*The church doors swing open with a soft creak, and Mikayla’s heart slams against her ribs so hard she’s sure the whole nave can hear it. Her father’s hand is steady under her elbow, but her knees feel like they’re made of wet yarn. The aisle stretches forever, a tunnel of smiling faces and stained-glass colors that blur into watercolor streaks. She keeps her eyes fixed on the scuffed toes of her borrowed ivory flats—no heels, she’d tripped in them during rehearsal—because if she looks up she mi...