The room had become very small and still. Beatrice’s heart pounded against the rigid corset of the gown.

She wondered what secrets Teddy was trying to keep from her. Was he worried she would ask him about his history with Samantha? Or was he asking this for her sake, because he somehow knew about her and Connor?

Whatever his reasons, Beatrice saw the wisdom in Teddy’s request. He was right.

There might not be love between them—but there could be trust, if they built it. And trust might allow for privacy, even secrets, but never for lies.

“I agree. Let’s always tell each other the truth.”

Teddy nodded and stood, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. His grip was warm, and steady, and firm.

For some reason, Beatrice thought back to the day she’d proposed. She remembered how utterly strange Teddy’s hand had felt in hers.

It didn’t seem quite so wrong, this time.

Daphne was very quiet as she browsed the rack of silk tops, her ears straining to catch the conversation of the women behind her. She didn’t dare alert them by turning around, so she couldn’t see their faces, but she sensed from the quiet intensity of their voices that they were discussing something scandalous.

She hadn’t come to Halo, her favorite boutique, with the express intent of eavesdropping—but Daphne had long ago learned to keep her ears and eyes open.

If she learned something good, she could pass it to Natasha at the Daily News. Daphne had been slipping her gossip items for years now, in exchange for favorable coverage from the magazine. Or, if it was really good, Daphne might even find a way to use it for her own ends. Like that time years ago, before she and Jefferson were dating, when she’d caught Lady Leonor Harrington in a back stairwell with one of the palace security guards.

Daphne had assured Lady Harrington that she would keep the secret—but had also gently suggested that the noblewoman sponsor her application to the Royal Ballet Guild, notoriously the capital’s most exclusive charity group. Then Daphne had convinced the security guard to let her into the palace a few times at big events, when no one would notice an extra guest.

That was the thing about secrets. You could trade them over and over again.

Her phone vibrated in her quilted purse. Daphne reached to silence it, hoping it wouldn’t startle the gossiping women—but when she saw the name on the caller ID, her mouth went dry.

Himari Mariko couldn’t be calling, because Himari had been in a coma for almost a year. She’d fallen down the palace’s back staircase the night of the twins’ graduation party, in what everyone thought was a tragic accident.

Though Daphne knew it was her fault.

Her skin crawling with trepidation, she accepted the call. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

Hearing Himari’s voice in her ear was like communing with a ghost.

Daphne took a step back, bracing her hand on a table of folded silk shorts. “You woke up.”

“Just this morning,” Himari said. “And starting tomorrow I can have visitors. Will you come?”

There was something wet on her face; Daphne reached up to wipe it away, surprised to find that she was crying. That a real emotion had awoken beneath the countless false ones that she wore so beautifully. The sheer force of it hit her like a blow.

“Of course,” she whispered, already halfway out the door.

After all this time, Himari was back. Her best friend, her confidante, her partner in crime—and maybe her downfall.

* * *

The next morning, Daphne strode down the long-term care ward of St. Stephen’s Hospital, a gift basket clutched in her arms. She nodded at various doctors and nurses as she passed, but beneath her usual demure smile, her mind was whirling.

She had no idea what to do now that Himari was awake. Should she walk in the room and beg for forgiveness, or go instantly on the attack? Maybe she could offer Himari a sort of bargain: give her something she wanted, in exchange for keeping the secret of what had really sent her into a coma that night.

It had all started last spring. Himari had caught Daphne and Ethan together, and threatened to tell Jefferson what she knew. Daphne had pleaded with her to calm down, but her friend refused to listen. She clearly wanted to break up Daphne and Jefferson, then make a play for the prince herself.

Cornered and desperate, Daphne had slipped a couple of ground-up sleeping pills into Himari’s drink. She’d meant to scare her a little, convince her to let the whole thing go. Never in a million lifetimes had Daphne anticipated that her friend would climb a staircase in her dazed, disoriented state—only to fall right back down.

Daphne wished she could take it all back. The next morning, she’d almost marched down to the police station and confessed, just so she’d be able to talk about it with someone. As it was, there was only one person she could discuss it with, who knew the sordid truth of what she’d done. And that was Ethan.

All year, while Himari was in a coma, Daphne had kept on visiting her. Not because it made her look good—her usual motivation for doing things—but because she wanted to, desperately. Seeing Himari was the only way to stave off the guilt that threatened to consume her.

Daphne paused at the door marked with a laminated name card: HIMARI MARIKO. Gathering the frayed strands of her courage, she knocked. When she heard a muffled “Come in,” she pushed open the door.

And there was Himari, propped up against a pillow in her narrow hospital bed. Her cheekbones jutted out more sharply than before, and a tube still snaked under the blankets to clamp the skin of her forearm, but her bright brown eyes were open at last.

Time seemed to stretch and snap back over itself, like the cherry-flavored gum the two of them used to chew between classes at school.

“Himari. It’s so good to see you. Awake, I mean,” Daphne said clumsily. She held her breath: waiting for a string of invectives, for Himari to throw something at her, or maybe scream for a nurse.

Nothing happened.

“I would say that I’ve missed you, except I feel like I saw you last week.” Himari’s voice sounded lower than it used to, a little scratchy from months of disuse, but there was nothing cold or distant about it. She nodded at Daphne’s outfit and, unbelievably, smiled. “You look great, as usual. Are high-waisted jeans really back? I need a pair.”

For a moment Daphne just stood there in dazed shock. Himari was talking the way she used to: before Jefferson, and Daphne and Ethan’s secret, had come between them.

“Here, this is for you.” Daphne recovered enough to hold out the gift basket. She’d spent all of yesterday filling it with Himari’s favorite things: flowers and tea, the new fantasy novel by her favorite author, the macarons she loved from that bakery all the way in Georgetown. Himari reached for it and began sorting through its contents with her usual charming greed.

“Let me help,” Daphne offered as Himari pressed her face into the flowers and inhaled. There was an empty vase on a table; she carried it to the bathroom and filled it with water before arranging the bouquet inside.

The hospital room felt different from all the times Daphne had visited. Now its sterile surfaces were cluttered with personal items, stuffed animals and foil balloons on sticks and a stack of magazines. Daphne smiled when she saw that Himari was drinking water out of the cartoon-printed thermos she used to sip her morning green juice from. The room even sounded better, the medical equipment emitting a cheerful erratic beep, rather than the soulless refrain of someone unconscious.

Daphne set the flowers on a nearby table, then pulled a chair forward.

“What are you doing?” Himari scooted over, creating space on the bed. “Head wounds aren’t contagious, I promise.”

Daphne couldn’t see an easy way out. She climbed up next to her friend, the way she used to back when they would hang out in Himari’s room, trading stories and secrets and laughing until their chests hurt.

“My nurses said you visited every week,” Himari went on. “Thanks for doing that. You’re such a loyal friend.”

Did those last two words have a sarcastic bite? Daphne couldn’t really tell. It was still so surreal, hearing Himari speak at all.

“We were all worried about you, Himari. That fall…”

“Did you see it?”

“I—what?”

“Did you see me fall?”

The air seemed to drain from the room. Daphne looked over, meeting her friend’s gaze. “I was at the party, but no. I didn’t see you fall.”

Himari tugged absently at her sheets. “The doctors said there was a low dosage of narcotics in my system. As if I’d mixed vodka and NyQuil, or something.”

“Really?” Daphne replied, with admirable calm. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“I don’t get it either,” Himari insisted. “And what was I going upstairs for?”

Was this a trap, or did Himari truly not know? Daphne didn’t dare answer with the truth. She decided her only option was to answer a question with a question.