I had trouble getting to sleep, because of the time change and because I wanted to crawl down the hallway to Edgar’s bed, but I admonished myself to demonstrate effortless self-control. Of course the more I clenched my eyes shut and tried to will myself asleep, the more I wriggled around and heard my stomach growl (I’d only had three bowls of cashews on the plane, because I’m not an animal). The call buttons beckoned, but I didn’t want to wake anybody up, so I left my room in search of a kitchen or pantry or royal vending machine—Edgar had told me there was a palace ATM in the basement, shattering the myth of the royals never carrying cash. But a home ATM isn’t exactly a foosball table.

I crept along hallways and down a mammoth staircase where brass rods held the carpeting in place; I longed for an illuminated map, like the mall directories for pinpointing the Banana Republic outlet and the Sunglass Hut. It crossed my mind: did the palace have a dungeon? A pub for family members? Its own post office overseen by a kindly robot in a tweed vest, like something at the North Pole in a wholesome holiday movie?

I came upon a grand dining room and leaned against a wall, which opened: it was a concealed servants’ entrance. I found myself in a more practical, cream-colored brick hallway with industrial lighting fixtures, as if I was onboard a submarine, or in the steam tunnels beneath Grand Central Station.

I pushed open a heavy steel door to a kitchen capable of feeding everyone in England, or five American teenagers. It was both historic and immaculate, with a walk-in freezer, white subway tile and battered metal tables for food prep. From my event work I knew this area would normally be filled with diligent personnel in white aprons, Crocs and hairnets, the backbone of any gala.

I investigated a tanklike refrigerator and helped myself to a pitcher of milk. There was an opened carton of wheat crackers in a nearby cabinet. As I sampled a cracker a voice cried, “Thief! For shame!”

I froze. A small but sturdy woman stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing a sensible cotton nightdress and well-worn slippers, with her hair wrapped in a coiffure-protecting satin turban. She was Queen Catherine, Edgar’s grandmother. I recognized her from countless photos and Edgar’s ten-pound note.

“What are you doing here, you malignant reptile?”