“The photographer should have what he needs, so if you’re ready, the car is waiting.” Henry turns to him and smiles again, eyes unreadable. “Shall we?” There’s something vaguely familiar about the Kensington Palace guest quarters, even though he’s never been here before. Shaan had an attendant show him to his room, where his luggage awaited him on an ornately carved bed with spun gold bedding. Many of the rooms in the White House have a similar hauntedness, a sense of history that hangs like cobwebs no matter how pristine the rooms are kept. He’s used to sleeping alongside ghosts, but that’s not it. It strikes farther back in his memory, around the time his parents split up. They were the kind of married lawyer couple who could barely order Chinese takeout without legally binding documents, so Alex spent the summer before seventh grade shuttled back and forth from home to their dad’s new place outside of Los Angeles until they could strike a long-term arrangement. It was a nice house in the valley, a clear blue swimming pool and a back wall of solid glass. He never slept well there. He’d sneak out of his thrown-together bedroom in the middle of the night, stealing Helados from his dad’s freezer and standing barefoot in the kitchen eating straight from the quart, washed blue in the pool light. That’s how it feels here, somehow—wide awake at midnight in a strange place, duty bound to make it work. He wanders into the kitchen attached to his guest wing, where the ceilings are high and the countertops are shiny marble. He was allowed to submit a list to stock the kitchen, but apparently it was too hard to get Helados on short notice—all that’s in the freezer is UK-brand packaged ice cream cones. “What’s it like?” Nora’s voice says, tinny over his phone’s speaker. On the screen, her hair is up, and she’s poking at one of her dozens of window plants. “Weird,” Alex says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Everything looks like a museum. I don’t think ’m allowed to show you, though.” “Ooh,” Nora says, wiggling her eyebrows. “So secretive. So fancy.” “Please,” Alex says. “If anything, it’s creepy. I had to sign such a massive NDA that I’m convinced I’m gonna drop through a trapdoor into a torture dungeon any minute.” “T bet he has a secret lovechild,” Nora says. “Or he’s gay. Or he has a secret gay lovechild.” “It’s probably in case I see his equerry putting his batteries back in,” Alex says. “Anyway, this is boring. What’s going on with you? Your life is so much better than mine right now.” “Well,” Nora says, “Nate Silver won’t stop blowing up my phone for another column. Bought some new curtains. Narrowed down the list of grad school concentrations to statistics or data science.” “Tell me those are both at GW,” Alex says, hopping up to sit on one of the immaculate countertops, feet dangling. “You can’t leave me in DC to go back to MIT.” “Haven't decided yet, but astonishingly, it will not be based on you,” Nora tells him. “Remember how we sometimes talk about things that are not about you?” “Yeah, weirdly. So is the plan to dethrone Nate Silver as reigning data czar of DC?” Nora laughs. “No, what I’m gonna do is silently compile and process enough data to know exactly what’s gonna happen for the next twenty-five years. Then I’m gonna buy a house on the top of a very tall hill at the edge of the city and become an eccentric recluse and sit on my veranda. Watch it all unfold through a pair of binoculars.” Alex starts to laugh, but cuts off when he hears rustling down the hall. Quiet footsteps approaching. Princess Beatrice lives in a different section of the palace, and so does Henry. The PPOs and his own security sleep on this floor, though, so maybe— “Hold on,” Alex says, covering the speaker. A light flicks on in the hallway, and the person who comes padding into the kitchen is none other than Prince Henry. He’s rumpled and half awake, shoulders slumping as he yawns. He’s standing in front of Alex wearing not a suit, but a heather-gray T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. He has earbuds in, and his hair is a mess. His feet are bare. He looks, alarmingly, human. He freezes when his eyes fall on Alex perched on the countertop. Alex stares back at him. In his hand, Nora begins a muffled, “Is that—” before Alex disconnects the call. Henry pulls out his earbuds, and his posture has ratcheted back up straight, but his face is still bleary and confused. “Hello,” he says, hoarse. “Sorry. Er. I was just. Cornettos.” He gestures vaguely toward the refrigerator, as if he’s said something of any meaning. “What?” He crosses to the freezer and extracts the box of ice cream cones, showing Alex the name Cornetto across the front. “I was out. Knew they’d stocked you up.” “Do you raid the kitchens of all your guests?” Alex asks. “Only when I can’t sleep,” Henry says. “Which is always. Didn’t think you’d be awake.” He looks at Alex,