I handed over the nails. “I am looking forward to having something concrete to do, since I am so disappointing otherwise.”

Lacey clenched a nail in her teeth and shot me a frown over her shoulder. The Mail had recently written a story suggesting that I was abdicating my royal responsibilities by not producing an heir.

“The Mail is full of it,” she said, pounding the other nail into the wall. “Having babies is not your only purpose in life.”

“It kind of is, though,” I said. “Producing the next monarch is the only part of my job description anyone can agree on. Even three old ladies at Crocheting for Cancer asked Nick when we’re going to get on with it already.”

“That’s so rude,” Lacey said, punctuating this with one final strike of the hammer. “It’s none of anyone’s business.”

“Again, though, it kind of is,” I said. “If I don’t go into labor soon, they’ll probably call for my head.”

“You never even wanted kids that much, did you?” she asked. “I used to assume you’d be my kids’ hippie aunt, like the one in the Ramona Quimby books, who is all cool and carefree and gives the best presents.”

“I never really thought about it,” I said. “I assumed I had my whole life to figure it out. And now here I am, married barely a year, still not sure what I’m doing, and being told I’m late getting pregnant.”

“Don’t let their retrograde shit get you down. You’ll get around to it when it’s right for you,” Lacey said. “Until then, everyone else can mind their knitting. Or their crocheting. Whatever. Does this look straight to you?” She stood back to admire her handiwork. The framed black-and-white photo was of her and Olly laughing with two elephants in the distant background.

“It looks beautiful,” I said. “What’s next?”

“The kitchen,” she said. “Olly is still using a bunch of old stuff he got from his parents. We need to clear out.”

“Aha, there, I can help you,” I said, following her into the petite, bright blue space. “It’s the one skill set I’ve honed.”

Lacey reached into a cupboard and pulled out a saucepan that was chipped and peeling on the inside. “How can a person eat anything that was cooked in here?” she marveled. “It’s probably giving us lead poisoning or something. It’s definitely not good for—” She stopped speaking suddenly and pursed her lips.

“Uh, no, try again,” I said. “What did you just decide not to tell me? This is the same expression you had on your face the day you told me you lost your virginity, so it must be big.”

“Okay, well…” Lacey wrung her hands. “If you’re behind schedule on the babies, then I’m unexpectedly way ahead.”

“Lacey,” I gasped. “This is huge news!”