A series of coincidences, paired with events cleverly disguised as coincidences by a girl who used to wear a riding hood, lead to the introduction of a best friend in Charming's life. This is new for him, the closest friend he's ever had being Seven, who is dead, and whom he abused for years prior.

There's Snow, of course, but he doesn't think she can be categorised as a best friend, even if after she was elected they would go out for coffee and invite each other over and stay up too late talking. In the friendship sense, obviously. It was a pleasant period in his life, the trust between them slowly building, and he discovered that while they were apart she had developed a secret passion for violent video games and caramel popcorn. But after a while she stopped returning his calls. She claimed she was too busy. He believed her, for a time.

He wonders if he might have had a best friend before Bunny wrote his brother out of the story and put him in it.

He often wonders about what might have been if Bunny never wrote his brother out of the story, and put him in it.

Flashes come to him sometimes. Or at least he thinks they do. Snow (battered and bruised), sitting quietly for dinner (flinching whenever Atticus moves). Maybe it's just his imagination. (She is so white and so clean against her own blood on the floor.) Maybe it's just nightmares.

Life could have worked out better if they'd never found out. At first he thought it didn't change anything—his rewritten memories felt real, and for years he'd lived as if they were real, and his existence as it was remained the same, with the consequences played out just like they would if his past was what everyone believed it to be. Isn't that all life is? What people believe it to be? But then he saw the horror in Snow's face and the strain that piled up on her shoulders in heavy, invisible loads, and realised that in her stepmother's well-intentioned convolution, they cheated fate. So many times, their story was twisted, but the ending was always the same—except for this one. This one reality in which Snow White's heart still beats. Perhaps the world wants her dead, and Atticus alive, and him a nobody; perhaps the cosmos are so intently wired in that way, and they have found the one and only loophole. They exist in the parallel universe that shouldn't be. And so what should be? What are their lives supposed to look like?

They can't even answer. They don't even know. So much of their muddled history is nothing but lies and cover-ups painted on a canvas of well-meaning deceit.

"It doesn't matter," said Bunny, when he dared to ask. "According to the story, it never happened."

"Then is this really happening?" he questioned faintly.

"Of course it is," she said, but that was little guarantee.

He might have had a best friend. He doesn't know.

The first coincidence is just that—a coincidence, one of those inexplicable happenstances where the balance of the world seems to be tipped just a little in his favour. He's on business in New York City, at a conference, breaking for lunch with a bagel near Central Park; the sun beams and the city is, as always, abuzz with people and conversations and dramatic occurrences that go unseen in the midst of the crowd.

Much like this one.

The strains of the jingle can barely be heard in this traffic, but when it comes to ice cream trucks, children have bionic hearing, and a boy of about four—with the brightest red hair Charming's ever seen—speeds by shrieking before he can even figure out what the kid is going after.

"Bas!" yells the dark-haired girl running after him. She's going as fast as she can but it's not nearly fast enough. "Bas, we don't even have any money! Aw, Basil, come on..."

And that's when Charming realises that he's seen hair that red before.

"Basil?" he exclaims. "Daphne?"

The boy keeps running. The girl spins around, searching for the source of her name until her eyes fall on him.

"Charming?" she says in disbelief. It's been years since they've seen each other, his vacations always coinciding with the Grimms' summer trips to Ferryport Landing. But upon confirming it's the prince she once adored, Daphne leans forward and hugs him with that same warm affection that defined her when she was younger—and to him, it feels just as foreign as it did then. "I missed you," she smiles as she pulls back. "And I might have to miss you for just a little bit longer, because someone—"

"DAAAAAPHNEEEE!" shouts Basil. One hand clings to the open window of the now halted ice cream truck and the other waves for his sister. "Come here now!"

"Bas, I'm broke!" she responds helplessly, turning her pockets inside out for proof.

"I've got it," says Charming, in a surge of—what is it, kindness?—selflessness?—he doesn't even know the word—that he's still so unused to, even after all these years, even after Snow. He stands up, finishes off his bagel, and pays for the cone Basil is eyeing, then motions for Daphne to come over. "What would you like?"

"Really?" Daphne says. "I want to say you don't have to, that's what Mom would tell me, but I really want ice cream and you're way richer than I am. Orange Creamsicle, please."

