The Royal We (47 page)

“Dearly beloved,” he begins, hiccupping again and swaying slightly. “In the presence of God, and those other chaps in his gang, we have come together to witness the marriage of…” He peeks down at the cheat sheet Cilla wisely provided and then looks back up at us and blanches. “My liege,” he sputters, bumbling into a kneel.

“Discretion, Bernard,” Cilla prods, tapping her nose.

“Of course, but I’m just so honored to…oh, hellcrackers, I should probably start again,” he says, returning to his feet. “Don’t suppose anyone has any coffee? No? Right.” He smacks himself on both cheeks, like an angry man applying aftershave, then takes a meditative breath. “Get cracking, Bernard, bring your A-game.”

Nick nudges me with a grin. “Well, there goes that nice, normal wedding.”

I smile back through tear-filled eyes. “That’s okay. Normal has never been our strong suit, right?”

“Dearly beloved,” Bernard begins anew, with fresh command. “In the presence of God, the Father, the Son, and Holy Spirit, we have come together today to witness the wedding of Nicholas and Rebecca, to pray for God’s blessing on them, to share their joy and to celebrate their love…”

His words melt into me as Nick and I look into each other’s joyful faces. I don’t know if we will wake up tomorrow to blistering scandal or blessed silence. I don’t know if we will live blissfully, or go blind from looking for trouble in our periphery every day until we are old. And yet, as the vicar performs the familiar ceremony, I do not float above myself. There is no fear of what lies in wait for us, no nostalgia for where I’ve been or who I was, no temptation to stop and say good-bye to a version of myself I’m leaving behind. I am fully in the moment when Nick and I say the words that have united millions of couples across hundreds of years, because they are the culmination of eight years of friendship and longing and love that began on a rainy Oxford night and survived in the face of every other element. So it no longer matters whether we’re allowed to make these vows again, in front of the Queen or the country or the world. Here, in this hallowed place, I have made them to the only person who counts, and he to me. The kiss that blesses these promises forges the only certainty I need: that even if we are never a duke and a duchess, we will forever be Nick and Bex. An unbreakable we, at last.

Our first and most fervent thank-you doubles as an apology to everyone in our lives whom we accidentally neglected in the process of writing this book. For nearly a year, we were down the rabbit hole of royals and research and world-building, writing and revising and cutting. We must have said the words “I can’t, I have to work” a thousand times, and we’re infinitely grateful that our friends and family heard them so patiently, and stuck with us, never taking our reclusive behavior personally. Special thanks in this regard goes to Carrie Weiner, who frequently put out our hair when it was on fire. We will be repaying her with infinite Diet Cokes and snacks.

We owe the world to our impeccable and indispensable agent, Brettne Bloom, whom we’re also lucky to call a beloved friend. Thank you to Elizabeth Bewley for the gift of Brettne when we needed her most; you are as sunny as your
Royal We
namesake but exponentially smarter. Thank you to Hachette for its support of us as authors, and for keeping us in the family by bringing
The Royal We
to Grand Central. We are grateful to the entire GCP team for all its hard work and enthusiasm, especially our brave editor, Sara Weiss, who stared down a first draft that was…well, let’s just say “longer.” Our copy editor Angelina Krahn was tireless in keeping our draft clean and our semicolons in check (no small feat there). Thanks to Mari Okuda for not killing us after we turned in our notes on our page proofs. And cover designers Elizabeth Turner and Anne Twomey worked themselves to the bone, and their design—using brilliantly funky artwork from Noma Bar—makes us as proud and excited as the words we put inside it. Thank you so much, all of you, for your collective genius.

We’re intensely grateful to Eliza Hindmarch for giving our manuscript a tireless and thorough “Britishisms” pass (any errors on that front are ours, for what we decided to call “artistic license”); to Annalisa, The Madam Editor, for helping us make sense of Britain’s approximately eighty-two million daily newspapers; to The Royal Order of Sartorial Splendor website and Ella Kay from the Court Jeweller for being indispensable resources about monarchial tiaras and other sparkly regalia; and to Julie O’Sullivan for helping craft the alternate history that enabled our Lyons dynasty to come to pass. Nick’s cryptic crossword clues originated in the Sunday
Times
cryptic 4561 by Tim Moorey, originally published on October 27, 2013. And we wouldn’t have any of our favorite details about the interior of Buckingham Palace if not for the hugely sympathetic and kind guides and guards there, who took pity on the two sad American women who idiotically showed up at the wrong time for their tour. Tickets are available on an extremely limited basis and we nearly missed what was our only window; thank you, everyone at Buck House, for accepting our tragic apologies and finagling us into the last tour of the day. We had the most wonderful experience there and no, we’re not just saying that because the tour ends with Champagne. Although that didn’t exactly hurt.

We also probably ought to acknowledge the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. It was November 2013 when we first suggested those two should have another baby right around the time
our
baby would be published, for optimal synergy. Apparently they took that to heart. Thanks, you two. You’re extremely thoughtful.

And last, but never least, we need to thank our own families (royally, if you will): Jim and Susan Morgan; Elizabeth Morgan; the Hamiltons and the O’Sullivans; Maria Huezo, without whom no deadlines would be met; Gail Mock; and Kathie Cocks (plus, we believe, a dose of extra luck from the Great Beyond, courtesy of Alan Cocks). We thank Dylan and Liam Mock for the cuddles and their indomitable cheer when we were too stressed to see straight, and Kevin Mock, for picking up way more than his fair share of slack. You are, collectively, the most sterling support system, and we love you like Gaz loves curry.

Spoiled

Messy

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