That was Sophie. She found magic in ordinary things. A hotel was a palace. A bakery was a kingdom. A string of patio lights meant fairies had passed through the night.
I crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed. “You have a big day, flower girl.”
Her eyes widened instantly. “Do I get to wear the sparkly shoes?”
“Yes.”
“The pink lip gloss?”
“A tiny bit.”
“Can I twirl?”
“That seems medically unavoidable.”
She giggled and launched herself into my arms, and for one brief moment, the knot in my chest loosened.
I had almost not come.
Three months earlier, when Vanessa called to inform me—not ask me, inform me—that Sophie had been chosen as her flower girl, I nearly said no on the spot. Vanessa and I had never been close, at least not in the way sisters in movies are close. There were no shared secrets, no late-night talks, no built-in friendship. There was only history. Vanessa was three years younger than me, and from the time she could walk, she had somehow figured out that charm was a currency and cruelty was easiest to exercise when disguised as confidence.
By the time we were teenagers, she had perfected it.
Our mother called her “spirited.”
Our father called her “strong-minded.”
