The second we land, the two of us toppling side by side on the grass, I feel better. Like a million, trillion, gazillion times better. Jumping to my feet and skipping through the field, freed from that horrible trespassing energy—that strange foreign pulse and the thoughts of Roman it brings. All of it reduced to nothing more than a vague and distant memory, as the buoyant grass springs under my feet, and the perfumed flowers shiver beneath the tips of my fingers. Glancing over my shoulder, beckoning for Damen to join me, as a genuine grin lights up my face for the first time in days.
I am regenerated, renewed, able to begin all over again.
He comes toward me, stopping just shy of my reach as he closes his eyes and instantly transforms the vast fragrant fields of Summerland into an exact replica of the Château de Versailles. Placing us in the middle of a hall so grand and opulent it takes my breath away.
The floors are made of the smoothest polished parquet, while the cream-colored walls gleam with a liberal use of gold leaf. And the ceilings—those insanely high, elaborately frescoed ceilings—are punctuated b
y a succession of glistening chandeliers, their finely cut crystals shining and glinting from the flames of burning candles, filling the room with a kaleidoscope of soft, glowing light. And just when I think it can’t possibly get any better, the majestic sounds of a symphony begin and Damen bows before me and offers his hand.
I lower my gaze, bending into a brisk curtsey, taking the opportunity to glance down at my dress—its bodice tight and low, spilling into soft loose folds of the shiniest blue silk that swirls all the way to the floor. Lifting my gaze to find him retrieving a slim velvet box from his coat, and gasping in excitement when he opens it to reveal an exquisite sapphire-and-diamond-encrusted necklace he clasps around my neck.
I turn, glancing into the long line of mirrors that punctuate each side of the hall, gazing upon the two of us together, he in his breeches, blazer, and boots, me in my opulent finery, hair twisted and curled into the world’s most complicated updo—and I know exactly what he’s doing—exactly what he’s up to—he’s giving me the happily ever after Drina stole from me.
I gaze around the ballroom in awe, hardly believing I could’ve had this, could’ve been part of this world—his world. If my Cinderella ending hadn’t been ripped right out from under me, robbing me of my chance to even try the glass slipper.
If I’d only been allowed to live, he would’ve given me the elixir and instantly transformed me from the lowly French servant named Evaline into this—this radiant being staring back from the mirror. And a hundred and some-odd years later, we could’ve danced here together, shared this beautiful night, dressed in our finest and glinting with jewels, right alongside Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI.
But that didn’t happen. Instead, Drina killed me, forcing Damen and me to continue our search for each other, again and again.
I gaze at him, blinking back the tears as I place my hand on his shoulder and he cups his arm snugly around my waist, twirling me across the dance floor, our feet moving expertly, my skirts swirling in a dizzying haze of blue. So overcome by the beauty he’s created, replicated just for me, I press tightly against him, lips at his ear when I ask if there are any more rooms to see.
And before I know it, I’m whisked down a confusing maze of halls, to the finest, grandest bedroom I’ve ever seen.
“Now, granted”—he smiles, pausing in the doorway as I try not to gawk as I take it all in—“this isn’t the Royal Bed Chamber—Marie Antoinette and I were never that close. Though this is an exact replica of the room that I stayed in on my numerous visits—so tell me, what do you think?”
I make my way across the large woven rug, taking in the silk-covered chairs, the abundance of candles, the liberal use of crystal and gold, making a running leap onto the plush, richly draped, canopied bed and patting the space just beside me as though I don’t have a care in the world.
Because I don’t.
I’m in Summerland now.
Roman can’t reach me.
“So, what do you think?” He leans over me, gaze sweeping my face.
I reach up, fingers tracing his high cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, when I say, “What do I think?” I shake my head and laugh, the sound light, joyous, the way it used to be. “I think you’re the most amazing boyfriend in the whole entire world. No, I take that back—”
He looks at me, feigned apprehension in his gaze.
“I think you’re the most amazing boyfriend on the planet—in the universe!” I smile. “Seriously, who else gets a date like this?”
“Are you sure you like it?” he asks, real concern moving in.
I lift my arms, encircling them around his neck as I pull him down to me. Aware of the energy veil that hovers between his lips and mine—allowing for what I’m starting to think of as our now-standard, almost kiss. But still happy to take what I can get.
“These were such heady times,” he says, pulling away and propping his head on his hand to better see me. “I just wanted you to experience it, get a taste for what it was like, what I was like. I’m so sorry you missed it, Ever, we would’ve had such fun. You would’ve been the belle of the ball—the most beautiful one”—he squints—“no—on second thought, Marie might not have liked that.” He shakes his head and laughs.
“Why?” My fingers play at the ruffles covering the front of his shirt, sneaking their way between the buttons to the expanse of warm chest beneath. “Did she have designs on you—as they say? And was this before or after Count Fersen split the scene?”
He laughs. “Before, during, and after. It was definitely the place to be—or at least for a while anyway.” He shakes his head. “And no, for your information, we were merely good friends, she had no designs on me, or none that I noticed at least. I was thinking more in terms of how some beautiful women aren’t always so pleased when another one enters the scene.”
I look at him, taking in the elegant planes of his face, the lock of glossy dark hair that falls over his eye, thinking how gallant he looks, how noble he is, how this look really suits him, really says who he is, far more than the faded jeans and black motorcycle boots ever did.
“So what’d Marie Antoinette think of Drina, then?” I ask, remembering her in all of her creamy-skinned, emerald-eyed, redheaded glory—a beauty so great it robbed me of breath. Realizing just after it’s out that I’m actually having a conversation about Damen’s evil ex-wife and not feeling even the slightest twinge of my usual jealousy. And it’s not just because of the magick of Summerland, but because I really, truly am at peace with it now.
Though, unfortunately, Damen’s not aware of my new outlook, which probably explains why his brow’s gone all slanted and his mouth grim. Wondering if I’m really going to start this up again, after he’s gone to all the trouble to make this for me.
But I just smile, inviting him to look inside my mind and see for himself. I asked only because I was curious, nothing more. There’s not a hint of jealousy to be found.