“Skipping out on your panel, you should be ashamed,” Pretzel Henry—I mean, David Singh—says, shaking his head. “That isn’t very princely of you, Mr. Freeman.”

“I—but I wasn’t—I’m not—”

David Singh turns his gaze ever so briefly to Milo and me and then back to Dare. He knows what we’re doing. He’s…distracting them for us? Dare darts his eyes from us, to David Singh, and then back to us again as if trying to piece together this hectic turn of events. But all I can give him is a helpless shrug because this is not going as planned. Come on, Dare, improv a little.

He swallows thickly and, apparently finally making up his mind, straightens his spine and sticks his hands in his pockets in a very jerklike way. “I was merely giving my fans some one-on-one time, unlike you. You haven’t been seen in years.”

“I prefer anonymity in my retirement, but maybe I should’ve come back and taught you some manners, kiddo.”

“Manners? Like I could learn anything useful from you, old man,” Dare bats back.

The crowd is growing, and now everyone is most definitely interested in this showdown. They don’t even notice Milo and me.

Imogen’s brother pats me on the shoulder, and I hurriedly wiggle my hairpin into the bottom hinge. It pops off and the glass door falls open. Milo catches it, and I grab the dress on the metal mannequin, folds of spun silk and taffeta, and pull it out of the case.

In the next blink, we’re gone.

Imogen

“SO, WHERE’S YOUR BOYFRIEND, PRINCESS?” Vance’s oil-slick voice purrs behind me. “Darien got cold feet?”

I resist the urge to shove my fist of fury right into that smug jawline of his and instead whirl around to him and feign shock. “Oh look, a wild nerfherder appears!”

His blue eyes narrow. “You look nervous, sweetheart.”

“And I’ve told you not to call me that, supercreep. What, are you done flirting with the volunteers? Were you lonely, Vance?” I say, trying to keep my voice in Jessica’s range, but after using it constantly these last few days, my vocal chords waver in and out.

He smiles at me and begins to say something, but then Amon bursts through the doors, clapping his hands loudly to get our attention.

“All right, crew! Let’s—wait, where’s Darien?” he asks, taking a frantic headcount of the panelists. “Where’s our Carmindor?”

I clear my throat and say in Jess’s sweet accent, “He went to take a piss.”

“Now?”

I shrug. The lights on the stage begin to rise.

Amon glances at his phone, and his lips curve down into a frown. Vance nudges his chin toward him. “What’s wrong, Boss?”