Hope flickers in my chest. I return the phone to my pocket and with a swift “thank you” I’m speed-walking in that direction, clawing con-goers out of my way. I toss the melted ice pack in the trash and set my sights on the exhibit—the one with the fake Prospero ship you can take a photo in and the original costumes from the show.

I keep an eye on the Nox King towering above the booths near the other end of the showroom, where Imogen’s parents supposedly are. As long as I stay away, I should be fine.

People crowd inside the exhibit, taking photos of the costumes, murmuring to themselves how magnificent they are, how well kept after twenty-five years. Natalia Ford and David Singh are supposed to do a panel on Sunday to celebrate the anniversary—

And I remember my mortifying run-in with Natalia and I wince.

He’s here. I know the thief is here.

I take out my phone once more and begin comparing the angles of costume boxes. There are lines of people waiting to take photos with the costumes, and I think I’m photo-bombing the majority of them.

But when I get to Amara’s costume, it makes me pause. It’s mine—well, Natalia’s. The dress that launched a thousand cosplays. From one angle it reminds me of Cinderella’s dress, but from another it’s all points and angles, metallic stitching on the shoulders and across the corset. The folds of the skirt are supposed to billow when the wearer walks—swirling around her feet, full of blues and purples and reds. It is a dress with an entire galaxy sewn into the seams.

I stare a little longer than I should.

And I think—I wonder…

How was I ever supposed to live up to that?

The thought startles me, and I hate how true it feels. So many people at this con are passionate about Amara, about the TV series, about the movie. They love it and connect with it in a way I’ve never connected with anything.

In Hollywood there’s two types of films: popular ones and meaningful ones. Huntress Rising—the Oscar contender—was a gritty tour de force adapted from an obscure comic book. No one went into that film with any sort of emotional baggage. And even if they did, it was an art film on a low budget. They are award-worthy but not viewer-worthy. But being here, hearing these fans celebrate popular films and favorite characters, makes me second-guess that. What is it about those art-house movies that makes them better than The Last Jedi, Black Panther, or Starfield?

I thought all I needed to do to be Amara was read lines and put on a pretty dress, but I failed to see how this princess transformed people’s lives in a way my Oscar-nominated role never will.