I walked slowly, in case this was a trick and she was luring me toward a hidden trapdoor, where I’d plunge into a palace subbasement and land among the skeletons of previous interlopers. To postpone this fate, I held out the box of crackers.

“Would you . . . ?”

“You dare to offer me a cracker, which belongs to me? Have you lost your mind and all sense of decency and decorum? Yes, I would like one.”

I handed her a cracker, carefully and at arm’s length, not making any sudden moves. As Queen Catherine nibbled:

“This cracker is dry, flavorless and ancient, which I prefer. I’d been told, by Mr. Bracegirdle and Ms. Talbot, that Edgar had sought to issue an invitation to you, a morally objectionable creature. At first I refused on principle, but I reconsidered. I was strategic: if there was a fractional hope of Edgar seeing you for whom and what you truly are, and thereby recognizing your utter unsuitability and sending you packing, then he must witness you among his people, and in his home. Where you will diminish and crumble, much like this cracker, and be swallowed by cold, harsh reality.”

She sipped from my glass of milk, which I’d left on a countertop.

I was about to either slink away in abject defeat or compose an outraged speech on behalf of the American dream, gay civil rights, and esteemed associate event architects who’d changed the course of history, who I’d invent, when the queen added, “Or not.”

“Your Majesty?”

I’d Googled: Edgar was Your Highness, Catherine was Your Majesty and the rest of us are just zip codes.

“You assume that I’m some unspeakable, intractable ogre, rooted in the fossilised prejudice of centuries long past. Perhaps because you’ve glimpsed my slippers. But I have only one real desire, and that is for Edgar’s happiness and that of his brother. So I’ll ask three simple questions, and should you answer acceptably, I shall countenance your presence for the next several days.”

“Go ahead. Ask me.”

I could do this. I was a Trivial Pursuit grand master. I’d watched so many pageants where Miss Nebraska had sailed through the personality quiz on what she’d tell her younger self (she’d recommend “Don’t worry so much” but what she really meant was “Sleep with the judges”). I’m good under pressure. And if Edgar could face off with Abby and Miriam, I could handle Nana.

“Will you be able to avoid any and all further embarrassment to the Crown?” the queen began. “Because Edgar cannot afford additional infamy.”

“I’ll try. I promise. Because I would never want to do that.”

“Excuse me, but does your T-shirt read ‘Honey, Just Don’t’?”

The shirt had been a birthday gift from Adam.

“Is that your next question?”