Daisy gave a noncommittal shrug, as if to say, "Who can tell with those madcap Royals?"

Bonita busied herself rummaging through Daisy's meager wardrobe. "Tsk, tsk. Won't do. New life; new clothes." She poked her head out of the closet. "Have to do something about that ankle, too." Diving back in again, she began tossing out garments right and left. Daisy thought that she heard her friend merrily singing something along the lines of, "Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's back to Harrods we go..."

And her foggy brain perceived it as being distinctly peculiar that Bonita's song was in no way inharmonious with the tune that was still making its way into the room through the scarcely opened window.

"'I'm half crazy...'"

June

1.

A cloud-challenged, cerulean sky hung over the emerald expanse of the Guards' Polo Club at Smith's Lawn, not far from Windsor. Trite, perhaps, but what the hey?

If anyone had been paying attention, they might have noticed that a man in a navy-and-white player's uniform could be seen trotting up to where two women stood waiting on the sidelines.

"Charley!" Daisy called, waving.

The unrefinedly sweating Prince broke into a wide grin as he pulled up short alongside of the duo. "Miss Sills! How splendid of you to come!"

Daisy could feel Bonita's eyes boring a hole into the side of her face at the mention of "Miss Sills." Turning her attention briefly to her friend, she shrugged her shoulders as if to indicate that people were always making such mistakes in life and, anyway, certainly one name was as good as any. Then she decided it was high time to nip this problem in the bud. "Make it Daisy," she said, turning back to the Prince. "I think Miss Sills was an opera singer."

"And a wonderful one, too." The Prince gave Daisy as covert as possible-but still, a rather unregal-once-over. "What a lovely dress," he commented.

The teal-and-white polka-dotted dress that Daisy wore created a startling counterpoint with her auburn hair. It was a good thing for her that Harrods had such a large stock of sleeveless summer dresses with crew-necked collars, she thought, feeling for the talismanic Star of David that was hidden beneath the material. That almost nonexistent birthmark was still troubling her, and it was a great source of comfort to know that she would be able to, so stylishly and so easily, cover it up-for an entire summer, in fact, should it prove necessary.

On Daisy's feet, the ankle having since healed, were a pair of matching spectator pumps. "So this is why they call them that!" she had interjected that morning, putting them on prior to leaving for the match. "They're so that you'll look good, just in case anyone else is watching you, when all you're really doing is watching someone else doing something!" To one who did not know her, she could at times appear to be something of a fashion Neanderthal, but it was, quite simply, that her life had never had a call for any such items before. And yes, a rather lengthy expedition to Harrods had taken place just as Bonita had promised. Only this time they had left no survivors.

Bonita, in her new orange tweed, was dressed in a manner completely out of sync with the time of year and the temperature but that somehow, as ever, perfectly suited her character. She cleared her throat loudly, in a studiedly obvious manner, in the hopes of drawing some of the disgustingly besotted couple's attention onto herself.

"Oh, how rude of me!" Daisy cried, acting quickly to correct the error. "Bonita, I'd like you to meet Charley; he's the Prince of Wales. Now, then: Sturgess says that we have to call him Your Highness or Sir, but I don't think that's going to be necessary."

The confused look on Bonita's face informed Daisy that, in the fuss of the last few weeks, she had somehow neglected to mention who Sturgess was. Oh, well, she thought. There would be time to get into all of that later.

"And, Charley, this is Miss..." And here Daisy pulled up short, for once totally at a loss. She realized with a certain degree of astonishment that, in all of their travels together, the opportunity had oddly never arisen for her to learn of her friend's last name.

"Chance," Bonita filled in the blank, shooting Daisy a quick glance and giving a disturbingly familiar shrug to her own shoulders, as if to indicate that Daisy was right and that one name might serve as well as another. She extended her hand, flashing the tiny-teeth grin. "Miss Chance."

"Charmed," came the accurate response, as he graciously accepted the hand. "And you are...?"

"Daisy's governess."

"You could say that she taught me everything that I don't know," Daisy put in.

Charles was feeling relieved. For, although Miss Chance appeared as though she might be politely termed "formidable" at best, at least her name wasn't "Mr. Sills." Surely, that had to count for something.

"You ladies must be tired from standing for so long. Would you care to sit down?" He indicated the lawn, but then, eyeing Daisy's dress, he shook his head as if at his own stupidity. "No, that will not do at all. You might get that lovely frock soiled."

He cast about, seeking a suitable solution, and he surprised himself with his own alertness by coming up with something right away.

"Upsy Daisy," he said. "On to the bonnet." And he placed his hands around Daisy's waist, lifting her up onto the hood of a sleek silver car parked nearby on the grass. A quick shake of the topknot indicated that Miss Chance had no desire to be similarly hoisted.

When Sturgess came upon the odd little grouping a short time later, carrying the requisite post-match fresh towels and limeade, he was shocked to find that American woman seated on top of the Prince's brand new Aston Martin, with His Highness hopped up there alongside of her. And on the ground beside them stood another woman who, from what Sturgess could see of her, only presaged even worse things to come.