Charming wrinkles his nose ever so slightly as the vendor hands it over. His respect for the Grimms won't allow him to do anything more, but Daphne notices anyway.

"Are you judging me, Billy?" says Daphne as she unwraps it, laughter a glint in her eyes.

The three of them walk back to the bench and sit down in order of decreasing height before he answers, "Yes."

"So you're not a fan of the Creamsicle. Why?"

Charming, who has apparently never had to explain this particular revulsion, gestures toward the ice cream helplessly. "It's just—I mean—it's like you're cheating."

She bites off the top of the treat and stares at him, uncomprehending. "What?"

"Well, if you're going to have ice cream, then have ice cream," he explains. He talks with his hands, just a little bit, like he's been trained not to and is fighting against it. "And if you're going to have a popsicle, do that. But don't have both. Don't disgrace your ice candy by stuffing it with dairy. Don't slather your ice cream in some artificially-flavoured orange-dyed high fructose corn syrupy concoction. It's unethical."

She licks her Creamsicle and studies him with deepening interest.

"And they look really gross," Charming adds, for argumentative benefit.

"S'okay, Mr. Prince, I don't like creamsi-popsi-sicles either," says Basil, who has been eating his ice cream in silent satisfaction and is by this point thoroughly covered in chocolate.

Daphne gives her sugar-coated brother a once-over and sighs before turning back to Charming. "Unethical? All the words in the world and you choose that one to talk about a Creamsicle?"

"It was a perfectly good descriptor," he sniffs. "But how does Basil Jr. here know who I am? Unless he was a particularly astute toddler, I doubt he'd recognise me without some sort of—has your sister been throwing darts at my picture again?"

The thought sends Daphne into a fit of giggles and Charming finds himself smiling at the sound. "She used to think about it plenty, but I think she's over you. No, turns out my mom hid a couple of old photo albums at home. You're in there a bit. Bas thought you looked like a superhero."

"Like Superman," Basil nods solemnly. Ice cream is dripping all over his fingers; Daphne pulls out a tissue from her pocket and wipes them clean only for him to stain them again a second later. "But they said you were a prince. Can you fly, Mr. Prince?"

Charming blinks. "Er, no."

"That's too bad," says the boy, casting him a pitied glance.

"I... suppose so?'

"S'pose so," Bas repeats. He's on his way to finishing the cone, now, but Daphne takes it from his sticky hands before he has the time to register and yank it back.

"That's enough sugar for today. It's Dad's turn to put you to bed and he'll kill me if you're bouncing off the walls."

Charming chuckles. "Henry doing all right?"

"Not really," says Daphne.

"Oh."

"It's for a good reason, though."

"There's a good reason for your father not being all right?" He pauses. "Actually, that does sound like him. What's the reason?"

She slides the rest of the Creamsicle off its stick. "I can't tell you," she says, past a mouth full of orange icy mush. Charming makes a face.

"After subjecting me to that sight, I think you owe me."

She swallows and grins. "Fine. We're moving back to Ferryport Landing."

"Really?"

"Shh! Don't tell anyone. Not even Snow. Especially not Snow. It's supposed to be a surprise."

He knows why she's saying it, but he has to ask anyway to make sure she doesn't return to Ferryport Landing and become the town matchmaker. "Why would I tell Snow?"

She frowns. "You're not married yet?"

"We're not even dating!"

"That's too bad." She pouts in the same way Basil did a few minutes earlier. "Well, if you do tell her, you didn't hear it from me."

"Fine, fine."

"So what about you? How're you doing, how's the town?"

"I'm good. It's good. Growing. Snow's doing a good job taking care of the place, the school, expanding the borders... probably doing better than I would have. I'm glad she won the election."

"Yeah, Red's told me about it. She says school's great. What are you doing down in the city?"

"Not much, really, I'm just here for the weekend on busine—oh, damn!" he says, shooting up from the bench. "The conference! I have a seminar to attend in..." He groans. "Ten minutes ago. I'm sorry, Daphne, I've got to run. Tell Sabrina and your parents I said hello."

"Thanks for the ice cream!" she calls after him.

The last thing he hears before he is lost away in the rush of the New York multitude is Daphne telling Basil, "Mr. Prince said a bad word. But it's okay. He's really a nice guy."