"Killian!" I called out through the thick mist that had descended over Woaden that morning and stubbornly refused to lift. "Are my parents' bags inside yet? My mom needs a sweater!"

"Two minutes," my husband yelled back. "I'll find out."

I hurried into Annesly Hall, worried the chilly air would get to the baby, who was burbling contentedly in my arms.

Charlotte appeared, breaking into a smile as soon as she saw me. "Eva! You're here! Here, let me take her while you two get yourselves sorted out."

I handed my daughter over to my sister-in-law as the sounds of animated conversation filtered through from the main sitting room. Everyone was there – my parents, Charlotte and her family, Killian and I and a number of our friends, including Jane, Lily and Christine from work.

"And how are you, little Bea?" Charlotte asked, stroking the baby's soft cheek. "Ready for your first Christmas in this madhouse? I bet you are!"

The almost five month old Princess Beatrix gave her aunt a gummy grin and allowed herself to be carried off, no doubt to be passed around and cooed over by our guests.

In the end, Killian's parents had insisted on us marrying before Beatrix was born. I suppose the spectacle of a visibly pregnant bride was less scandalous to them than the alternative spectacle of a technically illegitimate child – even if it was only for a short time – in the royal family. Killian and I didn't really mind, so we agreed to it.

We were married in early April, in the Hantsbury Chapel in the Capital. Charlotte had been married at the much grander St. Peter's Cathedral, but thankfully my marriage to Killian didn't require quite that level of pomp and circumstance. It was, of course, a huge event nonetheless, with TV cameras set up to catch every detail. My dress was made with acres of lace from Lottingham – the historical center of Rhennish lace-making – and in spite of all the people, and media, and general hullabaloo there had been a few precious moments there in the church, gazing out from under my gauzy veil as I walked up the aisle towards my outrageously handsome husband-to-be, that I truly felt like a princess. Or, a duchess. The Duchess of Woaden, to be exact – my now-official title.

My parents, my aunt, three uncles, four cousins and various friends from Rhenland and from back home had sat on one side of the church, beaming. Killian's family had sat on the other, looking stern and serious as they always did. When I had a moment of difficulty trying to push the ring onto Killian's finger, I'd let out a small laugh, one that the microphones had managed to pick up. And ever since then, the Rhennish press had deigned to call me the 'Laughing Duchess.' It could have been worse, I suppose.

Killian had been right about the press. As soon as our engagement was announced, they backed right off. I still caught them lurking across the street, or around the office, but they no longer got in my face. They were, in fact, rather deferential. A few of the regular paparazzi had taken to calling me 'ma'am' after the marriage ceremony, except their Rhennish accents made it sound like 'marm'. I'd chuckled at that the first few times, amused by the idea of being a twenty-three year old 'marm.'

And sure, there were the inevitable scolding editorials and snippy, snobby comments from this Lord or that Lady expressing their disapproval at Killian's choice of wife, but overall I don't think it had been half as bad as his parents had anticipated. Mostly, the media and the people seemed to embrace me as a new, fresh, foreign element in Rhenland's national life, an injection of 'new blood' into an institution that had spent hundreds of years refusing to be dragged into modernity until they had been forced, kicking and screaming, to do so.

Beatrix Patricia Charlotte Alexandra Chatham-Hayes was born in the middle of a hot, humid summer, and all but one of her four given names were related to various ancestors on Killian's side of the family. Patricia, my mother's name, was my choice. As soon as the first twinges of labor hit, we went to the private hospital we'd chosen for the birth, because that was protocol. No chances were going to be taken with the new royal arrival, so Killian and I had a whole floor to ourselves to wander around as the pains got more intense, and the spaces between them shorter and shorter.

There was a full moon that night – it was right there, visible through the window as I pushed, as round and full as my belly. I remember focusing on it when the pain became unbearable, when I could no longer speak or communicate, when all I could do was turn my attention inwards, towards what was happening in my body. They handed her to me immediately, on her father's insistence, and the minute we lay our eyes on her sweet little face, so familiar and yet so brand new, Killian and I were utterly besotted. Her skin was the color of caramel, her hair curly like her mother's but reddish-blonde like her father's. We were still waiting to see what color her eyes would turn out to be. Every day either Killian or I would hold her up, peering into her face, speculating that we could see brown or, no, still just blue. It didn't matter. She was perfect.

"Eva?"

Killian shook me out of my trance as he bounded up the steps of Annesly Hall. "You're mother's things are inside already, the footman brought them in."

The footman. I was still getting used to things like that – things like having staff. Things like never having to pay phone bills or do laundry or book commercial flights.

"Ah – OK, I'll let her know."

"What's that look on your face?" he asked, bending down to kiss me. "What are you thinking about?"

"Oh," I replied. "Nothing. Everything."

* * *

It was December twenty-first, four days before Christmas. A large but surprisingly unostentatious Christmas tree had been set up in the main sitting room at Annesly Hall, and both Bea and Elizabeth – Charlotte's baby – were very taken with the shiny baubles, staring goggle-eyed and fascinated whenever someone carried them by.

At almost seven o'clock in the evening, after a day of walking along the cliffs, everyone was ready to eat. My mother insisted that she be allowed to bake four sweet potato pies, informing the cooks in her affectionately bossy way that it wasn't going to be possible for them to get an American dish right. I peeked into the dining room just before the meal was about to be served and spotted my dad deep in conversation with the future Queen of Rhenland, looking as comfortable with each other as a pair of old friends.

"Hey," Killian whispered in my ear from behind. "What are you doing?"

He was holding our drowsy, just-woken-from-a-nap baby in his arms. "I'm just watching," I told him. "Just thinking. My dad and your sister seem to be getting along. It should be absurd, shouldn't it? What can they possibly be talking about?"

Killian bent down and kissed the top of his daughter's head, then mine. "Life is absurd, Eva. You momentarily forgot what side of the road we drive on and literally made history." He looked down at Bea. "Now we have Beatrix. Now we have Charles and Patricia James from Oshwego sitting down to dinner in Woaden, Rhenland – a place they never expected to travel to, let alone join the ruling family of. And we have you, don't we? Eva James. The sun around which it all revolves."

I giggled. "The sun – really?"

Killian looked at me tenderly. "Yes. For me, anyway. And for this little one. Every day I thank God for your poor knowledge of Rhennish driving laws. Where would I be without you?"

I leaned back against his shoulder and kissed my baby's hand. "And where would I be?"

We stood there gazing at each other for a few seconds before my husband spoke again.

"Come on, lovely. They're waiting for us."