"I . . . can.'t . . . breathe!"

Like Madame Richelieu gave a shit. The seamstress yanked back the strings on the corset to cinch it even tighter against my ribcage. This wasn't my first rodeo with a corset. That also meant that I knew it didn't have to feel this tight. This level of suffocation felt . . . vengeful. 

Like a how-dare-you-lose-a-$15,000-dress vengeful. 

"Breathe in," Madame Richelieu directed. 

Jasper looked as though my pain was transferring to him. With every gulp of air I took, he too sucked in a breath, his hands clutching his chest like his lungs were being squeezed instead of mine. He kept glancing towards my mother, opening and closing his mouth to say something. But he couldn't. No one went up against Giselle Sparrow during a dress fitting. 

Once she was satisfied with how the corset fit my body, Madame Richelieu pulled the fabric of the dress up my torso before zipping the material together. 

In front of me, my mother picked up some of the fabric and rubbed it gently between two fingers. Her brows scrunched together. "No good," she sighed, dropping the material. 

"Really?" I mused, raising my arms. "I thought 16th-century lace cap sleeves in bright millennial pink were just the thing for wedding season."

"Little Sparrow, I already told you how the dress code is clan colors. We are simply in the process of finding a style that you can debut in."

Simply. It'd been three hours now, and my mother was no closer to finding a silhouette that suited her taste than scientists were to discovering the rest of the ocean. 

With a disapproving frown at the pink tulle, my mother said, "Madame Richelieu, may we look at the fabrics again? Perhaps tulle is a little too . . . American prom for this occasion."

The small seamstress stepped away from me and followed my mother towards the other end of the boutique. The height difference between the esteemed haute couture designer and her former model was astounding. Madame Richelieu, having retired from runway after starting a lucrative business design custom gowns for Cimeria's elite, stood a little over five feet -- in heels. Placed next to my mother, Richelieu seemed to shrink in size, looking a little like Edna Mode. 

Stepping off the podium, I plopped myself down next to Jasper. I leaned on his shoulder to get a closer look at the magazine he had in his lap. 

"How Eating Green Truly Saved My Wedding," I read aloud, not recognizing the celebrity on the front cover. 

"She lost fifty pounds on just three months of spinach, kale, and broccoli alone," summarized Jasper, casually flipping through the nylon pages. "And one session of liposuction."

"Who is she again?"

"Juliana Winters."

"That's her?" I snatched the magazine from him to flip to the spread about her extreme dieting tactics. Buried in the columns was a small paragraph noting six hospitalizations from malnourishment. "She quit acting? I thought she swore she'd never get married until she retired."

"Don't they all say that until they come across a lord that's distantly related to the Kingston clan?" Jasper tapped her face. "She's Olivia Whitepine's maid of honor."

"Whitepine didn't pick one of the Lanclair girls? That must've caused an uproar."

"That's why the Lanclairs have begun backing Queen Eliza on certain legislations."

I gave Jasper a keen look. "I see someone's started paying attention behind the scenes."

A small but proud smile crossed his lips. "I thought maybe I should start preparing just in case Elijah ever decides to renounce his title. You know, since that'll make me the last heir to Bishop." 

"Have you asked Uncle or the queen to change your lessons?"

"I tried." Jasper's smile faded. "But the queen shot down the idea pretty quickly."

Before I could offer to speak to the queen myself, the sharp heels of both women clacked back our way. "Do not sit in the dress!" Richelieu begged in French, scurrying over with her hands waving. I jumped to my feet, hastily apologizing while Richelieu clucked at me, her fingers spreading apart the tulle to check for tears. My mother stood behind her, her head shaking back and forth. Folded over her arms were three garment bags while a panel of silk was draped around her shoulders. 

When Richelieu sighed in relief at finding her work fully intact, my mother stepped forward. "Park, could you go try on the gold one?"

"Again?"

She frowned at my exasperation. "You know, this wouldn't have taken so long if you'd just bothered to bring the dress I told you to buy."

"I didn't realize bullet holes were so trendy now."

"It was an off-the-rack dress; I would never have let you wear it to the wedding. The point of having Elijah buy it was so Madame Richelieu could study the silhouette and apply it to your custom gown before today's fitting. But no, now it's an evidence room." She beckoned me towards the dressing room. "Gold dress. Now."

