Finally, Richard took his place in the center of the top of the horseshoe-shaped table. I’d read about people preening like peacocks, but had never seen it in person until I watched him relish being the absolute center of ceremonial attention, moving with the body language of someone who had just whipped off his mask. At the opposite end of the head table from me, Nick—under his father’s watchful eye—appeared to be doing a better job negotiating conversation between Lax and Prime Minister Tuesday than I was with my seatmates, Hax and his ambassador, who were speaking over my head in Dutch as if I were invisible.

At the appointed time, we stood for “God Save the Queen,” underscoring once more the purgatory of Eleanor’s absent non-absence. And then Richard silenced the room.

“It is bittersweet to be addressing you tonight,” he said. “My mother has been the rock of the Commonwealth for decades. May we have a moment of silence to pray for her health.”

After a beat, Richard continued. “Filling the Queen’s shoes is an inconceivable task, but it is a responsibility the Duke of Clarence and I take very seriously,” he said. Nick nodded gravely. Freddie stared down at his napkin.

“We are grateful to our friends from the Netherlands for joining us as planned, paying tribute to my mother while affirming that our path ahead here remains steady no matter which of us is called to walk it,” he said. “And there is much to celebrate, from the bonds of friendship and family, to our own blessings, to my mother’s life, and to her legacy. I will carry it proudly, as will Nicholas and his wife, and their heirs after them. I could not be more delighted that they’ll be expanding their young family.”

I heard a record scratch in my head. Richard was speaking theoretically—and totally out of his ass—but the entire room looked straight at me as if expecting me to stand up and give birth right there. I had no idea what to do. If I made the no freaking way this is too soon are you shitting me you rotten git face I was pulling inside my head, the Daily Mail would yell, BEX TO BABIES: BUZZ OFF! But if I went with an enigmatic smile, it would look like a confirmation. Marrying the heir had been my signature on a contract to pop out the next one, but as wrung-out newlyweds living in a museum of curios, Nick and I hadn’t been ready even before the fight. There was less than zero chance of a baby now that he could barely look at me—which was not something I wanted to draw attention to, and yet suddenly it felt like twin spotlights had been trained on us, as the whole room looked to see how we reacted.

Stand tall, I imagined Eleanor saying in my head.