❝Ah, yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it, or learn from it.❞

-Rafiki, The Lion King

✕✕✕✕✕

Never have I been more thankful for my treehouse.

From my perch high in the old maple tree, I can see everything - the hills, the cornfield, the Hundred Acre Woods far in the distance. The sky, painted with swirls of cerulean and white like a daytime Starry Night, seems to stretch on forever.

It's been a long time since I've seen skies so blue.

The sun sends mid-May warmth through my bones and dapples the green cornfield behind my house with gold. White light nearly blinds me as I squint through my newly installed spyglass, looking for the sight I'm most interested in: the house across the field, who just put up a tree fort of their own. It's nicer than mine, with an actual glass window on one side, but that's not my concern.

My real question is, who was it built for?

"Can you see anybody?" Kat asks curiously. She's nearly on top of me, her chestnut hair dangling in my face, and I shove her to the side.

"I could if you'd move out of the way, dork!" I exclaim.

From the corner of my eye, I see her pout. "Mama told you not to call me names."

"Mama also told YOU not to be annoying!"

My mother had said that only a few days ago, on my 7th birthday, when Kat had demanded for thirds of my mango birthday cake. My baby sister had apparently already forgotten, or just didn't care; knowing her, it was probably the latter.

Before she can spout a retort, I continue, "I hope it's a girl over there. I need a new friend-" I temporarily glare at her - "Since my current friend isn't exactly the most helpful!"

Kat starts to angrily say something back, but I ignore her, focusing my gaze into the telescope, practically willing a person to turn up. For a few more moments, my wishes stay just that - wishes. But then... a person clambers through the doorway, tiny at first, getting bigger as it approaches the window. And it's then that I truly see him.

My eyes widen and I recoil; the person in the opposite treehouse does the same.

It's a boy, with golden brown hair and a red hoodie. Like an angel on high, curiosity soars through me, furthered by the fact that I'm too far away to see the details of his face.

Still, I can see his movements, and my heart skips a beat when he turns his head towards me. We catch what I think is eye contact, and I say, "It's a boy."

"It's a boy?" Kat echoes.

"It's a boy," I confirm gravely.

Kat snaps back like a snake and makes a face. "Ew! He probably gave you boy germs just by looking at him!"

"I wonder what his name is..." is all I say in reply.

From somewhere deep within my mind, a thought comes: his name is Will.

And that's when I realize this is a memory, I'm not actually newly 7 and bratty as humanly possible. I'm 17, and I'm soaked in warm, sticky blood, my face and torso pierced with shards of glass.

In an almost dreamlike way, I'm no longer in the treehouse. I'm in Will's truck. The windshield is shattered and my head is pounding like the beat of a drum major at the football game. A ringing blares in the distance, and I can't tell if it's the sirens of coming ambulances or I ruptured my eardrums. Maybe both.

Over the drone, I hear somebody saying my name. "Lila. Lila."

I whirl and see Will is laying wide eyed in the seat next to me, but it's not him at 17, it's him at 7, wearing that godforsaken red hoodie. And it's not his voice saying my name. It's Kat.

"Lila! Lila, c'mon!"

✕✕✕

I wake up with a sluggish kind of jolt, like I need to get out of bed but don't quite have the energy.

Kat is standing over top of me, her hair hanging in my face once again. "Finally!" She exclaims. "My god, Lila, I thought you were going to sleep all day!"

I scrabble at my sheets, clawing my way out of the grasp of the warm mattress. When my feet touch the cold, hard floor, my hands go to my temples. But there's nothing there, no broken glass or viscous blood. It was a dream- some strange flashback to my first meeting with Will twisted into a nightmare.

I'm used to the nightmares. I've been having them since the crash. At first, it was every night. Now, I'm luckier. They come and go, but when they're here, they ruin me.

My mind flashes to the lifeless stare of 7 year old Will, and I feel the urge to throw up, but my throat is dry.

My thoughts are frantic. I'm shaking. I think about the therapist I had for a brief blip of time right after the crash, Dr. Pavone. I don't see her anymore - when they prescribed me medicine, I decided I'd rather just pop a few pills every day than spend hours talking about my feelings, and quit going to the sessions. But I still think about the things she told me, like, "You may have some residual stress from the crash. If you find yourself having an attack, try to stay calm and breathe deeply."

