Lax gestured absently toward the carvings over our heads in the Royal Palace’s Citizens’ Hall, a vast, high-ceilinged space bedecked with sculptures looking down upon us—of the Amsterdam Maiden, of the planets and the elements, of Atlas. Daphne’s family was based in The Hague but used the impressive Amsterdam palace for official functions, its two-story sandstone façade somewhat evoking Buckingham Palace, but crowned with a cupola and a ship-shaped weathervane. Richard had kept us guessing about his whereabouts right up until the minute his car arrived outside. I glanced up at Atlas, the world on his back, and thought how apt it was that we were all here circulating underneath the very symbol of how it felt to carry something bigger and heavier than you are.

In my case, it was doubly true. I’d been cleared to travel by private jet for the wedding, though at thirty-three weeks pregnant with twins, this had come on the condition that we bring two doctors and keep Lax’s obstetrician on call—in addition to the fact that Cilla would be lurking on the fringes of the wedding, ostensibly helping Freddie, but also watchdogging me. My swollen feet and ankles were ably concealed by an emerald lace gown that matched my engagement ring; my discomfort, I’d been told, was about on par with a woman nine months pregnant with one fetus, and I sent up a prayer of thanks that the afternoon’s public pre-wedding variety show had always only been planned for Freddie, as a way for his new country to welcome him into its arms. I only had so much stamina, and the stress of wondering whether Richard would show his face had drained me of a fair bit before the rehearsal dinner had even begun.

“Poor thing,” Lady Elizabeth had said to me as we walked into the hall for cocktails. “I remember when I was about that pregnant with my first. I felt like my undercarriage was going to explode. Which of course it did, in a way, but—”

“Father,” Nick had blurted out.

We had all jumped a little and turned to see the Prince of Wales, looking tanned and handsome, striding in with Eleanor on his arm. The hush that blanketed the room was nearly palpable, as the band whipped up “God Save the Queen” as a sign of respect. Even in a non-Commonwealth country, as guests of another monarchy, Eleanor carried a special kind of majesty and gravitas—and incited genuine deference, even from other rulers. She’d been queen for as long as nearly everyone in this room could remember, and I think she represented, to them, the best of what our lives as royals could be: devoted to service, beloved by country, and a living symbol of history.

“I don’t envy them,” Elizabeth had said to me, nodding at Richard and Eleanor. “Everyone wants their ear. No room for an extra tipple or a spot of mischief in a dark corner.” She smirked. “Eddybear would burst if we couldn’t steal away for a snog. Oh, look, he’s already giving me the tug on the ear. No rest for the wicked.”