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My gaze bleary, I shift my focus to the crowd of onlookers, their expressions a mix of derision and pity.Great. Just. Fucking. Splendid.

“Can you get up?” Elodie asks. “Do you need help?”

I shake my head, attempting to stand only to be met by a sharp jolt of pain as a glass shard embeds itself in my palm.

Fuck.I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. I mean, seriously, I’m on the floor, covered in sticky pink cocktail, with blood oozing from my palm—could this get any worse?

“C’mon.” Elodie grabs hold of my arm, hauls me back to my feet, and presses a cocktail napkin to the small wound, trying to sop up the mess.

It’s only then that I notice just how badly my hands are shaking.

“I’m okay,” I say, quickly pulling away. “I’m fine. Really,” I insist, all too aware that I’m anything but.

My body is trembling.

My ears are vibrating with the erratic rush of my pulse, as the furious beat of my heart threatens to jackhammer a hole through my ribs.

And when my lungs freeze up, depriving me of breath, I instinctively squeeze my eyes shut, desperately hoping to fend off a full-blown panic attack, even though all the signs tell me I’m already there.

Oh no. Oh please, not here. Not now. This can’t be happening.

Oh, but it is. Despite my resistance, I’m spiraling so fast there’s no way to slam the brakes on this thing.

“Nat?” Elodie says. “Just hang on, okay? I’m going to get us out of here.”

“Yeah, okay,” I manage to mumble. But beneath the surface, all I can hear is the relentless chant:I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I’m not…

My body bumps against hers as she slips an arm around my waist, guiding me through the crowded space. “Would you look at that,” I hear her say, though her words are distant, like echoes from a faraway place. “We finally Trip to a time with flushing toilets, only to find the line for the bathroom so long, I miss the days of chamber pots.”

When she laughs, the sound is bright and melodic. And though I appreciate the gesture, knowing she’s only trying to lighten the moment, I’m afraid any attempt to join in will only further set this thing off.

This has nothing to do with your dad or this Trip, I remind myself as I shuffle along.This is about the duke and what happened in Versailles. But you survived. No, even better, you thrived. And the duke is stuck in a long-ago past you will never revisit. You are safe. You are strong. You can—

“Nat—” Elodie’s hand rubs a soothing circle over my back. “Try to breathe. Nice and easy, can you do that?”

I nod, struggling to fill my lungs with air and holding it for a moment before letting it out. After the fourth round, I’m starting to feel almost centered again.

“I’m—I’ll be okay,” I say, keeping my head bowed, so Elodie can’t see the way my cheeks burn with shame. “I just need a minute,” I lie, well aware that it’ll take a lot more than that. Ever since my encounter with the duke, panic attacks have become a semi-regular occurrence, whenever I feel threatened, confined, overwhelmed, or unsafe.

“Take your time,” Elodie says. “There’s no rush.”

When my breath finally returns to a more regular rhythm, I lift my chin, tuck my hair behind my ears, and take a sweeping look around this new space. Surprisingly, Elodie hasn’t led me back onto the busy street like I initially thought. Instead, we’re on a small patio tucked away from the chaos of the crowded bar.

“Thanks,” I say, tentatively meeting her gaze. “It’s just, sometimes I—”

“No need to explain.” Elodie holds up a hand, stopping my words. “I recognize the signs. And just so you know, you’re hardly alone. I don’t know a single Blue who hasn’t experienced a dicey situation that continues to haunt them from time to time. Believe me, I’ve had my share.”

I stare at her in astonishment. Elodie isn’t usually one for showing weakness or sharing stories that place her in a less-than-confident light. “But you’re always so sure of yourself. Always in full control of every room you walk into.”

“Well…clearly noteveryroom.” Her shoulders lift in a nonchalant shrug, but she offers no more. And though my curiosity is piqued, I know better than to push.

A moment of silence wedges between us, with Elodie gazing down at her chunky black boots, as though weighing just how much to reveal.

“There’s a reason we Blues call it Tripping,” she finally says, her bright blue gaze fixing on mine. “Because it can truly mess with your head.”

“So how’d you get past it?” I ask, eager for any tips she might offer.

“Time.” She nervously scratches her arm. “And lots of visits to Dr. Lucy.”