I peer at Damen, the question posed in my eyes, seeing him smile in answer as he helps me to stand. Leading me toward the screen so quickly I can’t help but stop, convinced my nose is going to smack right into it, when he leans toward me and whispers, “Believe.”

So I do.

I take that big leap of faith and keep going, right into the hard crystal screen that instantly softens and yields and welcomes us in. And not just as oddly dressed extras, but in period-appropriate attire, the two of us cast in the leading roles.

I gaze down at my hands, surprised to find them so rough and calloused though immediately recognizing them from my Parisian life, when I was Evaline, a lowly servant facing a life of mind-numbing manual labor until Damen came along.

I run them over the front of my dress, noting the itch of the fabric, the modest, severe cut resulting in a fit that’s not the least bit flattering. But still, it’s clean and well pressed, so I try to take a small bit of pride in that. And even though my blond hair is braided and twisted and scraped off my face, an unruly tendril or two still manage to find their escape.

The vendor snaps at me in French, and even though I’m aware I’m only playing a part, that this isn’t the language I speak, somehow I’m able to not just understand but also to reply. Recognizing me as one of his most discerning customers, he hands me a ripe, red tomato he claims as his best, watching as I turn it over and over in the palm of my hand, inspecting its color, its firmness of touch, nodding my consent and juggling for the change in my pouch when someone bumps against me so abruptly, the fruit slips from my grip and falls to the ground.

I gaze at my feet, heart sinking when I see the clumpy, red, splattered mess. Knowing it’ll come at great cost to me, that the kitchen staff will never agree to cover it, I spin on my heel, a word of reproach pressing forth from my lips, when I see that it’s him.

He of the dark glossy hair, deep glinting gaze, gorgeously tailored clothes, and the finest carriage to ever grace these parts aside from the queen’s. The one they call Damen—Damen Auguste. The one I seem to run into an awful lot these days.

I lift my skirts and kneel toward the ground, hoping to salvage whatever I can and not getting very far before I’m stopped by his hand on my arm, a touch that sends a swarm of tingle and heat right through to my bones.

“Pardon,” he murmurs, bowing before me and seeing that the vendor is reimbursed for the loss.

And even though I’m intrigued, even though my heart’s beating wildly, hammering hard against my chest, even though that odd sense of tingle and heat persistently lingers, I turn away, and move on. Sure that he’s just playing with me, painfully aware that he’s well out of my league. Only to have him catch up to me and say, “Evaline—stop!”

I turn, my eyes meeting his, knowing we’ll continue this cat and mouse game, if for nothing else but propriety’s sake. But also knowing that eventually, if he keeps it up, if he doesn’t grow bored or lose interest, I’ll gladly surrender, of that there’s no doubt.

He smiles, placing his hand on my arm as he thinks: This is how we started—and this is how we continued for some time. Shall we fast-forward to the good parts?

I nod, and the next thing I know, I’m standing before a great, gilded mirror, gazing at the image reflected before me. Noting how my plain ugly dress has been swapped for one of a fabric so rich, so soft and silky, it practically glides right over my body. Its low neckline the perfect showcase for my pale décolletage and generous smattering of jewels so shiny and brilliant, I hardly see anything else.

He stands behind me, catching my eye as he smiles his approval, and I can’t help but wonder how I got here, how a poor, orphaned servant like me ended up in a place so grand, with a man so gorgeous, so—magical—he’s almost too good to be true.

He offers his hand and leads me to an extravagantly dressed table for two. The sort of table I’m more used to servicing than sitting at. But now, with Damen at my side, and his servants dismissed for the night, I watch as he raises a finely cut crystal carafe so slowly, so tentatively, with a hand gone so suddenly shaky it’s clear there’s an internal battle waging within him.

He meets my gaze, his face a conflicted maze. Frowning slightly as he places the carafe back on the table and chooses the bottle of red wine instead.

I gasp, my eyes wide, lips parted, though no words will come—the full realization of this one simple act suddenly dawning on me. You almost did it! You came so close. Why did you stop? Knowing that if he’d gone through with it, served me the elixir right from the start—everything would’ve been different.

Every. Single. Thing.

Drina never could’ve killed me—Roman never could’ve tricked me—and Damen and I would’ve lived happily ever after and after and after—pretty much the opposite of the way we live now.

His eyes search mine, gaze probing and deep, shaking his head as he thinks: I was so unsure—didn’t know how you’d accept it—if you’d accept it—didn’t think it was my place to force it on you. But that’s not why I brought you here, my only intent was to show you that your Parisian life, hard as it was, wasn’t all misery. We had our share of magical moments—moments like this—and we would’ve had more—if it weren’t for—

He leaves that part hanging. We both know where it ends. But before I can even raise my glass to his, the dinner is over, and he’s walking me home. Leading me around to the back, stopping just shy of the servants’ entrance, where he encircles his arms around my waist and pulls me close, kissing me so passionately, so deeply, I never want it to end. The feel of his lips upon mine so soft and insistent, so warm and inviting, stirring something down deep—something so familiar—something so—real—