Ethan squawks as I lob the envelope into the nearest trash can, where it drops to the bottom with a satisfying thunk. If it’s the contract, Amon’s probably sent a copy to my agent. I haven’t been officially brought on because no one knows if the princess will “return”—in a flashback or whatever—but either way I don’t want to sign on for a sequel. I want to reiterate, again, that Amara is dead. Here’s hoping she stays that way.

“Jess!” Ethan runs over to dig it out. “It might be important.”

“Then Diana can take care of it,” I say, a bit too loud. “That’s why I pay her,” I add, lowering my voice. Everyone in the lobby has begun to suspect who I am.

It always happens this way. First is the quiet, as people squint at me, trying to place my face; then they’re googling or whispering to their friends; then—

“Amara!” someone calls.

And suddenly I’m not anonymous anymore. It’s happening quicker and quicker these days. They call me that even though Amara’s not my name and even though I don’t turn around in response to whoever’s yelling it.

I press the up button on one of the elevators. Which, by the way, are breathtaking—pods of glass that rocket you up ten, twenty stories, some sort of meld between Willy Wonka’s magical lift and a transporter in an ’80s sci-fi flick. When we checked in yesterday I was awestruck by them, but now I can’t look, keeping my head down, praying that no one recognizes—

“Princess Amara!”

That’s not my name.

“It’s just a fan,” Ethan mutters. Then, in a kind but stern voice, he prods, “Jessica.”

He’s right. Of course.

I turn to the girl with a smile. “Hi!” She’s about fourteen maybe, cosplaying as…something orange. She gushes about how big a fan she is and how much she loves me, and I pose for a selfie, biding my time until the elevator comes. More people have gathered around us.

Fortunately, before anyone else can take my picture or call me Amara, the elevator doors whoosh open and Ethan and I step inside.

Imogen

THE SHOWROOM FLOOR IS SPREAD ACROSS the second-biggest room in the main convention hotel. The space is massive, abuzz with hundreds of vendors selling everything from cosplay gear to mock weapons to T-shirts to dice to obscure tabletop games to books to trading cards, all arranged beside large exhibits hyping upcoming franchise films and obscure TV series. And in the back of the ballroom are three neat rows of artists in what we at ExcelsiCon lovingly call Artists’ Back Alley. There are vendor halls in the con’s other hotels, too, but this is where the magic happens.