Allissa

Getting the royal children to bed required the skills of a diplomat, the patience of a saint, and at least one parent willing to sing about porridge. Tonight that parent was Darren, perched on the edge of our daughter’s bed with all the dignity of a king, performing the third verse of a song he had invented about breakfast.

“Again,” Lyra commanded from her nest of blankets.

“That was already the third again.” He tucked the blanket beneath her chin, and she immediately kicked ...