Oh. She opened her mouth. Closed it. “Let’s see if it fits.”

“It will fit.” But the woman stepped away and pointed to a small room, covered with a curtain.

Please let her not destroy the dress. RJ stepped into the room, pulled off her clothing, took the straps of her bra down and then pulled on the dress.

Glory be, it fit.

As if, indeed, the dress had been made for her. It slid down her body, accentuated her waist, and hello, she even had cleavage, although admittedly, not much.

But perfect for this dress.

It fell to her ankles, the hem scalloped and also beaded.

She practically shimmered, even in the dim light of the fitting room.

Throwing open the curtain, she stepped out for better lighting and a view in the full length, gilded mirror.

“Wow.”

The word came from a young woman trying on masks at the table. Light-brown skin, black corkscrew hair, hazel-green eyes, she looked about eighteen in her skinny jeans, flip-flops and floral shirt. She set down a black feathered mask. “Is that for the Rosendans?”

“Um…maybe.” RJ turned and swept her gaze over herself in the mirror. Maybe the dress was too glitzy, too elegant. “I’m getting married in about five hours, so…I was thinking —”

“Yes. A thousand times, yes.” The woman stepped up to her. “It’s unique and gorgeous and perfect. And, if you want to wear it to the ball, too, it might go amazing with this.”

She handed her a gold rhinestone mask with florets and swirls and a tall peacock feather. RJ put it to her face and couldn’t help but laugh. “This is crazy.”

“Who is doing your hair and makeup?”

“Oh, um—I…I hadn’t —”

“We’ll use my mom’s stylist. She’s amazing.” She grabbed her phone and started to text. Then looked up at RJ. “Take the dress off. We need to get you shoes, and a bra and…” She looked her over. “We have serious work to do.”

RJ just stared at her.

“My name is Imani, by the way. Nice to meet you. Now, hurry up.”

Ten minutes later, RJ had checked out with the dress, the mask, a vintage 1930’s art deco necklace with three teardrop crystals and matching earrings.

And shoes. Gold lace wedding heels, like she might be Cinderella or something.

She sort of felt like it. Especially when she and Imani exited the shop and she followed Imani back up the cobblestone street toward the palace.

“Does your mom work at the palace?” She asked as the front gate of Hadsby Castle opened for the girl.

Imani smiled. “Sort of.”

“Your accent—it sounds midwestern. Or southern. Are you American?”

“Born in Hearts Bend, Tennessee,” she said, then greeted a woman dressed in palace household staff attire, blue dress, emblem on the breast. “Hello Maggie. We’re going to use the Princess Charlotte guest suite.”