison disdainfully, “with the braided pastry hairdo.”