“We just don’t make sense as best friends.” She paused, searching for the right words to explain. Nina’s parents had taught her to be skeptical, and practical, whereas Sam hurtled forward without ever asking questions. Nina hardly dared to want things, and Sam always seemed to want enough for two people.

“We have next to nothing in common, except the fact that we’ve known each other since we were six.”

“But that’s just it—you’ve known each other since you were six,” Ethan argued. “You don’t need to be similar to your friends, not when you have so many years of shared history. Besides, your friendship is probably stronger because of all the ways you’re different. Jeff and I aren’t all that like each other, either.”

“Really? You seem pretty similar to me.”

“In some ways, sure.” Ethan shrugged. “But Jeff is actually as easygoing as he seems, while I’m just pretending. Also”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“I secretly hate the way the royals travel.”

Nina raised an eyebrow skeptically. “You don’t like staying at five-star resorts, with a small army of staff?”

“I’ll admit there are perks.” Ethan waved away her words. “But I’d rather travel without the royal press pack, without even an itinerary. Just wander around with a backpack and a passport.”

“Is that why you’re taking Intro to Journalism? To be a travel writer?” Nina asked, curious.

“I thought we’d agreed that I took Intro to Journalism so I could hang out with you.”

Nina laughed and took another bite of her sandwich, wondering why she’d always been so irritated by Ethan’s sarcasm in the past. She was beginning to sense that Ethan wasn’t the type of person you could get to know at first glance. You needed a second glance, and then a third.

Which she had never given him. Because he’d always been standing next to Jeff, and when Jeff was around, she’d never had eyes for anyone else.

Nina winced at the realization that she’d treated Ethan as dismissively as everyone had always treated her—when they’d stared through her as if she were a pane of glass, to focus on Sam.

She held out the bag of M&M’s as a peace offering. “Want some?”

“Careful what you offer; I might eat the whole bag,” he warned, reaching for the candy.

“And—Ethan? Thank you. For talking about all of this, I mean.”

“Of course,” he said gruffly. “It’s not like anyone else would understand.”

“I’m not sure,” Beatrice repeated, the same thing she’d said a dozen times already. She stared at the mirror, where the wedding gown—long-sleeved, with a voluminous tiered skirt—was reflected back at her. She looked like a stranger.

Queen Adelaide cast an apologetic glance at the designer before turning to her daughter. “Why don’t you walk around a little, see how it feels?”

Beatrice sighed and took a few steps forward. She wished Samantha were here, if only to hear the sarcastic commentary she would have provided on all these dresses. Except Sam had gone completely MIA. Normally Beatrice wouldn’t have given it another thought; Sam frequently skipped the events on her official schedule. This time, though, Beatrice knew her sister was punishing her for announcing her wedding date.

In typical Sam fashion, she was acting like she didn’t care—Beatrice had seen her at the museum gala, flirting outrageously with Lord Marshall Davis as if to prove something. But when Beatrice had tried to talk to her later that night, her sister had slammed the door in her face.

Sunlight slanted through a stained-glass window on the opposite wall, turning the wooden floor into a dancing carpet of color. They were in the throne room, which had temporarily transformed into the official headquarters for Beatrice’s Wedding Dress Search. Footmen had carried in massive trifold mirrors and a seamstress’s platform, as well as an enormous screen so she could change in privacy. The palace had even closed for tours, which only fanned the nation’s speculation about what might be going on today, and whether it was about the wedding.

Beatrice would have preferred to do all this at the designers’ ateliers. But apparently it was too risky: someone might see her, and leak the secret of which fashion houses were in contention to make what people were already calling the wedding dress of the century. As it was, the designers had still been forced to sign lengthy nondisclosure agreements, and drove in long, circuitous routes to the palace in unmarked cars.

Honestly, Robert was treating her gown like a state secret that needed to be protected as vigilantly as the nuclear codes—codes that Beatrice still didn’t know.

There were so many things she should be doing right now: studying the latest congressional report, composing speeches, arranging her first diplomatic visit. Anything, instead of standing here like a human mannequin while designers whipped various gowns on and off her body.

Over the past week, whenever Beatrice had tried to do her actual job, some obstacle had always arisen. Her schedule was too crowded and she needed to wait; the timing wasn’t right and she needed to wait. Robert kept telling her that—wait, wait, wait—but what was she waiting for?

She glanced over at him. “Robert, can you set an audience with the new Senate majority leader? I should meet with him, now that he’s been nominated. And we’ll need to begin planning my speech for the closing session of Congress.” It was one of the government’s oldest traditions that the monarch opened Congress in the fall, and closed it before the summer recess.

Beatrice’s heart quelled a little, at the realization that she would dismiss a Congress her father had opened just ten months earlier.

Robert shook his head. “Your Majesty, I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You cannot meet with Congress until after you are crowned. It would be unconstitutional.”

Beatrice knew the Constitution backward and forward, so she knew that, technically speaking, he was right. The article in question had been written out of a very real eighteenth-century fear: that if the succession were ever in doubt, contenders to the throne might bully their way into Congress and attempt to take over the government.

“I can preside over the closing session as long as Congress invites me,” Beatrice reminded him. That invitation, another archaic tradition, was one of the many checks and balances that the Constitution had established between the three branches of government.

The chamberlain glanced at Queen Adelaide for support, but she was chatting with the gown’s designer. He turned back to Beatrice with an oily smile. “Your Majesty, you will deal with countless congressional leaders over the course of your reign. They are fleeting and temporary, coming and going every four years. What difference does it make if you miss a single session?”

“It makes a difference because it’s the first congressional ceremony of my reign.” Didn’t he see that?

“Your Majesty,” Robert cut in, and now there was a distinct note of warning in his tone, “it would be best if you waited to meet with Congress until after your wedding to His Lordship.”

She felt like she’d been slapped across the face. The coronation of a new monarch always took place a year after the previous monarch’s death, which meant that Beatrice wouldn’t be crowned until after her wedding. She’d thought it was just another tradition, but she realized now that Robert didn’t want her addressing Congress—or really, doing anything involved in the governance of America—as a young woman on her own.

He wouldn’t really approve of her until she had Teddy at her side.

The chamberlain glanced back down at his tablet, as if he expected Beatrice to drop the issue. Something in that gesture, in the sheer dismissal of it, made the air burn in her lungs.

“I need a minute,” she announced.

Ignoring everyone’s disapproving frowns, Beatrice hurried out into the hallway. Her new Guard, thankfully, didn’t follow. Unlike Connor, who would have caught up with her in a few steps, put his hands on her shoulders, and asked how he could help.

Connor. Beatrice clutched great handfuls of her dress to keep from tripping as she hurtled around a corner. She felt like she was trapped in one of her nightmares, running away from something without ever being able to run fast enough—

She froze, her white satin heels sinking into the rug, as she caught sight of Teddy.

He immediately threw a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to see you in your wedding dress. That’s bad luck, right?”

“Don’t worry. This is not going to be my dress,” she heard herself say.

Slowly Teddy opened his eyes and took in the volume of her ivory skirts. “Oh, good. I didn’t know it was possible to cover a dress in so many ruffles.”

To her surprise, Beatrice smiled. She glanced uncertainly down the hallway. “Were you here to see someone?”

“You.” Teddy cleared his throat. “I mean—I wanted to give you this,” he said, and she realized he was holding out a brown paper shopping bag.