Richard was merely a stand-in, a prop, and he knew it. But he’d held his head high under the weight of the crown—at Eleanor’s insistence, he’d worn the custom ceremonial one from his Prince of Wales investiture rather than the iconic one belonging to the monarch—and he’d both stood and sat ramrod straight, as he’d been taught. I’m ready, his bearing said. For someday.

“King Richard,” Bea mused. “Even when Eleanor was unconscious, it didn’t feel this real.”

“Crikey,” was all Nick had offered, the color draining from his face.

As Freddie stood on our doorstep, a curious expression playing around the corners of his disguise, I told him, “He didn’t admit it, exactly, but I think the whole thing freaked Nick out. It made his future feel awfully close.”

Freddie looked sympathetic. “Father practiced his whole life for that moment. I think he forgets not everyone was looking so forward to it,” he said, and there wasn’t a trace of malice in it. “But Knickers is going to have his turn someday, whether he likes it or not, and he’s got to be every bit as ready.”

I shivered. “Enough of that. Shall we?”

“Yes indeed,” Freddie said. “I hope you’re wearing sensible shoes.”

“Freddie,” I said patiently as I followed him into the gravel courtyard, “if the time ever comes that I’m not wearing sensible shoes off duty, please hurl me into the Thames.”

Freddie guided me out of the courtyard, and onto the private road that led out of the protected palace walls. We strolled around the far wing of the compound, past an array of charming potting sheds, a tennis court, and cottages that housed offices and occasionally low-level relatives visiting from out of town.

“Where are you even taking me?” I asked. “Don’t we look like security threats, lurking around in these wigs?”

“Patience, Killer,” Freddie said over his shoulder. “Besides, your PPOs are well acquainted with your disguise. They’ll just think I’m some creepy weirdo you’ve picked up off the street.”

“As is my habit,” I said.

“Exactly. And anyway, we’re here.”

“Here” was a long, narrow garden shoved between the outbuildings and the ivy-covered brick wall that separated us from the public Kensington Gardens. There, in the middle of the wall, was an unassuming white-painted wooden door.

“I used your little trick the other day—and my God, that was risky,” he said. “I scared the hell out of two people on the cleaning staff when I burst into that janitorial closet. I had to tell them we’d run out of toilet cleaner.”

“It’s an imperfect system,” I agreed.

“So I did a little exploring,” he said. “Look.”