Sighing, I headed off to change, holding the skirt as high as I could to avoid tripping. The pink gown had its own kind of beauty to it. Perhaps it would be absolutely stunning on a different girl, but on me, the vibes of a confectionary cupcake were just too overpowering to look good. 

I slipped out of it easily enough before reaching for the white petticoat hanging on the mirror. I tied the strings tightly around my waist before shimmying into the gold gown I'd tried on two hours ago. 

But as I reached around my back, I realized that the zipper was just out of my reach. Shit. Sucking in a deep breath, I reached around again, but once more -- no luck. 

"You know what you look like?" 

I didn't need to turn around. Through the mirror, I saw Logan leaning against the door frame, a small grin on his face while he watched me struggle. 

"Mmm, like I stole the drapery from the Palace of Versailles?" I said. There was no other word for this dress except for 'decadent.' It was a bright, sun-like gold, its stitchings of lunar and solar emblems adorned with glitter to reflect any and all light. The fabric was thick and bulky, meant to boost the bell-shape of the skirt, though it just resulted in a feeling of perpetual drowning. 

"More like the curtains on display at a furniture store, but sure, we can pretend it's from Versaille." 

Refusing to be humbled, I stood up straight, planting my hands on my waist. "I do pull of window curtains quite well, don't I?" I said. Then, realizing he'd returned, I grinned, turning around. "Did you get the tickets?"

Logan reached into the inner pocket of his black denim jacket to pull out three glossy museum tickets. 

"What took you so long?" I asked as he handed them over to me. Poison and Assassinations Exhibit at the Riveria Institute of Art and History. Not the most conventional exhibit the institute had ever put on. Jasper had written extensively about the political controversy it managed to stir up. "Advocating for regicide" was one of the claims. 

There was a small (minuscule, really) percentage that I was wrong and Jasper did not run the political-slash-Logan-Cross-fan-blog I found. Even so, I figured he'd would enjoy the tour anyway since the kid was way too personally fascinated with assassination conspiracy theories for his own good.

"You act like getting my hands on sold-out tickets is a breeze," Logan grumbled. 

"Wasn't it? I'm sure there was a family of three that would've gladly forked over their tickets for a decent price."

Logan's mouth dropped open. "I was talking about how it took a while to convince a worker to contact the museum director for me. You wanted me to bribe a family?"

My hands flew to my chest in mock outrage. "I never said such a thing."

Logan pushed a finger against my forehead in disapproval. "As I was saying: it took a while for the director to come meet with me. Then when I got back, your father called. I guess there was an incident with one of the tours at the palace."

Ah. "Someone tried to enter a restricted room, huh?" I guessed. 

It was quite easy to sidestep security during a palace tour (speaking from experience, of course). Not because the guards sucked or anything, but with thousands of people cramming themselves into the palace halls at a time, it was nigh impossible to keep a watchful eye on every wandering tourist. 

Logan nodded. "Since protocol requires a lockdown of perimeters for a few hours, your father has advised us to stay in the city." 

"Why do you sound so grumpy about it? The universe just gave us a solid excuse to stay downtown," I asked, noting his sour expression. 

"Well, as your bodyguard, I'm required to perform a thorough inspection of all apace rooms once we get back. And as you know, there are a thousand rooms in the Cimeria palace."

"Isn't being thorough a hallmark of CSD's most dedicated agent?" I asked. "Does my mother have to retract her compliment?"

"It's easy for you to joke about since you don't have to do it--"

"What're you talking about? Of course I'll be walking with you." I flashed him a smile. The thought of having to sit around by myself for a few hours seemed too depressing. "Consider it a personal palace tour. No booking agency fee necessary."

One of the corners of his lips twitched. "I'd like that very much, Your Highness." 

Grinning from ear to ear, I held out my arms, feeling refreshed and ready to speed through the rest of this tailoring session. "A little help, please?"

"With what?" 

I spun around so that he could get a look at the small zipper hidden beneath a thick panel of fabric at the center of my back. "Can you zip it up? For some reason, my mother seems determined to use this gown to revive the Rococo era."

