Because of course I’m the dramatic one, the irresponsible one, the desperate one, the one who could drown herself in a pool an inch deep if she saw her own reflection, and she’s the stable one with depth and nuance and integrity and brains of any kind.

“Go crawl into a hole and die,” I spit. “I’m going home to Stökéwood.”

I rip my most prized handbag off the entry table, and I go.

Eight thousand cheery-sounding text notifications later, Saxim, as promised, meets me in front of the two mannequins in tulle skirts in the window of the Limatra Dior boutique.

“What’s happened?” she asks, looking me up and down. “Where’s Manon?”

“We’re not talking about that lying c-word,” I tell her brightly, my fake smile as painful and protective as a corset of armor. “We’re going shopping!” And before she can say a word, I’m dragging her toward the door, which security opens wide for us.

Candy-colored heaven waits inside. Pristine racks of exquisitely tailored garments—gowns fit for actual royalty, not the janky kind I pretend to be—glitter at me beside towers of delicate shoes that are just … confections. A soft floral fragrance floats over the rich scent of leather—a colorful cornucopia of handbags. Viloxin is a parade of sights and smells.

“People who say shopping isn’t a balm for the soul don’t have a big enough budget.”

“Tai,” Saxim says, her hand tightening around my vibrating wrist. “What is wrong? Let’s go have a quiet—”

“Is that Ms. Thaïs Foix Hammick?” a voice calls, as the elegant, suited manager approaches, in a cloud of rose.

“It is,” I reply, leaving my purse—Mama’s vintage Kelly that Dad mailed me two years ago for my birthday—on a cushioned sofa that looks like a Creamsicle dream. I extend a hand as he nods his head. “A pleasure.”

“If we’d known you were coming, we would have prepared an aperitif,” the manager says, before kissing the air above my gnarly hand and turning to snap at a sales assistant in a silk crepe dress. There is a flurry of activity as another one emerges with two sparkling waters and crystal glasses on a silver tray.

“And the home collection linen napkins embroidered with lily of the valley from Paris?” the manager snaps at the girl, frowning. “Fetch the lily of the valley napkins!”

“I’ll take champagne,” I say. “Krug, if you have it.”

The manager’s eyes widen before a foxlike smile quirks his lips. “Fetch the Krug!”

He clasps his hands together. “Now my dear, shall we show you all the latest cocktail dresses that would suit you? Or perhaps some day dresses for this oppressive heat? Or … the latest gowns from Paris? There’s a—”