Portia: Those options don’t seem fun. Let me know if you need help dealing with the attention. Johan can help, too. Ask him for some pointers.

Nya: I know Johan is your friend, but that guy is weird.

Portia: Aren’t all of us weird?

Ledi: Thabiso and I found a secret dungeon in the palace (don’t ask), and I will gladly jail anyone who upsets you.

Ledi: Just kidding, I’m not a despot. I will publicly call them out and embarrass them, though.

Portia: That’s worse than a dungeon, as we all know.

Ledi: Yep.

Nya: I’ll be fine, thank you. Also, please be careful in the dungeon, or at least send us a map so we know where to search if you and Thabiso disappear.

Ledi: We have cell phone reception down there, and we had new locks put on that can always be opened from the inside. I’m not trying to live that “Cask of Amontillado” life.

Portia: Did you look into those therapists I gave you a list of, Nya?

Nya: Gotta go, flight is boarding!

Portia: Okay I can take a hint. Tell Johan that I brought him a present.

Nya’s brow furrowed. She’d missed that last message and nothing else had followed it because Ledi and Portia were together and could speak to one another.

Nya: What do you mean “tell Johan”?

The message went unread—it was before daybreak in Thesolo.

Her phone emitted a ping and she quickly switched apps, a little burst of relief filling her when the load screen for One True Prince appeared. OTP was a cute, but immersive, dating simulator game that had developed a cult following—you played the role of new girl at a boarding school full of princes in which one of them was a spy bent on destroying the system of monarchies forever. It was silly fun, but kind of intense: you had to be ready to receive messages at any time, even the middle of the night. Like true love, the game worked on its own schedule; you had to keep up or be rich enough to buy your way out of your mistakes.

She’d romanced all of the princes except for two: Basitho, whom the developers had clearly based on her soon-to-be official cousin-in-law, Thabiso; and Hanjo, a bad-boy prince based on Thabiso’s best friend, Johan. She cringed at the idea of romancing even a fictional version of Thabiso, who besides being her cousin’s soul mate, was also pretty goofy. As for Hanjo . . .

Johan Maximillian von Braustein was an infamously attractive extrovert, happiest at the center of a party or in front of a camera. He was everything she despised in a man—self-indulgent, spoiled, expecting everything around him to bend to his wishes.

She hated the ease with which Johan moved through the world. She hated that he always seemed so sure of himself. She hated that when Portia had first introduced them, for the briefest moment Nya’d felt something as their gazes met, sparking a wild, ridiculous hope. Then, like most people, Johan had quickly looked past her in search of someone more interesting.

Hanjo Millianmaxi bon Vaustein was a two-dimensional video game character that was the closest Nya would get to the playboy prince of Liechtienbourg paying her any mind. Not that she wanted him to or anything—she was hate-romancing this character. That was it.

ONE TRUE PRINCE, MESSAGE FROM: HANJO

Hello, Nya. I saw that you were having trouble in Advanced Royal History Class. Do you need me to tutor you?

She looked through the available responses.

Why would I want help from a carrot head like you?

How dare you insinuate I need help!

I would love that. I’ll bring homemade treats! <3

She didn’t want to insult him outright since romance was her goal, so A was out. B was rude, too, but C was much too close to what people would expect her to say in real life. She hit B, then put the phone down where she could keep an eye on it.

Mariha returned with the ginger ale, hovering as Nya sipped.

“Do you need anything else? Toast? Tums? A heated pad?” Mariha was smiling, but there was still mild panic in her eyes, as if she worried about insulting the new princess’s cousin right before the wedding ceremony . . . or raising the legendary Jerami ire.

Nya had her own anxiety to deal with, though, and Mariha’s was fraying her already taut nerves. “I believe I’ll go lie down.”

It was ridiculous for a plane to have a bedroom, but her body felt heavy with dread, her back was strained from packing up her apartment, and her heart ached at the weight of all her worries. She felt . . . odd, and a voice that sounded like her father whispered, You are not well, my child. You are frail, like your mother. This is why you must stay home.

She stood, eager to escape Mariha’s nervous attention and the sudden reminder that her body had betrayed her in the past and could do so again.

No. That won’t happen now. You’re free.

“Lie down?” Mariha tilted her head and drew it back. “Are you quite sure you want to do that?”

There was censure in her tone. In Thesolo, everyone thought Nya couldn’t make the simplest decision.

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?” Nya asked. “I said I was going to lie down, not parachute from the plane.”

Mariha opened her mouth, closed it, then raised a hand awkwardly. “Of course. But—”

Nya held up her own hand. “I’m going to the bedroom. Do not disturb me until we are ready to land. Please.”

Mariha’s confused expression relaxed into raised brows and . . . what was that grin about?