But when I emerge from the shower and slip Valerie’s blue dress over my head, my hair wet and slicked back behind my ears, I feel more like myself than I have in weeks. I don’t feel fake when I tie the gossamer ribbon around my waist into a bow, even though the torso sags slightly and the dress hits oddly between ankle brace and knee.

I feel clean and whole, despite the stress of the day still pinging inside of me like a smoke detector whose batteries are running low. But with so much new information to process, the ache of Jenna is lessening, and with each retreat of misery’s hold on my heart, my head, I can breathe a little easier.

I can breathe easier, until I remember Nolan’s hands on my face.

A deep breath shakes away his imprint on my skin as I reenter the guest room, ignoring my ankle’s whining, to do a tiny twirl of gratitude for Valerie …

Who isn’t there.

I thought she would be waiting for me, to inspect me in my dress and fawn over my health. Some fairy godmother. Though she did straighten the bedsheets and take away the pasta bowl. Maybe she went down to the store.

But she’s not in the café, at least not the part I can see from the elevator. I walk behind the counter and look into the attached kitchen. Nothing.

I lean over the bannister and look to the floor below. The store is deserted, the bell above the door unmoving and the fireplace cold and barren. No sign of her.

My ankle throbs dully after my short journey, but, as if summoned, I move to the end of the hallway. The lights are on in the last room and I understand instantly why I’ve been put in this dress and the store closed early.

The bond, as thick as rope now and loosened with sleep, pulls tighter as I near Nolan and the Orman room.

When I step into the dim lantern light, I pretend I’m stepping into the real Orman. I am Emmeline. My hands morph into hers, smaller and chubbier, the right thumb bearing a ring made entirely of sap from the sacred ash tree of Orman. But instead of reaching for an enchanted snow globe or a bejeweled sword, as Emmeline would, I reach to wake the sleeping prince from his slumber.

I look down at N. E. Endsley and Nolan Endsley, both sleeping within the same body. He is half curled on the center of the embroidered compass, using his sweatshirt as a pillow, his hat dislodged to reveal hair still wet from showering. A tiny bit of drool is pooling at the corner of his mouth. I wonder who will present himself upon such an abrupt awakening—N. E. or Nolan—as I lean forward and gently shove his shoulder.