Logan chuckled. Looking over my head to meet my eyes in our reflections, he said, "I'm actually here to tell you that I managed to convince your mother to stop the dress hunting for today. Figured you'd had enough of this week's 'Say Yes to the Dress' episode."

Huh? Did I hear that right?

"You watch 'Say Yes to the Dress'?" 

Placing a hand over his heart, a motion hauntingly familiar of an action I took a few paragraphs back, Logan answered, "I never said such a thing."

Then, he bowed his head and headed out of the dressing room. I watched him go with a private sense of admiration. Changing my mother's mind had only ever been accomplished by the queen herself, and that was purely due to legal authority. 

Not about to waste my bodyguard's inhuman powers of persuasion, I slipped out of the gown, trading it for a pair of light blue jeans, hastily rolling up the hems to hide the fraying ends. I undid the corset to pull on a bustier-style short sleeve blouse in yellow and white gingham print. Then, I kicked off the nude heels for a set of brand-new white sneakers. You are welcome to guess who got rid of my dirty ones. 

The last bit of my ensemble was a black cap and matching face mask, which I pulled down to my chin before heading back out to the boutique. 

Hunched over a wide marble table by the black-framed windows were my mother and Madame Richelieu, their heads bent together as they conversed in low tones. Passing by, I heard my mother detail specific instructions on the cut, style, and color she wanted for this custom gown. In front of them was a pile of dark wine fabric, similar to the dress I'd lost in New York, except this one was much more intense in saturation. 

I wonder what exactly Logan said to get her to move on from picking the perfect silhouette.

"Logan told you about the palace situation?" my mother asked, not glancing up from the sketch Richelieu was drawing. 

"Yes. Five hours out sounds good, right?" I clarified. 

"You can make it six." She took a momentary break to pinch the bridge of her nose, sighing dramatically. "I tell Eliza all the time we should really stop these tours." Then, she pointed at something on the sketch pad, nodding her head with a smile. 

Taking advantage of her distraction, I patted Jasper's shoulder and gestured for him to slip towards the exit. But upon him setting down the magazine, my mother cleared her throat.

"I hope you remember that the two of you cannot be in public together." Her manicured finger moved between Jasper and me. "Park cannot be photographed before the wedding, and Jasper is too recognizable among journalists." 

"Oh, come on," I groaned, making sure to exaggerate the whine in my voice. "I already made my debut with that highway chase. Everyone already knows I'm back."

"Actually," my mother cut in, "we were quite lucky that day. The media was unable to capture a decent photo of you from the scene, and I would like to keep it that way. After three years away from the public eye, it is in the clan's best interest that you return looking like the future Crown Princess." 

She held my eyes with a piercing blue stare. "Am I clear?" 

I counted the seconds in my head until I reached seven then sighed heavily. "Fine," I said, shooting Jasper my most apologetic look. "We'll definitely hang out after the wedding."

Jasper squinted his eyes. "Uh, I don't really mind--"

Logan coughed under his breath. 

"Oh, yeah." Jasper cleared his throat. "Such a bummer. I really wanted to hang out with you today."

Luckily, our little hiccup seemed to go unnoticed, as Richelieu had asked for my mother's opinion on the gown's design. When my mother looked up at us, she motioned for me to pull the mask over my nose. "Be responsible. I do not want to get another phone call saying that you got kidnapped again."

I scoffed, all my melodrama melting away. "You guys act like I willingly find kidnappers and ask them to take me."

At that, everyone gave me the look. 

"That was one time!" I argued. "And for good reason!"

"Wait." Logan turned to me. "Are we talking about the gas station incident or something else?"

My mother's eyes flared. "What gas station incident?" 

"It was a gas station, Mother. I filled a car up with gas, what else could I have possibly been doing?" I answered, shoving the boys out the door. Despite her calling out to me multiple times, I shut the door to Madame Richelieu's office. 

"Thanks for that," I grumbled to Logan as our trio headed down the hallway to the spiral staircase. 

"I'm just trying to keep things honest around here." 

I reached inside the pocket of his jacket to pull out the tickets before attempting to bat him on the head with the rectangular slips. Thanks to the narrowness of the stairs, Logan had no choice but to stand still and accept the beating, which had a force equal to a weak puff of air. 

