"There were quite a few glitches tonight, weren't there, Boni?"

"Mustn't talk with such a full mouth... Ooh!... So much for the wig... Mm... Maybe things have gone on long enough."

17.

It was the morning after the night before, and the Queen was thinking that it was a pretty good thing that she wasn't one of these silly fools-like The Other One, for example-who bought into her own press. The New York Times-having stringers all over the world, of course-had quoted the President as saying that Her Majesty was "lovely" and "gracious" in every way. The Queen had survived the presidencies of nine Americans, and these were the two adjectives that they had all invariably and unimaginatively used. Was this a surprising coincidence to anyone? After all, they could hardly report that they had found the Monarch to be a colossal bitch, now, could they?

She patted her dogs, listening to her own personal bagpiper playing underneath her window. It really was a lucky thing for him that he seemed to be so impervious to the cold, for it was turning out to be quite a chilly December.

Fifteen minutes later, her private musical entertainment complete for another day, she summoned her personal Footman. She had written a message for Daisy, demanding that the younger woman join her for lunch. Cocktails in the Orleans Room at 12:30. Lunch in the Bow Room at 1:00 sharp. Be there. Aloha.

18.

Elsewhere on the Principal Floor, diagonally across from the Queen's apartments, somebody else was stirring. The only problem was, that this person-the current resident of the Yellow Suite-was not feeling quite as chipper as the Queen.

Daisy groaned, clutching her head as though it might help matters. What had she done?

She had a vague recollection of not being able to keep her mouth closed but, outside of that, there was no way that she could say with absolute certainty just what exactly she had said, or to whom. So, just to be on the safe side, she formed the blanket assumption that she had offended everybody. The way she figured it, there was a good reason why the same phoneme was used for the word "dumb," and for the horror movie sound, as in "Dum ta dum dum... Dum!!!"

All of this theorizing was confirmed when-as she sat on the floor of the jasmine bathroom, her head hanging over the toilet-Footmen came, bearing notes on silver salvers. The Queen was demanding her presence later at lunch but, first, the Queen Mother wished for Daisy to join her for breakfast. So, she was being called on the carpet by all of the biggies. She was right: she had been insulting and she had been dumb and now she would probably be booted out on her keester, tossed like Dino the Dog on the Flintstones. She really had made a pathetic mess of things, and there was just no way that she was ever going to get out of this one.

"I should have just stayed in last night with a good book," she declared to the empty room at large.

Charles, of course, had also sent a note, a cheerful missive requesting her presence at dinner, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. He was always cheerfully oblivious these days.

And, anyway, where in the world was she going to find the stamina or the antacid necessary to complete all of the food consumption that others expected of her on this dark day?

19.

"Believe it or not," the Queen Mother was saying, as she banged on the heel end of the bottle, finally managing to shoot a stream of Louisiana hot sauce across her plate of fried eggs. "Now what was I saying? Ah, yes. Believe it or not, people are supposed to enjoy parties. You must try not to beat yourself up so much, dear."

So far, except for having to watch another human being eating kippers, breakfast was not going as badly as Daisy had envisioned. So far, she hadn't had to actually eat anything, and speaking didn't appear to be required either.

"In fact, people are supposed to enjoy life. Oh, I know it's not considered the 'done' thing these days, for people to have a good time with drink anymore," the Q.M. went on, taking a healthy swig from her glass of tomato juice. "People all over the world go home at the end of the evening, congratulating themselves on their own scintillating sobriety, patting themselves on the backs for how little fun they had. But, take it from me: life is just the merest of blinks..." and here the Q.M. performed a demonstration, going slightly cross-eyed for a second, behind the cerulean netting of her hat's veil, "And then you die. Mind you, I do know from whence I speak. I did, after all, survive the Blitz. And I say, to borrow some words from that late young Beatle boy, 'whatever gets you through the night.'"

She paused for a long moment, considering, her face lost in the philosophical contemplation of some elusive and profound thought. "Ye-es, John always was the most intelligent, but it was George that I never would have been able to kick out of bed for eating chips. And of course, Ringo was the most fun. As for Paul, well... one does not like to be nasty, but... what does he have to whine about all the time? After all, the man owns more of Scotland than we do."

The Q.M. retrieved her cane from where it had been leaning against a chair and, banging it resoundingly on the floor for emphasis, managed to bring her companion-who had been beginning to doze off in her chair-back to a blinking state of wakefulness.

"I think that you are absolutely right, Daisy," came the pronouncement. "I think that Paul should just get over it." She helped herself to some more tomato juice. "Besides, dear, I think they all rather liked you."

