“Mother?” Richard gasped when he arrived, white as a sheet and wearing an immaculate pin-striped suit even though it was 3:52 a.m. He leaned low over her and placed a hand on her head. “Can it be true?”

That’s when Queen Eleanor uttered her first words in months: “Fuck off.”

*  *  *

We’d been warned about the consequences of Eleanor’s four-month medical odyssey. Her team was stunned that she had returned to us at all, given how low the odds were, and it warned us that she would likely be physically and/or mentally different than the woman we once knew. That she’d been able to get her mouth around the words fuck off was something of a miracle, though her voice was thick with lack of use. None of us had taken her “fuck off” instructions personally, or even seriously, but we would soon learn it was a harbinger of a saltier Queen Eleanor experience.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” I said on my first visit after she awoke, clutching a bouquet of hothouse roses I’d commandeered from the Queen’s own greenhouse. “You look great!”

“Don’t lie to me,” Eleanor grumped. “I look old.”

It was jarring to see the toll the last few months had taken. Lying there, her facial muscles inert, Eleanor had looked nearly untouched by time. Now that she was up again, her skin showed the dry, dull impact of being eighty-one years old and ailing. Her hair, usually sleek, was wild and split from overgrowth. Her mouth drooped ever so slightly at one corner, probably a permanent side effect of the stroke. Nick had told me that during his visit, she occasionally had to pause to find a word or struggled to enunciate, and I could already tell her voice hadn’t strengthened yet. Her right arm would need physical therapy. These were all small trade-offs for her life, but I could tell from the way her left hand fussed at her hair and her face that she didn’t care for them one bit.

“It’s only been a few weeks. You’re not supposed to look like nothing happened,” I said. “I’m just happy to come in here and see you sitting up and glaring at me again.”

“Glaring is my only solace,” she sighed melodramatically. “They won’t even let Fabio in to trim my ends. I’m falling apart.”

Marta barely looked up from her iPhone. “By all means keep wailing about it,” she said, then turned her phone toward us. “Your friend Clive went on Sunrise and said that if Eleanor really is fully recovered, he’ll eat his hat.”

“He’s not my friend,” I said.

“He is a reprobate of the highest order,” Eleanor said. She picked up the phone on her nightstand. “Murray,” she said. “Send Clive Fitzwilliam the largest hat you can find. Make sure it looks poisonous.”