Below us was the retail floor to Richelieu's boutique, where some of her ready-made dresses hung off the plastic silhouettes of the mannequins stationed around the room. The seamstress' business had been bought out for the day, resulting in an empty shop -- save for the mini army of bodyguards lingering by the entrance. 

Silently, I handed Jasper his ticket, watching his eyes light up as he read the small black print on the surface. When he grinned at me, my eyes stinging just for a moment when I saw a hint of Archer in that smile -- a confident, reckless smile that only spelled troublemaking. 

Jasper held up three fingers, and I copied his body language. He slipped his ticket into his pocket, then with both of his hands, signed to me: If you're not there by three, I'm taking the tour without you. 

"Remember to watch out for your surroundings," I called out after him as he bounced down the steps. 

"Hah! I think you're the one who needs to follow your own advice," Jasper snorted. "I'm not the one getting kidnapped all the time."

Then he was out the door. Close on his trail was his own personal bodyguard, a lanky man by the name of Hendrick, who subtly lowered his head in my direction before disappearing with Jasper. 

My mother's security team greeted us with quiet words as Logan and I crossed the retail floor, making our way towards the back exit of the building. At the door below a glaring red EXIT sign, Logan used the side of his body to add some needed pressure against the hatch. After a quick check of our surroundings, he pulled up his own mask and stepped out into the shade. 

"Where to, princess?" Logan asked, his voice muffled behind the cloth covering his mouth. 

There were still a couple of hours left before the tour started. Located in the same shopping district as Richelieu's boutique, the Riveria Institute of Art and History was only a few miles from where we stood, a distance easily walkable within our time frame. I felt almost drunk on excitement. It'd been so long since I'd been allowed to just . . . wander. 

"How about I treat you to coffee for getting my mother to let us go early?" I offered as we headed towards the main avenues of the shopping district. 

"No, thank you. Every time we get coffee together, you always over-sweeten your drink and I have to give you mine."

"But that's just what best friends do."

"About that -- I'd like to be demoted. Is an acquaintance position still available?"

Hearing no sincerity to his request, I dragged Logan into the crowd, trying to keep a sharp eye out for any coffee shops or vendors. That was easier said than done. 

The Riveria shopping district was a pedestrian precinct, separated by a wide canal that ran through the heart of the capital city. Dozens of food, jewelry, and clothing vendors lined the railings by the canal. The aroma of both sugary and savory dishes mixed in the air, occasionally permeated by the floral scents of the summer flowers for sale, their stems stuck in buckets of cold water to keep them fresh. 

Were there this many shops three years ago? There were just so many colors, and so much noise. Coupled with the hundreds of people bustling by, I couldn't help as my excitement turned to dizziness. Then dizziness turned to nerves. 

There's too many people. 

Suddenly, I felt Logan's fingers intertwine with mine. My heart jumped. I looked to him, and he pulled me close so that I could hear him above the noise.

"Is this alright?" he asked. "I don't want to lose you in this crowd." 

"Yeah," I found myself saying without thinking, "this is fine." 

Logan took the lead, pulling me along as he aimed for any clearing in the thick crowd. He held my hand loosely, maintaining a tennis-ball-sized distance between our palms. I felt my nerves melt away step by step. The colors and noises around me became a little more muted and bearable on the eyes, allowing me to finally focus on my surroundings with ease. I wondered if he'd been able to tell that I'd gotten too nervous. 

It was unusually warm today. When we left the palace early this morning, there'd been a strong chill in the air but now, the afternoon sun toasted my bare arms. 

As the throng of pedestrians thinned out, allowing more walking space besides Logan, the warmth from his hand now felt out of place with less bodies producing heat around us. I wriggled my fingers from his grasp. He didn't seem to pay much attention to the action. He simply slipped his palms into the pockets of his black jeans as we kept walking. 

"You don't feel hot?" I asked him. Underneath his black jacket, he wore a white thin thermal Henley, and his dark hair was also shielded by a gray denim cap, pulled down low over his brows.

"Not really. I'm used to wearing two layers when I'm on duty." 

An older woman wearing a floral hat beckoned us to try samples of a smoothie that her vendor was selling. While Logan turned her down, I flipped through my memories like a yearbook. I guess he was right. Excluding his uniformed days, the only other time I'd seen him in a simple shirt was on the flight here and during our training sessions. Even at the Nakamura bonfire, he had a shirt underneath his button-down. 