Now, Daisy thought, closing the door gently on the breakfast room, all I have to do is get through a measly old lunch, without getting myself beheaded, and I should be home free.

20.

For the very first time in her life, the Queen found herself nervously fingering the double row of pearls around her neck, as she waited in the Orleans Room for Daisy. Thankfully, the younger woman did not keep her waiting, and, after a brief discussion, in which it was stated that nobody would be requiring anything alcoholic for quite some time, they adjourned to the Bow Room. It was in this room that the Queen and Philip hosted four or five luncheons over the course of the year, each for six to eight lucky men and women. Compared to the Garden Parties, it was a unique way of bestowing recognition on people for jobs well done, sort of like the difference between the Last Supper grouping and the loaves and fishes mob scene. Although, somehow, neither metaphor seemed apt for Daisy's predicament, unless, of course, one were to point out that she was about to be fed, or that she had been-like Judas, perhaps-talking too much among the wrong circles.

Once inside the Bow Room, Daisy found herself squidgeeing around in her seat, involuntarily wincing as she waited for the axe to fall. She guessed that it was kind of nice for the Queen to want to feed her before killing her.

It came as some surprise then, when, upon raising her glass in Daisy's direction, the Queen toasted, "To you, my dear. Now, then, perhaps it is best that we get right down to business. Have you and Charles discussed a date yet?"

Had Daisy been in a physical state where she could have stood the consumption of food or beverage, it would be a safe bet to place that she would have spewed it all over the Monarch at this juncture. This day was not going at all as she had anticipated. Not only was the Queen not indicting her for her bad display of behavior, but she also actually seemed to be rather joyfully awaiting the announcement of Daisy's future intentions. And, somehow, the implications of it all was far more disturbing than if she had been set out on the cold curb with the empty milk bottles and yesterday's news. She found herself thrust into a blind panic.

"Where shall the wedding take place?" was the Queen's next item on the agenda. "Westminster? Hm? After all, it certainly cannot be St. Paul's. Charles has already 'been there' and 'done that' as you might so aptly put it."

One might think that Daisy would be still swimming about in a state of shock, perhaps in total awe of the situation that she found herself thrust into. But, one would think wrong. It is surprising how resilient one's personality can become when, all around you, people are losing their heads, and they all seemed to be blaming it on you; to a .monarch, assuming that you would marry the future King, and having the gall to presuppose that it should all be on the groom's family's terms.

"How about an intimate ceremony in a small synagogue?" Daisy found herself muttering under her breath.

"Excuse me, dear?"

"I merely said, 'How about a Primate-conducted teensy ceremony in Prague?'"

"Yes, you might have something there with the 'teensy' part. Perhaps it would not be in our best interests to make such a great big show of this one. It is refreshing to see you grasp, so early on in the game, how important it is that one's individual needs always play second fiddle to the institution. Still and all... Prague, dear? One is not quite sure what you mean by that. Perhaps you might elucidate..."

As talk of Eastern Europe and of Daisy's impending nuptials flowed on, Daisy found her mind irresistibly drawn to the Glass Coach, which she had seen once upon a time while strolling through the Royal Mews.

Would she get to ride to her wedding in Prague in it? She wondered. Or was that to be one other thing that Charles had already 'been' and 'done'?

Only time would tell.

Thus, extraordinarily, Daisy began to learn that, not only was her life not in the state of ruins that she would have imagined based on the runaway behavior of her mouth at the State Banquet the evening before, but that the Queen Mother was-as always-right in her assessment of the situation: Daisy Sills was a hit.

21.

Princess Anne was once again speaking to the voice through the closed bathroom door. "Yes, it went a lot better last night than I had thought it would, actually."

She smiled. She was thinking of how much she had indeed enjoyed her brief, yet energetic, dance with Daisy on the evening before. She did so hope that, one day, the younger woman might fulfill her heartfelt promise, accompanying the Princess on a Save the Children mission to Africa. She smiled at the prospect.

"Stomach still wonky, is it?" she shouted through the door now.

"Well, you know," cried the voice, pitifully, "I did eat that herring..."

"Yes, but that was yesterday." She paused, remembering something before speaking. "Haven't you heard of a thing called 'antacids'? I suggest that you take some and then just get over it."

And, with that, she grabbed her bag and trounced out, slamming the door behind her, more china crashing to the floor in her wake. She carried on, however, not having heard a thing.

She had places to go and good deeds to perform.

She would not wear pink anymore, but she would go to Africa.

