“Great!” I say, but my mind is a sieve for anything other than I’m thinking it all the way down the long front hallway, which smells of fresh paint and money, and I’d probably continue to think it if we didn’t step into a massive kitchen-dining-living room, open and airy and bright. There’s not much furniture yet, but everything that’s built in is gorgeous—sleek, dark-stained wood cabinets lining one whole wall, steel hardware that matches the appliances, a massive white marble island, glass-blown pendant lights hung above. Beyond it, a work-of-art chandelier, tangled branches of wood beautifully intertwined with delicate glass prisms. And where the living room furniture will surely go, a low, rectangular fireplace, built into a white brick half-wall, windows above and flanking it on either side, overlooking the kind of landscaped patio that half the population of Brooklyn would terminate someone for.

In spite of the fact that Jade has spoken to me in sentences that include at least twelve more words in italics, I don’t know if I’m processing it; I am absolutely not playing it cool when she pulls out a fancy acrylic chair away from the island and invites me to sit and “set up.” She asks if I want anything to drink and when I decline, she gives me another blinding smile and says she’ll see me later.

I’m going to meet Princess Freddie, I think as I sit there, my client notebook and my Micron in my hand. Neither are pink or have sparkles, and under the circumstances I consider this a profound failure.

“Meg?”

Lark looks remarkably the same as she had on-screen all those years ago—shorter than I thought, the planes of her face sharper with adulthood, but she’s still got all that long dark brown hair, brown eyes to match, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her smile is Princess Freddie’s, closemouthed and cautious, and after the movie came out I remember reading an interview where she’d said she’d always gotten teased for how big her mouth was. Since I’d had a face full of braces at the time, I’d felt a kinship.

Lark shakes my hand when I stand from my chair, and I make a real effort not to curtsey, holding the Micron in my other hand so tightly my knuckles ache. “Thanks for having me,” I say, as though I’ve shown up to her wedding shower or a cocktail party.

“I’m thrilled you came. I’ve been following you for ages!”

Given that I spent a good portion of my freshman year drawing sketches of her magical forest tent, this is a moment of cognitive dissonance for me, so I’m pretty sure I smile goofily, feeling as if my braces have grown back.