"Why?" I asked. 

"If I get shot, then I have extra fabric to create a temporary gauze to maintain pressure against the wound." 

"And if you don't get shot?"

"Then it's one less jacket I have to buy." 

"What if it's a hundred degrees out?" 

"Then I guess I'll suffer." 

Damn. "I guess I have to reinstate that 'dedicated' label."

We barely made it past twenty feet of the smoothie stand before my shoes dug into the ground on its own volition at the overwhelming aroma of cinnamon and sugar. Bursts of heat blew from the pastry stand when the baker popped open her small oven to take out a fresh tray of morning buns. 

I heard Logan laugh before I felt his hand graze my waist. "Watch my back," he said, stepping in line behind an elderly couple. While he fished out some bills from his wallet, I stood a few inches behind, eyeing people as they passed. Some were in a rush, clutching their briefcases as they weaved through the crowd with panic on their faces. Others strolled on by, shopping bags draped on their arms as they threw their heads back in laughter. 

After Logan paid, the baker handed him a small brown paper bag, which he passed to me as we started to cross the bridge. "Always try and maintain at least a 180-degree perspective. Field agents are typically assigned in pairs for that reason. And please wait until we're somewhere private to eat that."

"The field agent life sounds exhausting," I mused, pulling my mask down anyway, tearing a piece of the bun off and plopping it into my mouth. The sugar glaze stuck to my fingers. Logan offered me a napkin, and in return, I offered him another torn off piece, but he shook his head. 

"I don't like sweets." Rather than walking forward, Logan started backing me up to the railings, his towering frame shielding me from any stray eyes so I could eat in peace. A gondola floated down the canal, its rower serenading the passenger couple with a melody from a 1sts 6th-century opera. 

Not my personal choice of music, but it was very nice to hear the soprano notes hit so well. 

"It's not so different from being a member of royalty," Logan said. "Don't you have to be on your guard too?"

"I mean yeah, to a degree." I shrugged, biting into the bun. "There's a part of me that's always glancing over my shoulder. I'm always eyeing people around me and hoping that they're not part of some anti-monarchist cell ready to slit my throat." I gestured to a small woman striding past us as an example. 

Then, I said, "It's my least favorite part about being Park Sparrow. I wouldn't be able to handle the state of vigilance you're in." 

Not anymore, at least. I didn't tell Logan that I used to avoid windows and balconies out of fear of snipers. I didn't tell him how I'd forgotten lunch during my first week at the academy and ended up starving myself the whole day because I was suspicious that the chefs had poisoned my food. 

But after three years of living as Alex Finch, of sitting in classrooms right by the windows and knowing not a single person would harm me, I was getting lazy. 

The smallest breeze ruffled the hair around my face, resulting in a few strands sticking to the sugar glaze coating my lips. Before I could pull my hair back, Logan beat me to it, his fingers brushing my cheeks as he cleaned the sugar off my hair. 

"You're right," he said determinedly. "It's not your job to look over your shoulder. It's mine." 

"Shouldn't you have been doing that this whole time?" I teased. He slowly withdrew his hand. I tapped my shoe against his ankle, smiling. "I might end up giving you a bad performance for real at this rate."

"I'm sorry," he said. We exited the bridge, and I crumpled up the paper bag to toss into a nearby trashcan. "I guess I got caught up with sharing my training with you, but I promise I'll stop."

True to his word, Logan ceased any and all mention of agent life. Our conversations switched to sharing our memories of the capital, pointing out familiar shops and vendors. Logan's preference for strong espresso came from his father, who preferred cafés, whereas my father took us to gelato shops. And thanks to his mother, Logan could point out almost every bookstore we passed in advance. I knew where to find my mother's favorite hole-in-the-wall art galleries. 

"Let's try that place," I said, pointing to a coffee shop sandwiched between a luxury department store and an Italian bistro. 

"Are you sure?" Logan pointed to a candy shop just a few shops down. "That seems more suited to your tastes." 

