“They thought it would pass, and she’d settle down, but she was always stubborn, so terribly stubborn. She shut most of us out, and spent her life chasing pleasure with an increasingly vapid series of handsome idiots,” Eleanor said. “You’ve seen the pictures. Frankly, it always made me worry about Frederick, even before that cataclysm with you. He and Georgina have many things in common, and falling for the wrong person is one of them.”

“His tastes have elevated since me,” I said. “He’s dating an expert in nuclear disarmament.”

“And the marine biologist?”

“Ehhhh…” I hedged.

Eleanor made a noise indicating that this was no surprise.

“Personally, I have found being romantically unencumbered to be freeing,” she said. “Frederick should try being alone for longer than fifteen minutes. It’s unrealistic to expect to find peace in the arms of someone else if you can’t find it within yourself.” She glanced over at me and raised a brow. “Yes, I’m quite wise. Don’t look so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised. I just think you should tell him that,” I said.

“What makes you think I haven’t?” Eleanor said. “Now, call down to the kitchen for some Champagne. Our Cubs have won their opening game.”

*  *  *

“This is the building where Congress works.”

“The Capitol,” Nick said. “With an O.”

“First president?”

Nick scoffed. “George Washington. Everyone knows that.”

“I didn’t make these notecards. Take it up with Bea,” I said, setting that one aside on the messy “correct” pile that was spilling across the desk in our Apartment 1A royal tour war room. “My turn.”

Whenever it felt like my entire life was in flux—the shifting sands of my relationship with Eleanor, whatever was going on with Freddie and Nick, the ever-changing expectations of the public, even the wallpaper in my bathrooms—it was reassuring to have one thing I could count on: Lady Bollocks assuming I was a dumbass. Seemingly every day Nick and I took deliveries of neatly collated tour binders titled and annotated in her persnickety penmanship. The first ones focused on each city we were visiting, then expanded into the organizations we’d be touring, dossiers on local dignitaries, dress-code suggestions for specific situations—the one for the Calgary Stampede was called Western Wear (Respectful)—and even one that listed the political opinions I was to avoid while on American soil during an election year (in short: all of them). Cilla had texted me one day that she’d walked in on Bea and Marj chortling over an office supply catalog, and I was happy that Marj was handing the reins over to someone who shared her organizational élan and who was, in many senses, the devil I at least knew. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed Bea’s ensuing weekly quizzes, which required cram sessions.

“What is the name of Winnipeg’s Canadian Football League team?” Nick asked.