Lauren Fairrose stopped beneath the twisted tree and pulled the torn paper from a low branch. The faded ink was Prince Jeffery's hand. It was a love note to Rosalind, lost to the wind before it ever reached her. Lauren read it twice. Rosalind never knew. That meant the prince's heart was still in play, and Lauren meant to take it. She dragged a ladder across the grass to the tall wooden tower where the prince kept his candles and his framed picture of Rosalind. Her arms shook. The ladder was too heavy. She could not climb. So she did the next thing. She softened her voice until it matched the voice he loved, and she called up to him. She asked him to meet her by the waterfall near the stone castle on the hill. Prince Jeffery came to the window. He did not see her. He only heard the voice. "I will come," he said. Short. Certain. He did not know it was Lauren below. Frocklin the cold stood behind a hedge, listening. Her mouth curled. She filed every word away like a coin in a purse. Lauren waited at the edge of the path, the letter still warm in her hand. She heard his boots on the stair. She opened her mouth to call again, to say her own name, to claim the moment. Then she hesitated. What if he turned and left the second he saw her face? What if the voice was all she had? The pause stretched. His boots passed the turn in the path and faded toward the falls, expecting Rosalind. Lauren stood alone under the gnarled branches. The torn letter slipped from her fingers and caught again on the bark, exactly where she had found it. She walked the long way back to the vine-covered cabin at court and shut the door. The chance was gone, and Frocklin had heard every word.

By morning, a small painted portrait moved hand to hand at court. Two girls smiled out of it, crowned in flowers — Rosalind and Lauren, side by side. Courtiers whispered behind it. They said a voice had called the prince to the falls. They said the face never came. Lauren saw the picture pass and felt her stomach drop. If the whisper reached Prince Jeffery, she was done. Prince Jeffery heard it at the base of the great redwood tower. A page held the little portrait up to him. He looked. He looked again. He spoke plain. "That is Rosalind. And that is not Rosalind." The other girl's face stuck in his mind. The voice at the falls had sounded close to Rosalind, but not the same. Rosalind loved Prince Shelldon Maritime. He knew that. So the voice had been someone else. Someone in this picture, maybe. He walked the path himself. The carved wooden sign pointed the way through the leaves. He stood by the water and waited. No one came. Only Frocklin the cold stepped from the trees. She said a woman had been playing tricks. She said the voice was a cruel joke. Prince Jeffery did not argue. He only asked one thing. "The other girl in the portrait. Where is she?" Frocklin smiled small. She pointed past the trees. "The cabin with the stone fireplace," she said. "The one wrapped in vines." Lauren sat by her fire when the knock came. She opened the door and saw him there. His eyes were steady. He held the little portrait in his hand. "I came to speak with you," he said. Not Rosalind. Her. She stepped back to let him in. The rumor had not unmasked her. It had delivered him.

Prince Jeffery walked the flower-edged stones to her door. A tall lantern glowed beside the step, soft as held breath. He saw the small statue then — two girls, hands joined, Rosalind and Lauren. His chest tightened. A relative, he thought. A relative tricked me here. He knocked. Lauren opened the door. Behind her, plain on the wall, hung the bright painted portrait of the two of them, flower-crowned and smiling. "Jeffery," she said. Her face was stern. "Why. Why would you." She stopped. Her eyes dropped to the floor. "I wanted to speak with you," she said quietly. "I got scared. I know Rosalind is the one you wanted. I will go home ashamed." He looked at her face. He listened to her voice. He had not truly spoken with Rosalind. Not once. He had only watched. And the one he had watched, he understood now, had been her. He stumbled on the words. "It's — it's alright. You're beautiful." Then nothing. He stood frozen. "Alright," Lauren said. "I hope you forgive me." She closed the door soft between them. The portrait stayed on the wall behind her. The prince stayed on the step. Something had turned, and neither of them could turn it back.