"All this sugar is the reason why I have a bubbling pink soul, you know." I grabbed his sleeve and dragged him the front door of the coffee shop. Despite all his teasing and protests, Logan let me order him an iced americano at the counter, which he happily sipped on while I took advantage of the condiment bar to add some sugar into my iced latte. 

See, the majority of Cimerian coffee shops, unlike American ones, lacked diversity in their flavorings. Your options were either: a) bitter bean juice; or b) bitter bean juice with some milk. And at the rare location, like here: c) I guess you can add some sugar on your own, you tasteless civilian. 

"For a girl with such a bad sweet tooth, I'm surprised you like coffee, even with how much sugar you add," he mused as we stepped back out onto the street. 

I swirled the cup. "When you spend as much time as I did in Paradise Coffee, you'd be hard pressed not to develop a caffeine addiction too." 

I also didn't have much of a choice with this addiction either, seeing as how Elijah practically forced cup after cup down my throat in order to perfect his menu. Free labor, as he liked to call it. 

Up ahead, the usual line of shops on the right gave way for the Lockhart Plaza, a staggeringly expansive and wide square bursting with commotion. The few benches installed around the square were overflowing with people squeezing themselves into any available seating.  I stopped at the edge of the plaza, leaning against one of the rounded pillars holding up the arched hallways where customers flitted in and out of more shops. 

"So, Finch," he said, leaning on the same pillar, facing me while he drank his coffee, "how are you liking Cimeria?" 

I smiled. "It's quite the kingdom. You know, it's strange. I feel like I'm at home." 

"Maybe you should order one of those online ancestry kits. Who knows, you might have some Cimerian in you." 

"Ooh, you think I might be distantly related to a member of the royal family?"

As we laughed, I was suddenly struck at the underlying truth of my words. I felt at home. I felt the same way I did after walking up three flights of stairs to collapse on Elijah's couch. Comfortable. Safe. Normal. 

I hadn't looked over my shoulder once this whole walk. 

Clutching my cup close to my chest, I watched as a group of kids chased each other around the plaza, gripping large wands dripping with soap in their tiny hands. "I haven't felt this comfortable walking around in the city in a while." 

 From the sudsy wands floated clouds of large bubbles the size of my head. "You too?" Logan sympathized, popping a bubble that danced past with an outstretched pinky. 

"Like I told you earlier, even though I try not to constantly scan the rooftops for snipers, I do try to stay alert. Somewhat." I sipped on my coffee. "And then things just got so much worse after my brother left. Because it wasn't just me acting that way, it was also my bodyguards. The way they lingered around me, watching and reporting my every move -- it was just a constant reminder of how much risk I was in by just being outside. 

Logan slowly nodded. "My mother accepted the headmistress position when I was eight, so I ended up splitting my time between Paradise and Cimeria for ten years now. But every time I came here, it was always for an assignment." One corner of his lips slid upwards. "Now that I think about it, I haven't walked through the district like this in a decade."

"Technically, you're still on assignment."

"Yeah, but," and he gave a half-hearted shrug, "it doesn't feel like I am when I'm with you." 

He said it so casually. He probably meant nothing more by it than a simple admission of comfort. But for some reason, it was almost like my heartbeat was off. A part of me wanted to read more into his words. Am I different from everyone else to you? 

Though I wasn't sure why I wanted to know so bad. 

Blissfully unaware of the turbulence in my head, Logan's smile grew wider. "So what changed for you?" he asked. "Is it because I'm such an excellent bodyguard? You know, I've always said that the mark of a true bodyguard is someone who makes their clients feel comfortable, not just safe." 

"Maybe," I admitted. "I don't know. You have a knack of making me feel like Finch.

Logan looked a little confused. "Is that a good thing?"

"I mean, Finch was never on the run for her life."

"Huh." Logan crossed his arms. "I guess I'll take that as a compliment." Then he grinned. "If you want, I can start insulting you again if you really want to start feeling like you're back at the academy."

"Don't act like you haven't dropped an insult here and there since you became my bodyguard." 

"Come on, Sparrow." His hazel eyes were glimmering with malice. "Isn't that what best friends do?" 

"That's it. You're demoted." 

A high-pitched yowl tore through the plaza. One of the kids was screaming at his friend for hogging the bubble wand. To everyone's horror, the other boy kicked the blue bottle between them, emptying the sudsy water onto the cobblestones.

