“We were running on borrowed time with the press, anyway,” Bea said, glancing down at her vintage Cartier watch. “Speaking of which, you were supposed to be in there taking your spots three minutes ago. Where is Edwin?” She scuttled across the very small room and started tearing through her luxe leather tote bag for her phone. “If he’s forgotten, we’ll shortly be planning his funeral.”

Part of the ritual of Marta’s body lying in state was that four people—members of the military, generally—took turns in a seventy-two-hour round-the-clock watch over her body, one at each corner of her flag-draped coffin, which was topped with both flowers and her iconic crown. One shift was always taken by the men of the royal family in their respective military uniforms, and Nick, Freddie, Edwin, and Richard were up that afternoon.

“Service in here is wretched,” Richard said. “Come outside with me while I call him, Beatrix, I need to discuss what Frederick will be telling the guests.”

He stalked out, Bea trailing behind him, navy-blue Smythson leather notebook in hand, leaving me and Nick alone with Freddie for the first time since everything fell apart on Thanksgiving. Nick shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels.

“How was your flight?” he finally asked.

“We barely made it out. The weather was terrible,” Freddie said. “I came straight from the airport and changed in a bathroom I never knew was here. Of course, why would I? No one’s died lately.” He closed his eyes, and his face seemed to crumble with the effort to open them again. “No one here, anyway.”

I could see an ache settle on Nick’s face. His arms tensed, as if he wanted to hug his brother but was uncertain whether it would be welcome. So his hands remained at his sides.

“We’re awfully glad you’re back,” he said. “I hope it was…or rather…that you found what you were looking for.”

Freddie’s face was unreadable. Nick and I exchanged glances as the heavy wooden door banged open and a storm-faced Richard and Bea came back inside, followed by a chastened-looking Edwin, who was trying to straighten a medal that looked like he’d made it himself. Edwin’s Naval career had not been illustrious, nor entirely voluntary, and it had been a tragedy for no one when it was cut short due to crippling nausea.

“I couldn’t find my hat,” he fretted. “Elizabeth has a head cold and so I told her she could sleep in, but I realized she was the last person to wear it, when we were—”

“Enough,” Richard said, his upper lip curling. “The RAF has already gone over its allotted fifteen minutes. Mother’s watching this, Edwin. There’s a livestream. Stand up straight.”

Edwin’s lip trembled. “Stand. The last word I played against Granny,” he moaned.

“That’s good!” I said. “Five letters!”