We need to talk, Ethan had written.

Tomorrow afternoon, meet me at the alley, Daphne typed back, and let her phone fall into her purse. Of course Ethan was upset about what she’d done—but Daphne knew she could handle him. Himari’s continued silence was a far more ominous problem.

She would just have to worry about Himari later. Right now Daphne was due to meet with Samantha, for…what, a class on likeability? A remedial princess lesson?

They’d been texting since that morning at the Patriot but hadn’t found a time to meet until now. Daphne wondered if Samantha felt oddly self-conscious about her request, if she’d been delaying the inevitable because part of her wanted to back out of the whole thing.

The two of them had never really hung out like this. They’d been around each other for years, thanks to Jefferson, but Samantha hadn’t exactly warmed up to Daphne. Daphne always had a sense that the princess could see right through her.

Well, today was a chance to change all that, and win Samantha to her side. Besides, Daphne never turned down an excuse to get inside the palace.

Samantha appeared at the other end of the hall. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Nina was just here.”

Daphne murmured that it wasn’t a problem, even as her mind raced at the news. Natasha should have called Jefferson this morning—had Nina come to find him and apologize? Or was she really just at the palace to see Samantha?

The princess tried the handle of the Brides’ Room, but the door was locked. She sighed. “Want to go upstairs? My sitting room is more comfortable anyway.”

Daphne shook her head. “You need to practice in front of a mirror.”

“Why?”

“So you can see yourself,” Daphne replied, in a slightly impatient tone. Samantha should have known how this worked; she’d been born to it.

Unlike Daphne, who’d taught herself everything she knew. She’d read every etiquette manual she could find, had spent years paying close attention to what Beatrice and Queen Adelaide did. Daphne had mastered her curtsy the way ballerinas learned to dance—by practicing with Velcro gym weights strapped around her ankles.

“So that I can see myself doing what, smiling and waving?” Samantha demanded. “Please tell me you’re not going to make me walk around with a stack of books on my head.”

“The stack of books is an advanced move,” Daphne heard herself snap, with a touch of sarcasm. “Let’s get through the basics first.”

“Fair enough.” There was a self-deprecating, amused note in the princess’s voice that, oddly, softened Daphne’s irritation.

Samantha went to find a butler. When he unlocked the door for them, Daphne saw at once why it had been shut.

On a seamstress’s table in the corner sat the Winslow tiara, the one that Beatrice had always worn as Princess Royal, surrounded by several bolts of lace. It looked like someone had been comparing options for the queen’s veil, only to pause halfway through the task.

“Don’t touch anything,” the butler admonished, before pulling the door shut behind him.

Samantha plopped down onto the love seat. It was the only furniture in the room aside from the seamstress’s table, and the massive three-fold mirror against the back wall.

When Daphne was a child, she used to sneak up to her parents’ room when they weren’t home. Their closet doors had full-length mirrors on them, and if she opened both doors at an angle and stood in the middle, it reflected her a million times over.

Daphne had loved it. There was something heady about walking up to the mirror as a single person, only to find that when you stood a certain way, you were multiplied into an army.

She kept her eyes directed toward the mirror so Samantha wouldn’t catch her stealing glances at the Winslow tiara. But the light kept catching on its filigreed knot of diamonds, each of them burning like a small star.

Daphne had never touched a tiara before. Either your family owned one, handed one down through the generations, like the Kerrs or the Astors or the Fitzroys—or they didn’t. The Deightons, of course, were tiara-less.

She headed to the love seat and sat down, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she moved. Next to her, Samantha was subtly copying her movements. Their gazes met in the mirror, and the princess flushed.

“Sorry,” Samantha muttered. “I mean—this whole thing is kind of weird.”

“First of all, a princess never acknowledges when something is weird. She just suffers silently through the weirdness without pointing it out,” Daphne admonished.

“Oh my god, who told you that?”

“I read it in an etiquette book. Probably the same one you were supposed to read years ago, but never got around to.”

Sam shrugged, acknowledging the truth of it, just as the door swung inward.

“Sam? I heard you were in here—” Jefferson broke off at the sight of Daphne. “Oh, hey, Daphne. What are you guys up to?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Samantha said automatically, but Daphne heard the note of concern beneath. The princess was clearly worried about her brother.

Jefferson leaned an elbow against the doorway. “I was thinking we could get a group together and go to Phil’s later. They have that new DJ in from London. I already invited JT and Rohan,” he added, pointedly leaving out Ethan’s name.

Samantha nodded. “Works for me.”

The prince turned to Daphne. “You’ll come too, right?”

“I’d love to,” she said, gratified that events were playing out exactly as she’d planned.

She had done this: by passing that scoop to Natasha, and insisting that the reporter call Jefferson directly with the news. In one fell swoop, she’d robbed Jefferson of two of the people he’d trusted most.

And the more isolated he felt, the easier it would be for Daphne to win him back. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d betrayed him.

Jefferson mumbled a goodbye, and Daphne turned back to his sister. “So. Where should we begin?”

“No idea.” Samantha shook her head. “This is probably why everyone thinks I’m useless at being the spare.”

“Actually, you were pretty good at being the spare. But you’re the heir now, and that’s what’s causing you problems.” When Sam shot her a puzzled look, Daphne tried to explain. “Being the spare is all about being a foil to the heir.”

“Are you saying that when I act out, it’s a good thing, because it makes Beatrice look better by comparison?”

“I’m saying that when you were the spare, you existed as a counterpoint to your sister. Don’t you know that Beatrice is at her most likeable when she’s in interviews with you and Jefferson? When she’s alone she can come off too…rehearsed, and a little stiff,” Daphne said delicately. “But when she’s with you two, like in those fireside chats your family always does around the holidays, America sees another side of her.”

Samantha blinked, as if she’d never thought of that. “Except now everything’s changed,” she muttered. “Jeff is the spare, and I’m the heir.”

“Well, yes. Those are different roles. You haven’t been trained as first in line—and, really, you shouldn’t have needed to be,” Daphne added softly.

If the succession had proceeded on a happier timeline—if the king had never gotten cancer, had lived another thirty years—Beatrice would have been succeeded by her own children, not by her sister.

No child who grew up second in line for the throne should ever become first in line. If they did, it meant that something had gone horribly, tragically wrong.

“Let’s do a little practice talking to reporters. Here, I’ll give you an easy one,” Daphne said briskly. “How does it feel, being the maid of honor for your sister’s wedding?”

“It’ll be fun,” Sam offered.

Daphne tilted her head expectantly, waiting for Sam to say something else. When she didn’t, Daphne groaned. “That’s it? ‘It’ll be fun’?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What on earth is a reporter supposed to do with three words? Samantha, you have to give them something they can use.”

“I could have said something much worse,” the princess observed, and Daphne let out a breath.

“Here’s the thing about reporters. All they want is to write a story that will make them money. While you want them to write a story that’s flattering.” Daphne had figured that out long ago; it was why she and Natasha got along so well. “Your job is to make those goals one and the same. If you can give them a story that makes you look good and sells copies, they have no reason to attack you.”

“Maybe,” Samantha said, unconvinced. “But they’re pretty attached to the party princess version of me. I doubt they’re going to start giving me positive coverage anytime soon.”

“They definitely won’t give you positive coverage if all you’re willing to tell them is ‘It’ll be fun.’?” Daphne smiled. “All you have to do is be a little bit…softer, create a temporary moment of intimacy. Pretend you’re excited to be talking to them.”