It’s only then that I notice the person standing on the other side of the thrones: a twenty-something man wearing a tunic and an expression of criminal smugness. He’s handsome, in that generic, Captain America–ish way that does absolutely nothing for me, and I can tell from the briefest glance at Primrose that I’m not alone. She’s smiling, but there’s a falseness to it that reminds me of those Disneyland actresses when I was eleven.

That smile jars me, like a little shock of static or a missed step on the stairs. I know this story really, really well: after the curse is broken, Prince Charming marries the princess and they live happily ever after, the end. But this version has slid sideways somehow, like a listing ship. The curse isn’t quite broken, the prince isn’t quite charming, and that’s not a happily ever after I see swimming in the princess’s eyes.

The King has been speechifying for some time about his hopes for their blessed union and Prince Harold’s many virtues. “—a true son to us, who has tirelessly striven to end the curse for years now, even tracking the fairy to her lair, though she fled before his might.” I squint at Harold, all jawline and puffed pride; surely even an off-brand discount-store Maleficent could take him if she wanted to. “That their marriage may be delayed no longer, Princess Primrose and her betrothed will speak their vows in three days hence!”

There’s a final swell of applause as Primrose and Harold step before the thrones and clasp hands. Primrose’s hand looks limp and boneless in his, like a small, skinned animal.

I lurk at the back of the crowd for a while after that, smiling and nodding and collecting odd looks, before a voice hisses, “What do you think you are doing?”

I spin to face Primrose and sweep her my most absurd curtsy. “Why, Your Majesty, may I not celebrate your engagement?” Oh God, now I’m doing the fake British accent thing.

She barely seems to hear me, her face still gritted in that plastic smile, her pupils wide and hunted. “Your hair, your shoes … you look deranged. If anyone sees you—my father’s court does not take kindly to the uncanny!”

Her hand clamps around my bicep and steers me into a side hall. “Return to my rooms and wait for me.” I cross my arms and give her my best make me glare. “Please,” she adds, looking at me with those enormous eyes of hers, “I beg of you.”

I’m at least three-quarters straight, but her lashes are very long and very golden and I’m not made of stone. I nod. She closes her eyes as if summoning some inner strength before swishing back into the throne room with her smile shining like a shield.

I get lost two or three times on the way back up, startling a pair of amorous knights in a broom closet and briefly alarming a cook. By the time I climb all nine hundred stairs I can hear my pulse a little too loudly in my own ears, feel my lungs pressing too hard against my ribs. I think of my morning handful of pills back in Ohio and the last round of X-rays that showed the chambers of my heart shrinking, my lungs congested. I hadn’t showed them to Charm.