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way that seems to justify all successes and excuse a good many failures. She’d inherited Rebecca’s vivid features, her alabaster complexion, and most of all her eyes: those snapping green eyes with a glint of gold, which seemed to hint at untold secrets. But her hair came from Peter. It was a glorious riot of color, everything from copper to red currant to honeysuckle, and fell in a sumptuous tumble almost to her waist.
    She gave a faint smile, reassured as always by the promise of her own reflection.
    “Daphne.” Her father cut into her thoughts. “Whatever happens, know that we are on your side. Always.”
    Whatever happens. Daphne shot him a look. Did he know what she had done that night?
    “I’ll be fine,” she said again, and left it at that.
    She knew what was expected of her. If a plan didn’t work, she had to make another; if she slipped and fell, she must always fall forward. It could only ever be onward and upward for her.
    Her parents had no idea what Daphne was capable of—no idea what she had already done, in pursuit of this crown.

    SAMANTHA
    That evening, Samantha headed toward a nondescript door that was tucked into the downstairs hallway like an architect’s afterthought. It might not look impressive, but this was the Door of Sighs, the royal family’s private entrance to the grand ballroom: so named because generations of princesses had lingered there when they were too young to attend, and sighed romantically as they watched the dancing.
    “There’s going to be hell to pay from your parents,” Nina pointed out, walking next to her.
    “Maybe.” Though Sam doubted that her parents had even noticed her lateness. They never noticed anything she did, unless she acted out so much that she forced them to.
    Sam’s protection officer trotted alongside them, his mouth set into a thin line. Sam could tell that Caleb was still angry with her for pulling that stunt in Thailand. Well, Sam hadn’t wanted to run into oncoming traffic; Caleb had simply given her no choice. Nothing else had worked on him—not persuasion or pleading, not even Sam’s last-ditch trick, which usually involved a complaint about cramps or tampons. When she’d tried it on him, the bodyguard had just handed her two Midol tablets and a bottle of water.
    “Incoming with the Sparrow,” Caleb muttered into his walkie-talkie. Sam swallowed back a flare of irritation at her security code name. All members of the royal family were designated as birds: the Eagle for the king, the Swan for the queen, the Falcon for Beatrice, the Bluebird for Jeff. It was only a couple of years ago that Sam had learned why security always called the second child Sparrow.
    It was Sparrow as in spare. As in not the heir. Sam was the extra child, an insurance policy: a living, breathing backup battery.
    The herald, who stood at attention at the Door of Sighs, didn’t dare remark upon Sam’s tardiness. He waited as she reached into her beaded clutch to reapply her lip gloss, a custom peony shade. She’d been offered a multimillion-dollar licensing deal for it—the company wanted to call it American Rose and put Sam’s face on the tube—but she’d turned it down. She liked the idea of the lip-gloss color being entirely her own.
    When she nodded at him, the herald stepped into the ballroom and thumped his enormous golden staff on the floor. The sound rebounded over the noises of the party: the clink of wineglasses, the scuffle of leather soles, the low hum of gossip.
    “Her Highness Samantha Martha Georgina Amphyllis of the House of Washington!”
    Samantha shot Nina one last glance and stepped into the ballroom.
    Hundreds of eyes darted toward Samantha, gleaming with calculation. They were all wondering how much weight she’d gained abroad or how much her gown cost or how envious she was of her older sister. Sam tried not to flinch. She’d forgotten just how big a full court function really was, with every last noble and politician in