"Right, well that's our cue to leave," said Logan as parents peeled themselves off the benches to intervene. 

"Are you kidding? The fight's only getting started."

A young girl joined the battle, seizing the wand only to viciously snap it in two. Cue more screaming. Logan cringed at the sound, and the next thing I knew, he was pushing me away. 

"You're no fun," I pouted, catching one final glimpse of the fight transferring to an argument between two dads before the plaza winked out of sight. "I wanted to place bets on who'd win. My contender was Green Skirt Girl."

"I'm starting to think you might have a gambling problem."

"Excuse you. If I recall, there were four participants in a high-stakes gamble back at the academy. Twelve-hundred dollars, wasn't it? And you didn't even pay up." 

"Again, I never shook your damn hand," Logan refused. Before he could stop me, I hopped in front of him to seize his palm and give it a firm shake. Logan frantically shook his hands free from mine, rolling his eyes as I laughed.

"I have something better than twelve-hundred dollars actually," he said. "Can you consider my debt paid then?"

Without waiting for my answer, Logan reached into the pocket of his jacket again. Instead of tickets, in his grip was a phone in a clear case, the sides of which were yellowing from heavy use. 

"Ta-da." Logan pressed my old phone into my hands. "I convinced Josh to grab it from the gas station and send it to my parents' townhouse. It's also another reason I was running late getting back to the boutique."

He never does take a break, huh? If my boss ever gave me a task to complete within an unspecified frame of time and I finished early, I would've treated myself a private brunch. And here Logan was running errands.

As my thumb slid down the screen, I realized the surface was oddly smudge-free and reflective, almost like it was brand-new. There was no chip in the screen protector on the right side. I smiled. Josh must've taken the liberty to spruce up some of my accessories.

"You should've seen the box it came in," Logan snorted. "He must've hired a gift-wrapper. There's also a box of chocolates for you and a ten-page apology letter for the gas station incident, but I can give you those another day."

I stared at Logan. "Not that I'm unthankful for this, but . . . you were there when Jasper gave me a new phone. Remember? That's how we've been scheduling our lessons."

"Oh, my bad. I didn't realize you liked the flip-phone he got you that much."

Unperturbed, Logan motioned to grab my phone away from me, but I harbored it against my chest, angling my body away so he couldn't reach it. Logan smirked.

"I'm just saying," I huffed, shaking the phone, "that this isn't the twelve-hundred dollar trade-off you think it is. Especially since Jordan did most of the work sending it over." With a tap on the glass, the screen brightened. The battery symbol indicated that Josh had also fully charged it before sending it over. 

But then I saw the time. "Oh, shit," I said, showing the screen to Logan. "The tour starts in fifteen minutes."

And it would be another thirty minutes  to the museum. Idiot, I thought. How could you forget to keep track of time? While Jasper would no doubt start the tour without me, I knew he wouldn't it enjoy as much. His favorite part about studying history was talking about it with other people. 

"Call him," Logan said before grasping my wrist and pulling me down the streets.

With Logan leading the way, I pulled up my dial screen so I could enter in Jasper's number. Maybe I could convince the staff to let us tour the exhibit privately. The only way I could do that was if I revealed my identity to them. My mother would be furious, but I didn't want to let Jasper down. 

The line picked up. "Hey, I'm almost there," I sang. "I'll just be a little late, so you can--"

"What a coincidence. I was just about to call you."

I stopped dead in my tracks, feeling the warmth drain from my body. Logan pulled my hand, but my shoes had taken root where I stood.

"Who is this?" I asked.

Logan's eyes narrowed into slits. He held his hand out for the phone, but I ignored him, concentrating on what I could make out from the call. 

"You see, here I was, wondering how on earth was I going to reach the princess of Cimeria. And then I come across Jasper Bishop in the baroque hall. He was so nice to lend me his phone. It's nice to see the youth so interested in history."

There was background chatter weaving between his words, the voices belonging to children and parents and tour guides. Wherever they were, they had to be in the museum still. I started running.

"What do you want with Jasper?"

"I told you! I just wanted to see if you'd be able to make it to the tour," he laughed. The youth, I sarcastically recalled him saying. This guy sounded like he was my age. 

