Eleanor eyed me coolly. “I can assure you, Rebecca,” she said, “I was always in control.”

Rather than breaking out the bullhorn at the more standard twelve weeks, Nick and I let things cook a little longer—partly out of paranoia, partly to let Freddie’s news breathe—before announcing that we were expecting twins. The world welcomed this news with wild enthusiasm (and a heavy amount of betting on both gender and names; the current front-runners were Albert and Arthur). Even the online haters had to admit that, no matter how derelict a mother I was destined to be, it was nice when people had babies. We were riding a tidal wave of public warmth, and with Freddie haring off to Europe, Richard and Eleanor doubled down on putting me on display to reassure the United Kingdom that it still had royals putting down roots here. I had wanted more work, and I’d gotten it.

The car door opened and Eleanor slowly disembarked, raising a hand to the assembled masses as a cheer went up. I scooted out behind her as quickly as I could, given that I was four months along and yet already felt like I had a beach ball filled with sand stuffed up under my dress. We walked to a neat construction site ringed with workers in orange jumpsuits, their white hard hats respectfully in hand, the merry sign—onto which someone had also added a baby in a hard hat—waving around behind them.

“Your Majesty. Welcome to the beginning of the Eleanor Line,” boomed the mayor of London, an imposing, bloviating sort with hair that looked like it had been cut with a chain saw. He fumbled through the protocols with Eleanor and then shook my hand. He had a surprisingly limp grip. “And, Your Highness, you look just like your portrait,” he said. “Spitting image.”

I smiled. “Yes, aren’t I fortunate?”

“Er, not that I’ve properly seen it,” he admitted. “Popped by the gallery, but it was out for cleaning.”

“How thoughtful of them,” Eleanor said sweetly, resolutely not looking in my direction. I’d shown her the postcard, listened as she shrieked, watched as she tore it in two.

“Yes, well, you’ll want it in tip-top shape for those lovely babies to see someday, eh?” the mayor said. “Oh, that reminds me,” he added, summoning a worker, who stepped forward tentatively with two onesies. They bore the unmistakable Tube logo with CLARENCE written where the stop name would be.

“How marvelous!” I said, taking them and holding both over my stomach as best I could. Click, click. A perfect sidebar photo for tomorrow’s Daily Mail. “Thank you!”

“Twice blessed,” the mayor said.

“Indeed,” Eleanor said. “We are thrilled. Now, tell me more about the Eleanor Line. Will it be the best of them, do you think?”