As the appropriate introductions were made, Sturgess cast a withering glance on Daisy and her equally diminutive companion. Weren't all Americans supposed to be tall, like Texans? Perhaps the Yanks' overzealous passion for compact technology-computers, discs-had finally crept into the gene pool. For it appeared as though they might, at present, be breeding dwarfs over there.

"Love your country," Bonita said, extending her hand.

Sturgess studiously ignored the offering. Didn't these people know that bodyguards were not meant to be treated as social entities? But, then, Americans were such a funny sort. Whenever they encountered anyone with an accent-which included anyone who spoke at all differently from them, no matter whose native soil they happened to be standing on, home or abroad, it made no never mind-they immediately held the so-called foreigner one hundred percent accountable for any and all actions of that person's homeland government and culture. "I do so love your country," Anglophiles would say, as if the person whom they were addressing were William of Hastings or something. And, heaven forbid if they had found something that was not entirely to their liking, well...

Sturgess sniffed at the air above her head. "Thank you for your kind words. I shall endeavor, should the opportunity ever arise, to pass those sentiments along to the appropriate authorities." He sniffed again, only this time it was from incredulity rather than, say, the affected snobbery that only the lower-rung members of a clear-cut class structure were ever any good at projecting. Could any woman really give off such a strong scent of barbecued chicken? The aroma of it was invading his senses and positively destroying the aftertaste that he had been savoring all day from the leftover satay that he had enjoyed for breakfast that morning. He couldn't wait to get away from her.

For her part, Bonita squinted up at the bodyguard through her frameless spectacles, rather rudely eyeing with suspicion the man who had just snubbed her. Not much to look at, was he? Much more height to him than any practical person ever needed to get the job done. Could do something a little more imaginative with that lack of hair. What was wrong with the Royal Family anyway? Didn't they care what they had to look at all day long? Go figure. Probably hang Warhols in the palace next. Thank God, not her problem. Conclusion: rumor proved as truth-good help was hard to find.

Charles had meanwhile taken a towel and was using it to mop at the perspiration that was still beading up on his neck. He took a healthy swig off of the bottle of limeade, before holding the bottle out to Daisy. "Care for some?" he offered, not entirely successful at stifling a most indelicate belch with his other fist.

Daisy, who had concluded in advance that, based on recent experience, it would not be wise to consume anything in front of the Prince for the time being, shook her head in polite demurral. Besides, it was all she could do to tear her eyes away from the draw of The Ear. She kept waiting for him to ask her a real question, so she could see how it worked.

But he was apparently too preoccupied. He was examining the remaining spectators and players who were still milling about, searching. His face brightened.

"Ah, yes... Over here, boys!" he beckoned loudly, waving his arms in the air. In a more subdued tone of voice, he spoke to Daisy. "There are a couple of people that I should like for you to meet as well."

Two extraordinarily tidy young men made their way over to where Charles and Daisy were seated. The taller of the two was such a crisp thing, that he positively squeaked as he walked.

The Prince hopped down off of the Aston Martin. "Daisy Sills," he announced, "I should like to present my eldest boy, William. The sloucher," he added with obvious affection, "is Harry."

And so it came to pass, that Daisy Silverman found herself face-to-face with The Heir and The Spare.

Were these things all really happening to her?

Amazingly enough, this incredible scene-much in the same way of many things that had transpired in the Prince's life during the last twenty years-went wholly unremarked by the members of The Press.

Talk about a fairy tale.

2.

A phone was ringing at the Hotel Russell.

"Hello?"

"You think that nobody ever sees you. But I was there today. And the rest of the world will not remain in the land of dreams forever, my dear."

Ominous.

"Pacqui?"

But the line had already gone dead.

3.

Defender of the Faith. Head of the Commonwealth. Supreme Governor of the Church of England. CEO of the largest tax-exempt non-charitable organization in the world. Queen. Call her what you will, but there were times when all of her titles weighed down on her as heavily as a crown.

Yes, it was sad but true; even queens sometimes got the blues.

Well into her morning routine-having already bathed, dressed, and quickly gone over her personal correspondence-she was now studying the card that contained the day's agenda. She glanced at it only briefly, before discarding it in disgust. What she had beheld there prompted the Reigning Monarch (simply another, albeit more transient, way of putting it) to hope that she was correct in her religious beliefs and that there indeed would be a sweet hereafter, a day of reckoning, a justification-a final reward for a life well and dutifully lived.

There had better be, because she certainly wasn't getting any here.

In fact, it was a good thing for the card that it wasn't a real messenger, because, otherwise, it might have been shot. For the offending item carried the rather disturbing information that the Queen must soon begin preparing for her next birthday celebration.