In the early hours of the dawn, Pacqui had promised Packey that he would not make a fuss about any future escorting of horse women in the future, and that, if any name-changing ever needed to be done-for clarity's sake-he would gladly bite the bullet, thus becoming Rudolpho.

Mrs. B.P.M., over her morning tea, had resolved that, in future, she would find something interesting to say to someone at all of these dreary functions that her husband's career demanded that she attend. Either that, or she would just get over it.

Edward and Andrew decided that it was quite all right that neither of them would ever be King of England.

Hillary Clinton swore that she wasn't going to let a little thing like a few extra pounds trouble her anymore, as she boarded Air Force One, also in the wee hours of that morning. Daisy was right: women could rule the world, if they were only brave enough to throw out their bathroom scales and just get over it. There was certainly no law, Hillary thought, stating that she couldn't run next time.

Her husband, striding confidently and unsuspectingly at her side, didn't really have very much to get over himself, having already gotten over so much. But, perhaps, when he got back to the States, he might tell a few other people-Paula, all of the Republicans, Al, Buddy the Dog-to just get over it, and just see what they had to say about that!

Princess Margaret would have gotten over quite a lot of things, if she could only figure out where to start.

As for the Duke, Daisy's words had become a mantra for him, a rallying cry around which his future life was to be formed. As he repeated the words over and over to himself, while standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he resolved to throw out the new batch of poison that he had recently concocted for the dogs and the bagpiper, and to stay out of his wife's closet as best he could.

He couldn't wait to see Daisy again at dinner, he decided, grinning widely at his own image. Perhaps she had some more sage advice on how he could improve his personality.

In fact, the only people who weren't singing Daisy's praises were the Archbishop of Canterbury and the British Prime Minister, both of whom could smell an ill wind, boding nothing but disaster for the nation's future, and the Queen Mother and Jodie Foster, neither of whom had ever had anything at all to get over in the first place.

Daisy was finding that her adopted life had taken on a decidedly surreal quality and that, all of a sudden, she was doing the talking and everyone else was listening. The world was following her advice, the universe was singing the Daisy song, the British Empire was doing the Daisy shuffle. Although the image of La Belle Monde, all marching to Daisy's own personal drummer-for the very first time in her life-does kinda make ya think, huh?

Or, as the French Ambassador might have put it-or, perhaps, maybe it was Pepe Le Pew- "Quelle idee horrible, non?" (English translation: "There really is no accounting for people's tastes, is there?") And, finally, the Yiddish: "So, nu? How long could such a crazy circus go on?"

22.

"'Deck the halls with balls of...'"

It was 10:30 on Monday morning, and the Queen had already been hard at work for a full fifteen minutes. She was in her sitting room, the one with the serenely painted blue-green walls and curtains, surrounded by photos of family and friends, as she sat in her voluminous mahogany chair, slicing open the day's correspondence.

"'Tis the Queen's right to be...'" The Queen's voice broke off, mid-song, when the interruption came. "Yes?" she enquired, still in a jolly mood.

The Master of the Household would later concur with his wife that it was a good thing that Her Majesty was in her sitting room when the news came. For this meant that, not only was she probably already sitting, but that she was doing so in that huge chair which was rather difficult to hoist oneself out of, and also, there was that monstrous desk separating the two of them, making it impossible for her to reach him when she attempted to swat him with the racing column for being the messenger of bad tidings.

The President of the United States had the little red button, Batman had his utility belt, and the Queen of England had her boxes. From such common items are made the trappings and responsibilities of all great power. And, had Daisy in her ignorant innocence but known it, just as a working pen was mightier than an empty page, so a box was much more to be feared than The Bag.

Warnings of impending crisis often came to the Monarch in the form of highly confidential documents, delivered by the Master of the Household in a red box, portentously covered in black Moroccan leather. Scandals, and other fun gossip from abroad, might also be reported inside one of the boxes-for there were, of course, several different boxes, the theory being that one can never be too rich or too thin or have too many designer-approved ways in which to receive bad news. These boxes followed her everywhere, apprising her of delicate "situations."

In theory, then, the Queen might be in Borneo when a box-the ornamental equivalent of the other shoe dropping-happened to land on her desk, hunting her down with the juicy information that a distant cousin was having it off with one of the stable boys. Or, likewise, she might be seated in the relative comfort and safety of her own home, when the news finally reached her that, perhaps, her son's future bride was not all that she was cracked up to be.

Having read the distressing contents contained therein, she had allowed her glasses to fall so that they hung, suspended, on the chain around her neck. Oh, dear. Did this mean that she would have to spend the rest of her days, doomed to a constant waking existence of nostalgia for The Other One? How dreary.