Nick laughed. “And without even a single binder to guide us.”

As promised on its shirts, Canada was for lovers. After each jam-packed day of meet-and-greets and charity engagements and touristy excursions, I expected to collapse with exhaustion until it was time to get up and do it again. But instead, it was invigorating, and every night we fell on each other like one of us had just been released from prison. The third day of the tour, I woke up with a hickey. (It was, thankfully, on an area of my body no one else would see.) The sex fast was definitely over, and we were making up for lost time.

Nick and I were pulling off the public-facing aspects, too. We began in Ottawa, where we were greeted by the prime minister, some rowdy well-wishers, and a bouquet of roses that photographed beautifully against my white dress. We swept through the capital city in two days before moving on to Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland, and Quebec. We met homeless teens going through job-training programs, visited sick children in shiny new hospital wards and brave adults tackling the mental health issues that had become Nick’s priority, learned to make poutine, and raced dragon boats in Anne of Green Gables country, where even my predictable “Lady of Shalott” joke went over a treat. At every stop the crowds were large and welcoming, save for a few anti-monarchy demonstrators and one environmental group protesting that we flew private—a problem I understood, but couldn’t solve, given how often I was expected to change my clothes in transit. Lady Bollocks was on a high: The onslaught of photos from the week (me celebrating my victory on the low seas, Nick sieving gravy, both of us having earnest conversations with adorable tots) were so winning that even that cranky old stooge Xandra Deane had to admit we were killing it. Finally, Nick and I were doing something right.

We’d arrived in Calgary early that morning and spent an entertaining day at its Stampede, world renowned for its rodeo but also for the raucous party at its fairgrounds (scientists once tracked an uptick in both STDs and pregnancies after it ended). A photo of me and Nick feeding each other funnel cake while wearing cowboy hats was currently trending on Twitter. Everyone loved it. Almost.

Do feel free to leave the hat in Canada, Eleanor had texted me from her new iPhone. She’d followed it up with a link to one @KingIdrisElba—avatar still an egg—who’d tweeted that we looked like rodeo clowns.

No way. I’m bringing it home for Richard, I replied.

Good. It can keep him warm after I get my crown back.