The gossamer wings.

The moment I manifest them onto my back, I feel silly.

Silly and embarrassed and, well, a tiny bit mortified.

There’s no way I can face my guests like this. They won’t understand. They’ll take it the wrong way. Think that I think I’m so special I’ve actually descended from angels in order to walk among them. When nothing could be further from the truth.

I press my lips together, about to close my eyes and make them disappear, when I remember that I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for Damen. Well, for Damen and me.

The night he painted my portrait in the Getty Museum he claimed they were there—claimed he alone could see them. Claimed that just because I couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t real. And while I’m sure no one will understand what I’m up to, all that matters is that Damen does. That the sight of my costume will help to convince him of what we must do.

I just hope that he still sees me this way.

I just hope that I’m not trying to reclaim something that no longer exists.

I fool with my hair, unused to seeing myself as a redhead other than when I’m in the pavilion as Fleur, but liking the change in this life as well. Then running my hands over my long, filmy gown, I take one final look and head out the door before I lose all my nerve.

The full effects of what Sabine and Munoz and their talented team of decorators envisioned, now realized. Making me feel as though I’m drifting into a magical, mystical world, taking a trip back in time, noting how each room differs from the next, and yet all of it’s themed to the very last detail.

The kitchen is ancient Greece, the den is the Italian Renaissance, the powder room the Middle Ages (except the sink and toilet both work!), the dining room the Dark Ages, the living room harks back to Victorian times, while the backyard is pure 1960’s—and as the house begins to fill with lots and lots of costumed people, I’m pretty amazed by what a fun idea it turned out to be.

So far, the party just started and yet all the usual past-life favorites are already present and accounted for. Cleopatra is mingling not just with Marc Antony, but also with Marie Antoinette, and Joan of Arc, and Janis Joplin, and Alexander the Great, and Napoleon, and Einstein, along with some guy in a robe with a long wispy mustache and beard who I think is meant to be Confucius, and someone with a long gray beard who keeps shouting out prophecies who I think is meant to be Nostradamus, and I can’t help but think how funny it is how everyone always assumes they were someone famous. No one ever imagines themselves as having been a chambermaid or a slave like I was.

Miles finds me first, walking hand in hand with Holt. And before I can even ask, he points to himself and says, “Leonardo da Vinci.

Gorgeous, gifted, and totally and completely genius—makes perfect sense, right?”

I nod in agreement, narrowing my gaze on Holt, taking in his shock of silver hair and severe black turtleneck, and saying, “Okay, you’re either Andy Warhol or Albert Einstein—”

But before he can answer, Stacia appears as Marilyn Monroe (big surprise), alongside Honor, who’s dressed as Pocahontas (which really is a big surprise).

“Wow, great costumes.” I nod at each of them.

Stacia runs her hands over her white halter dress, as Honor swings her long black braids and says, “Okay, I wasn’t exactly Pocahontas, but I did see a life as a Native American.”

I squint, wondering if that means she made it to Summerland.

But she’s quick to correct it when she says, “Romy and Rayne hypnotized me.”

My gaze narrows further. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“You know, they did a past-life regression on me. They’re pretty good; we’re talking about offering them at the store, with Ava’s help of course.”

“Wow.” I squint. “I had no idea.” And I can’t help but feel a little bit bummed about all that I missed, how easily they moved on without me. Then I shake my head, clear the thought from my mind and look right at Miles, and say, “So, did you get hypnotized too? Does this mean you really were Leonardo da Vinci?”

But just as he’s about to answer, Jude, who came as the artist otherwise known (well, otherwise known to me anyway) as Bastiaan de Kool, stops right before me. Taking his time taking me in as he tries to make sense of my costume. Studying me for so long I can’t help but squirm. Can’t help but feel nervous and uncomfortable enough to sneak a quick peek at Honor, knowing she won’t be thrilled with all this attention.

“I get it,” he says, eyes still narrowed. “You’ve taken a piece from each of them.” He shakes his head in wonder, his gaze traveling over me again when he adds, “What a great idea. Wish I’d thought of it.”

“Wish I’d thought of it too.” I glance across the room, waving at Sabine and Munoz, who are dressed as a Viking princess and William Shakespeare respectively, then back to Jude when I add, “It was Damen’s idea.”

“Is he here?” Stacia asks, her cheeks flushing crimson when she realizes how I might take that, how after all that we’ve been through I could easily misinterpret her interest. “I mean, not that I care.” She pauses, realizes that might’ve sounded even worse, and hastily adds, “I mean, I care—I just don’t care in the way that you, um, think that I care.”

I place my hand on her arm, wanting to comfort, tell her it’s okay, only to be overcome by a rush of energy so strong I feel like I’m caught in the eye of her own personal tornado. And though I’m quick to pull away, it’s not long before I realize it wasn’t all bad. If anything, I got an inside peek at just how far she’s come, and how she sincerely meant what she said.