✫✫✫

               RORY WAS GOING TO DIE, AND her father would be right.

              "Oh, shit!" Snow skidded past her. Fast—she was going too fast. 

               One of these days . . .

                The slope of the Alpacian hill was too steep. Too sharp. The edge of her snowboard veered dangerously sideways, but the motion was unstable, unsteady—

                You're going to break your neck. 

                Her father's voice. Chiding her.

                Rory could feel the blood roaring in her ears, the heat of her sparking veins.

                Fire—there was fire inside of her, pure fire, against the snow around her.

                It wouldn't have taken Albert Einstein's wife to figure out this had been incredibly, monumentally, catastrophically stupid.

                She had loved snowboarding since she was eleven.

                Why—why—had the universe decided that now was the time for this?

                One of these days, you're going to break your neck.

                In the second before she hit the tree, Rory's life flashed in front of her eyes.

                Growing up with Declan. Boarding school in Switzerland. Partying in Spain. Kissing Paris.

                Paris.

                Paris, with her burnished-gold curls. 

                Paris, with her soft, sweet mouth—the flavour of ground cinnamon and sugar.

                Paris, who had whispered, I kind of, sort of, maybe love you. 

                Paris, who now hated her.

                Don't think of her.

                Rory lost control of the snowboard altogether.

                Christmas was in six weeks. The Charity Ball was in seven days. And her birthday—her birthday was on New Year's Eve. She would turn twenty-three. She would finally be older than Declan had been when he died.

                 Maybe her father had been right.

                 Maybe this had been bound to happen.

                 The snow roared all around her, an eruption of brilliant, glittering white. Each groove on the tree became sharper, clearer—and in the instant, the heartbeat after she crashed, there was a sound.

                 A voice. Declan's voice.

                You've done it this time. 

                And that terrified her—more than the way she slammed forward.

               More than the rush, the dizzying sensation, of flying.

               Even more than the sickening twist of her leg against the bark.

               It terrified her, and she hated it. Maybe it should have been a revelation. Maybe she should have had a profound discovery, or a divine realization, or a miraculous vision of an angel, telling her to get her life in order and shape the fuck up. 

              None of that happened.

              She didn't even have time to scream before her head hit the snow and everything went white.

✫✫✫

              "YOU'VE DONE IT NOW," SIMON SAID. "YOU'VE really, truly outdone yourself."

              "I always do," Rory said.

              She had no idea where she was. A hospital bed. An IV digging into her wrist. A bracelet with her name. Lana Stevens. No—that wasn't her name.

              Outside, she could hear something.

              What was that? The faintest sound of . . . screaming? 

             "Do you understand how furious the king is going to be?" Simon hissed.

             Rory thought of her father. His stern, severe face. The grey that had peppered his trim beard since Declan's death.

            She shrugged. "Not my problem."

            Now, how to get this damn IV out?

           Rory's fingers tightened over the clear tube as Simon said, "Do you even know what's wrong with you?"

           Everything hurts. 

           Rory shrugged again—and yanked out the IV, gasping at the shock of pain that raced up her wrist. She slipped the thin blankets off her, deliberately ignoring Simon's glare. 

          "You," she panted, "just wait and see. I'm going to get out of here."

          Simon only crossed his arms, his brown skin glowing under the hospital's fluorescent lights. Was that . . . smugness? 

          With another puff, Rory said, "I don't care what my father says. I'm going to—"

          It took her all of two seconds to roll out of bed.

          It took her less than that to collapse.

          And the pain—the burning, searing, crackling pain.

          It was coming from everywhere, but she could feel it most in her leg. Her leg. And her stomach turned as she remembered: the angle of her knee as she collided. The snap of bone against the tree.

          She was going to throw up. She was going to faint.

          She was going to—

          The screaming erupted. And she could hear it now for what it was: cheering. Shouting. Excitement. Flashing lights and the rapid-fire click of several cameras at once.

          Paparazzi. The paparazzi were outside.

          Rory looked up, at the nurse who had just entered the room. With a soft click, she shut the door behind her, and the noise faded.

          "Sorry about that," the nurse said. Her gaze landed on the empty bed. Then back down to Rory, who was on the floor, breathing too hard. Too fast. 

          Ten minutes later, with more humiliation than the princess of Valeria should have to bear, Rory was sitting in a wheelchair.

          "Remind me again," she huffed. "Why are the paparazzi outside?"

          "Because Princess Rory just had a snowboarding accident," Simon said.

          "And the sight of my pain amuses them?"

          "The sight of you doing anything amuses them. Besides, an accident is spectacular. An accident is first-page news. Consider yourself the star."

          Rory grimaced. "Nurse?" she asked, in the moment before the door opened.

          The nurse paused.

          "Do you have treatment centers for sadists?"

           The nurse only turned away, a faint smile on her mouth, and the door opened.

✫✫✫

            "PRINCESS, WHAT WAS YOUR REASON FOR SNOWBOARDING down the Alpacian Hill?"

             "How did you injure yourself? We hear there was news of an avalanche—"

             "Did you have an orgy in the hot tub of the ski lodge with Cara Delevigne and Ashley Benson?" 

             "Was there any reason you went down the most dangerous slope on the Alpacian Hill?"

             "Has your father, the king, said anything about—"

             "Were you trying to follow in Declan's footsteps?"

             Simon paused, for a fraction of a second, and it was all Rory needed to know: He had heard it, too.

             The car was only a few feet away.

             The turmoil of the paparazzi was almost over. They were almost free. From behind her, the nurse didn't stop rolling the wheelchair.

             Were you trying to follow in Declan's footsteps? 

             Rory dug her heels into the ground. The wheelchair jerked to a stop.

             "What did you just say?" 

             Her eyes narrowed onto the tall white man with a brown beard and circular glasses. He shoved past the crowd once he realized who she had focused on—shouldering his way to the front. An arm's length away.

             "Were you trying to follow in Declan's footsteps?" he repeated.

             Her voice shaking, Rory said, "Don't ever let Declan's name leave your mouth."

             Faster than he could react, her fingers snagged the leather straps of his camera. An expensive one. And before he could protest, she crushed it beneath the foot of her good leg.

             "You can't—"

             "How's that for following in his footsteps?"

             Then the nurse was rolling her way, the car door was opening, and Rory was being moved onto the leather seats of the limousine.

             "What?" she growled at Simon, who was giving her a dark look.

             Not that she wanted him to, but . . . why wasn't he giving her shit for this?

             "I'm glad you're in a bad mood already," he said. "Because it's about to get worse."

             "How could my day possibly get any worse?" 

             "You need six weeks of recovery. No partying, no drinking, no public appearances."

             "Six weeks?" 

              "We've decided to put you in a remote location."

               A remote . . . no, it wasn't possible.

               He wasn't saying what she thought he was, was he?

               The hospital where Paris worked—what was it called?

               "Mount Sinai General," Simon said. "Until you recover, you'll be staying in Vancouver, B.C. with . . ."

               The blood was already draining from her face.

               Rory whispered, "Paris Young."

✫✫✫

Are you guys ready for them to meet? Because I'm not.

Is it bad that I have secondhand embarrassment and I'm the one writing this?

From the moon and back,
Sarai