"I'll make it," I swore, trying not to pant into the phone. "Whatever you want, I promise you my life is worth more than his. I'll go with you. Just don't touch him." 

"Is it?" The boy laughed again, the sound of which was low and menacing in my ear. "Then you better make it here fast. You don't want to lose another brother, do you?"

The line went dead.

I should've stopped and told Logan what was going on. I should've called my parents. But I couldn't stop running. All I could focus on was getting to the museum. A burning pain flared up in my chest, the sensation traveling to my appendix as I forced myself to pick up speed. 

It took me too long to reach the steps of the museum. I knew it was too long. They must've left already, and yet my eyes stubbornly scanned the entrance, praying stupidly that I caught them in time. Then I was rushing up the steps, my eyes stinging as I stumbled into the lobby. 

I was distantly aware of Logan calling my name. A museum attendant yelled "Miss!" over and over. But I sped through the halls without stopping, following the signs to the exhibit. They're gone, I knew instinctively. And still I was searching the face of every teenage boy I ran past, pleading that it'd be Jasper. 

There! The exhibit entrance was to my left. But before I could pass through the arched hallway, two security guards scrambled before me, barricading my way. I tried pushing past their arms, but they shoved me back. 

"No!" Without hesitation, I tore off my mask and hat. "Please, I'm Park, no -- my cousin, he's -- Jasper -- he's been kidnapped!" 

"Park!" Logan's voice was right in my ear. Suddenly, he was behind me, pulling me back from the guards. My appearance had no effect on the duo. That's right. No one recognizes me yet. 

"Park, let me handle it," Logan said while I frantically unzipped my crossbody bag. My wallet and ID were within my grip when a museum attendant standing by the front desk spoke up. 

"Miss," she said, glancing between the guards and me. "Are you perhaps talking about a young boy who was waiting for the Poison Exhibit?" 

"Yes." I wrenched free from Logan's hands to stumble to her desk. "Yes, his name is Jasper Bishop. He's in danger; we need to lock down the museum now." 

I laid my ID on the counter, but even upon examining my card, her expression was still hesitant. 

Why does no one believe me? I thought. Heat was returning to my body, though not from exhaustion. Every second talking to these people was a waste of Jasper's time. 

"I apologize, we just get a lot of fake IDS at the museum. A lot of high school kids show up claiming they're nobility," she said, her smile wavering. "I just wanted to reassure you that the boy didn't seem in trouble. He was just waiting with some friends and I overheard them saying they'd just start the tour." Her eyes widened. "Oh, that's right. One of the boys said to give you this if you ever came."

In her hands was another goddamned manila folder. 

"He said this would tell you where they're heading next." 

I snatched the folder from her hands, mentally noting that my first act as queen would be to burn every one of these things. Judging from the way the guy on the phone spoke to me, I was expecting a ransom note written crayons, with the words "ha ha you're too late" plastered at the top. 

But instead, the first thing I saw was a scanned document: a birth certificate for a--

Jasper Sparrow. 

I pulled out the next document. And then the next. They were Jasper's medical records -- his weight, blood type, and physical characteristics from the day he'd been born, attached with a grainy photo of my mother in a bed holding an infant in her arms. Her medical records were in here too, detailing her health statistics on the same day. There was a paternity test certifying that William Sparrow and Jasper shared 99% of their DNA. 

And finally, the last document was a non-disclosure agreement, signed by the Queen of Cimeria and a Dr. Augustin, swearing her to secrecy in exchange for a lifetime of financial support. 

You don't want to lose another brother now, do you?

The floor beneath me spun. And I couldn't hold back anything anymore. All the pain and exhaustion from running, the pure terror gripping my mind -- they hit me at once. The next thing I knew, my knees buckled. 

Jasper was my brother. 

And I didn't make it to him in time. 

Logan caught me with his arm around my waist just before I hit the floor. He and I were kneeling on the ground. The folder was cradled against my chest. When I turned around to look up at him, I saw that he had his phone to his ear. 

For one second, his eyes were nothing but soft and sad. His hand came up to cup my face. But then, someone on the other line picked up. His gaze steeled into hazel brass and his fingers pulled back. 

"This is Agent Logan Cross," he said. "We need to issue a Code: Zero."