“Technically it was and, but close enough,” he said, wiping his streaming ducts.

After a flurry of last-minute adjustments, the men walked through to stand their somber watch. Bea pulled an iPad out of her tote—like Mary Poppins’s carpetbag, it contained an infinite supply of useful items—and pulled up the livestream, propping the tablet up on a table against a religious-looking object that was probably now being lightly defiled. Nick and Freddie had taken the positions at the foot of Marta’s casket, while Richard and Edwin (still fiddling with his jacket) stood at the head. The public kept shuffling through the vast candlelit room up to the coffin, seemingly oblivious to the four taciturn princes fifteen feet away, save for one young woman who afforded Freddie a sly grin. The Freddie of yore might have twinkled at her a little, but this one was stony and listless.

“Does he seem okay to you?” I fretted.

“He’ll feel like himself after a night in his own bed,” Bea said. “And Daphne gets here tomorrow. She’ll help get him sorted.”

“Will she?”

Bea cocked her head and studied my face. “Does that bother you?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I just didn’t know she was doing so much heavy lifting.”

Bea made a note in her book. “A true friend’s work is never done, and Freddie needs as many of those as he can get right now,” she said. “You look tired. Do you need a chair?”

“No.” In truth I was dying to sit down—my four-inch Sarah Flint heels were killing me, and my black sheath was pinchier than it used to be—but I wasn’t about to admit it to Bea.

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Bea said.

“Since when?”

“Since the entire world is going to be watching you at this funeral tomorrow, and we can’t have you walking like your feet hurt,” she said. “What other reason could there be?”

I tried to hold a neutral facial expression. I had wrapped the pregnancy test in paper towels before shoving it in a sausage-roll box and disposing of it in a dumpster behind one of the staff buildings, like a dead gerbil I was trying to hide from a child. Bea didn’t seem like someone who’d root through people’s trash, but then again, Bea had also once counseled me that other people would. She had a way of making me feel exposed, and she was doing it again now. I turned away from her inquiring eyes, and we watched the rest of the fifteen-minute shift in silence.

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO