I sit there for a few more minutes while people browse Harper’s art selection. A girl stops and looks at one of the prints, which shows Princess Amara and Zorine (Zomara?), her childhood best friend, holding each other in a loving embrace—with all six of Zorine’s arms. She points and asks, “How much?”

Harper says, “It’s ten for one, three for twenty.”

The girl scrunches her nose. “Ugh, never mind. I’ll just print it off the Web.”

“Hey, before you go,” Harper says. “Save Amara!” She grabs a pin from my side of the booth and hands it to her. “It’s free.”

The girl brightens. “I’d love to,” she says, and takes the pin.

The nerve of this girl!

Harper seems unbothered. “A lot of people do that.”

“And you just let them?”

“What can I do about it? Even if I offer my prints exclusively at cons, someone’ll scan them onto the internet and people will just get them that way.”

“Shouldn’t they want to contribute to the creators?”

Harper rolls her eyes. “Not when everything online is free,” she says sarcastically.

I lower my gaze to the print. I guess I can kind of relate. My signature being sold for hundreds of dollars, photos of my life being pawned to the tabloid with the highest bidder, my story confiscated bit by bit until nothing is mine anymore.

I look through a few of her fanarts and stop at one of me—the real-life me.

It’s from when I took that spill on the Oscar red carpet, and she has all of the details eerily perfect. The way I styled my hair into a half bun, the cut of my evening gown. My utter lack of grace has been GIF’d so many times I get sick to my stomach just seeing it. My hands flailing, the dress caught on the heel of my shoe—

Just looking at it makes me angry.

I had a bruised cheekbone for a week while I listened to everyone make fun of the disaster, as if my mortification was entertainment. I guess sometimes it is. I thought that was the worst that would happen to me. But then I became Princess Amara.

I flip the portfolio closed.

“Aren’t you going to hand out the pins?” Harper asks. There’s a few scattered on the table and another big box under my feet.

I pick one up and realize that I should, even though it pains me. Imogen is being me—and promised not to mention this pointless initiative—so I guess it’s the least I can do. Until I get a lead on the person who stole my script, and to do that I need to wait for another post.

I hold the pin out to a passer-by. “Save Amara,” I force out.

The person doesn’t even acknowledge me.

I try with the next group. “Save Amara!”