I pushed it open to reveal a dark hallway—with a functioning nightlight; apparently even the secret passageways were attended to scrupulously by the staff—and then another door, which let me into a janitorial closet. I slipped into the museum from there and pretended to “discover” that the women’s room was across the hall. Nobody was there to see my acting job, so I simply strolled in, washed my hands, smoothed my wig, and then walked right out toward the foyer. Any nearby tourists were all too busy consulting their maps of the palace, or turning over souvenir mugs in their hands, to pay me any mind. (I couldn’t help but notice that the gift shop’s stock of teacups honoring our wedding had been deeply discounted.) I feigned an interest in some aprons, and then set out into the park, pulling up the collar of my wool coat against the brisk October air.

It was sunny, but crisp; a breeze ruffled what was left on the trees and convinced several leaves to give up the ghost. I strolled toward the high street, then headed into the McDonald’s and ordered an Egg McMuffin and a hash brown. The teller looked at me very curiously, and as my heart leapt into my throat, she pointed up at the clock.

“Sorry, love,” she said. “We’ve stopped serving breakfast.”

“Oh,” I said, nearly forgetting to put on my accent, and sliding into a compromise that sounded vaguely Australian. Okay, then. Margot was from Down Under now. “Right, sorry, lost the plot there. Jet lag. One Big Mac meal, please, mate. Er, g’day.”

The woman didn’t even look up again; she just took the bill I handed her, my grandmother-in-law glaring officiously up at me from one side. Oh, hush, I thought, before guiltily remembering she was hooked up to a heart monitor.

I polished off my burger at a table by the window, pleasing myself with people-watching, and eavesdropping on the patrons who came and went around me. One was discussing Aston Villa’s football fortunes; another wanted to write an angry letter to the entire England cricket squad. A mother-daughter duo spoke French to each other and pointed in the general vicinity of the palace, then asked me for directions. I jotted some down on a napkin in a blocky imitation of Cilla’s half-capitalized, half-lowercase script.

“Merci,” the mother said. “Me, I don’t care, but Giselle is hoping the prince will notice her if she walks past the windows.”

“You mean Frederick?” I asked, feigning uncertainty.

“No, the other,” the mom said dismissively. “The one married to that American whore. Giselle gives them two more months at most.”

They packed up and left, and I tried not to laugh into the remaining sliver of my Big Mac. Giselle’s mother had no idea she was speaking to the American whore in question. Margot had pulled it off. Margot was feeling it.