It was a masterful performance. Eleanor’s stride was appropriately slow, yet assured. Only those in the know would recognize her slightly clenched fists as a sign she was stilling herself, trying to ensure no one spotted the disproportionate weakness that remained in her right side. Her back was ramrod straight, her face under her black hat relaxed but serious. I couldn’t imagine the effort it took—the sheer amount of careful self-control. The curtsies and bows from the rest of the guests rolled from the back of the church to the front, following her like a slow-motion version of the wave. It must have looked spectacular from the overhead cameras.

Unexpectedly, Eleanor stopped right in front of me, putting a hand to her chest in a show of emotion and then dabbing at her eyes. I looked up to see her staring at me very hard, and saw in the tilt of her head a suggestion that I should stand and take her arm. Nick nudged me with his leg and I shot up out of my seat, feeling the heat of Richard’s glare on my face as I—the interloper, and not him—walked her the rest of the way to Marta’s casket.

Behind us, someone sneezed. The ensuing echo gave me a little cover.

“Are you okay?” I murmured, trying not to move my lips.

“Tired,” was all she said through a motionless mouth.

I said nothing more. While Eleanor’s grief was real, I realized it also gave her a convenient excuse to have a steady arm escorting her the rest of the way. And so I led her to Marta, where she placed her posy next to her mother’s crown and leaned toward the coffin.

“I’ll never forget,” she whispered. And then, so subtly that I almost missed it: “But I’ll never forgive, either.”

When she turned to me a second later, it was gone, her face the picture of dignified sadness once more. I took her back to her seat to commence the final farewell, but didn’t hear a word of the service over my own racing thoughts.

*  *  *

“It’s lovely to see you, but I’m sorry it’s under these sad circumstances,” Daphne said to me and Nick later, during the post-funeral reception. We were in the Blue Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace, and I was perched on the world’s most uncomfortable silk settee and thinking about whether or not I needed to throw up. My constant need to barf had tapered, but I hadn’t felt right since Eleanor’s salty final salute to her mother—something I wasn’t entirely sure she knew I’d overheard.

“We’re happy you were able to make it,” Nick said.