“I wish this was wine. But my tolerance is terrible now,” she said, scooching up into a seated position and blowing on the wafting Darjeeling. “Nick, feel free to keep him all week if you want. I can practice getting my drink on, and he can keep you company in the middle of the night. He’s very perky at three a.m.”

“Of course he is. The middle of the night is interesting,” Nick cooed to the baby. “I understand you, Danny. No one understands you like Uncle Nick.”

On his chest, the baby wiggled his teeny fingers in his sleep. I felt it in my gut. Watching Nick be adorable with my sister’s accidental blessing was carving me up in a way that I could not control. I turned away and busied myself looking for coasters.

“I wish evolution had created babies with respect for the mother’s sleep cycle,” Lacey said, yawning again and falling against Olly.

“At least it invented a nine-month gestational period,” said Olly. “Elephants go for almost twenty-two.”

Daniel Earl Porter-Omundi had been born three weeks ago, after thirty-six hours of what Lacey called “an excruciating hellscape” of labor. It had started while Nick and I were in Hampstead revealing a plaque marking the refurbishment of John Keats’s house, and the baby arrived the next day while we were giving out shamrocks to the First Battalion Irish Guards on Saint Patrick’s Day. (In the photos, if you look closely, you can guess how late I was up fielding texts that said things like, “I hope Olly gets a kidney stone the size of Montana.”) Our little Danny Boy was perfect, from the top of his sweet-smelling head to the bottom of the wrinkly feet that fit in my hand. Nick and I had met him at the hospital, but this was his first official outing—and one of Lacey’s as well. The toll of being alert was evident on her face, even as she seemed delighted to have adult company. She’d come over in her maternity overalls and a topknot and immediately instructed Bea not to say a word. Bea had simply steered her to the couch, pushed her down gently, and put a pillow on the coffee table for her feet.

“He doesn’t do much, does he?” Bea peered down at Danny. “When do they become fun?”

“Some still haven’t,” I said. Lacey snickered.

“Don’t lean over him, you’ll spill your tea,” Cilla said crossly, swatting at Bea’s legs with a napkin.

“I have no intention of leaning,” Bea said. “I am not sufficiently interested in babies, and I am even less interested in leaning.”

“Hello? Could someone please come help me carry something?” came Freddie’s voice from the foyer.

“I don’t understand where your staff are,” Bea grumbled.