But, was it her Real one or her Official one? Time, and the ceremonial duties that went hand-in-hand with the mantle of sovereignty, had managed to finally blur her mental answer to that internally asked question. She must take care to never give voice to such a notion. Why, if she ever did, people might begin to think that she was losing her hold on things. And there would ensue-again!-all of those unpleasant speculations about it being time to step down a little early. Perhaps give the next generation-or, better still, the one after that-an opportunity to carry on with the scepter of tradition.

Over her dead body.

If she just remained calm, and carried on with her morning routine as if there were nothing amiss, surely, in time, the entire birthday matter would sort itself out.

It was 8:45, and she proceeded to her breakfast of sausage and kippers. She was halfway into it, when she decided to go the whole nine meters, opting for toast with Harrods' marmalade as well. Might as well enjoy it while she still was able to. Before one knew it, it would be March again-whenever that might be-and time for Parliament to publish the Civil List, in effect informing the Royal Family of what their allowance would be for the coming year. They had become increasingly tightfisted of late (things certainly had changed considerably from when she had first started out) and it was anyone's guess how long the favorite marmalade would survive as a necessity rather than a luxury. Why, it could fall prey to the assessor's axe any year now. Really, how anybody expected a woman to be able to afford pins on only $13,000,000-per annum-was quite beyond her.

She spread an abstemious quantity on her toast (so much fuss about nothing, really) and put on her reading glasses, so that she might peruse the latest racing news in The Sporting Life. As she turned the pages, a reference to the upcoming events during Royal Ascot Week caught her attention. Ascot was always held in June.

This was good news indeed, for it gave answer to the thorny birthday question. If the month were June, then that meant that April 21st-and her Real Birthday-had already passed (which made abundant sense, since it hadn't seemed as though it were that long ago since the last brouhaha had taken place). The bad news, then, was that she was, in fact, already older and had been for almost two months' time.

She put aside the racing news and reached instead for the card with the day's agenda again. Ah, yes, there it was. If she had looked at it more carefully the first time... but that was neither here nor there. Besides, surely it was somebody else's responsibility to more prominently display the fact that she would be required to don her uniform for the occasion. Had she seen that tidbit of information earlier, she would have known instantly that it was the Trooping of the Color Ceremony, performed annually in honor of her Official Birthday and mounted by the Brigade of Guards, that she was to be preparing for.

Yawn.

She sat back and listened to the bagpipes being played by the man who paraded up and down the walk outside of her window every morning for fifteen minutes. While the rest of the palace groaned with its displeasure at the sounds, the Queen gave a satisfied sigh, her equilibrium restored.

First, she would take her nine corgis for their daily walk through the gardens and on to see the lake and the flamingos. Then, only after that pleasant task had been completed, would she return and commence worrying about what to wear.

For the Trooping of the Color Ceremony, it was essential that she appear in appropriate regimental dress, depending on which regiment of the Guards Brigade was being so honored that year. It was always so important that she get everything just right. As the Queen mentally reviewed her vast uniform wardrobe-really, that Michael Jackson character had nothing on her-she sent a mild thanks to her own sovereign power that the card had also informed her that this year it was to be a regiment of Scots coming under review. She had always found the Scots, in spite of an inordinate amount of bad press, to be a most forgiving folk. Not at all like the Welsh, for example.

A few years ago, when it had been the Welsh, there had been one button on her uniform that had been stitched on to the wrong spot. Why, the resulting furor had almost equaled that of the Boston Tea Party, she remembered with a certain degree of asperity, holding on to the leash firmly in one hand as the corgis yanked her across the lawn behind Buckingham Palace. With her free hand, she adjusted the scarf that she was hoping would protect her coif from a most inconsiderately persistent drizzle.

The Welsh... hah! One would have thought that she had tried to unlawfully seize their lands or something!

4.

Back at the palace, the Duke of Edinburgh had been roused from slumber by his wife's bagpipe player.

Damned palace walls were so thin that there was simply no avoiding that wretched noise, he thought. No wonder the Empire was crumbling.

He tried to return to bed, but, in the event, the ensuing barking made any thoughts of further sleep impossible.

The Duke threw the covers back and, rising, strode to one of the long windows in his own chambers. He pressed his fists firmly onto the sill, doing his best Yul-Brynner-in-the-King-and-I imitation-except he wasn't-and glared out into the cold, gray drizzle. In the mist, he could dimly make out the tenacious little figure trotting along.

Yes, there went his ever-loving wife and her armada of yapping Corgis again.

5.

Much later in the day, following the ceremony, all of the Royals who happened to be in residence at the time stood on the balcony of the eastern facade, with its forecourt view of the Victoria Memorial. They were waving to the vast crowds of the birthday well-wishers.

Hearty wave.

Andrew wondered why, if they were going to move his mother's birthday around in the hopes of getting better weather for it-much in the same way that the Americans now believed that every holiday should occur on a Monday; really no telling how long it would be before they decided to replant Christmas there-the very least they could do was spring for July or August, when there really was a better chance of seeing the sun shine. It always seemed to be so damp on the second Saturday in June.