I take a deep breath. Once, twice, thrice. My whirlwind of emotions unfurls only slightly, and in the end, the annoyed, vaguely worried stare of my sister is what starts to sober me up.

"It's 7:30," she says after a moment. "You slept through your alarm. We're gonna be late."

I stare at her. She's already fully dressed, her Nike backpack slung over her shoulder, her hair deftly twisted into a braid. I'm almost shocked she's so prepared, but then I remember this is Kat, we're talking about, not me.

"Right," I pant, "Right. Sorry. Go start the car. I'll be out in a minute."

Kat's eyes narrow, and the smallest blossom of pity blooms within them. "Okay." she says finally, "Drink some water. Don't faint or fall back asleep on me."

Her braid swings as she leaves the room, and just like that... I'm standing alone in just a faded hoodie and ragged cloth shorts that I outgrew years ago, my eyes wet from tears I don't remember crying.

I hear my car turn on outside, and I glance longingly at my bed. With my penchant for heart-twisting nightmares, I've become more resentful towards sleep - or my lack thereof - in the past few months. I don't remember a day I haven't been exhausted, which leads me to want to sleep more, which leads me to have more nightmares, which leads me to be more exhausted. It's a vicious cycle, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to shake it off.

My mind is numb as I quickly throw on jeans and a different faded hoodie, this one with the logo of the Ashdown High School soccer team on it. On Thursday, Kat got the news that she made the team once again, which means I'll have to spend a large majority of my autumn hearing her ramble about kicks and shutouts and whatever else the sport involves.

Kat had first become interested in soccer only a few months after I had met Will, and after that, the friendship we once shared started to fade. I know that with every passing year, we're drifting further and further apart, until one day we may not even talk anymore.

That's the thing about losing somebody you love - you start to realize you might lose everyone else, too.

Outside my outdated bathroom, rain taps against the windows in a baleful melody. I look for a figure in the gloom, for a sight of a red hoodie or blue skies or golden sunlight.

Nothing. Not even the pale face of my good friend The Reaper. It's been 5 days since Mor last appeared and took me to the Northern Lights. Somewhere in my mind, I can still see the Aurora Borealis blazing like wildfire, hear the whoosh of the ice and thunder.  It feels like just yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once. But I know, for sure, it was real.

That wasn't a dream, because dreams always end terribly for me. Then again, I think, things aren't over yet. There's always room for more misery.

Mor was right. I am depressing.

I force a smile in the mirror as I brush my teeth, but it just looks pained.

"Lila!" Kat shouts from somewhere down below. I hear the floorboards creaking under her from here.

"Coming!"

Another day, I tell myself. Just make it through another day.

It'll all be over soon.

✕✕✕

Kat and I make it to school just as the second bell rings; I feel relieved at first, but the minute we enter the main atrium, my stomach sinks like I've hit a mental iceberg. There's a few people left in the halls, straggling on their way to homeroom. But it's not their presence that disturbs me - it's their clothes. Some are extravagant, some are obviously thrown together last minute, but no matter the quality, everyone I see is dressed up in a costume.

I search my short term memory for a sign of what's going on, but I'm not quite sure. Meanwhile, my sister swears in Spanish, before saying, "It's Disney day for Spirit Week! For the first football game on Friday! And I agreed to dress up with Thals and Alexis as Huey, Dewey, and Louie!" I grimace when she whirls on me. "This is your fault!"

"How is it my fault?!" I whisper-shout, noticing that some of the slackers are looking our way. So much for prepared, I think. "You still could've gotten dressed properly, late or not. I don't choose your outfits!"

Kat's coffee-bean eyes, oh-so-similar to mine, roll so far back in her skull I'm worried she's going to pass out. But she doesn't faint - she just hmphs and gives me the cold shoulder as she speeds up her pace.

Until a voice flows from behind, making us both freeze.

It's not the gravelly timbre of Mor, or the mellifluous tone of Macy. It's a voice like pure honey, a voice I haven't heard talking directly to me since the day Will died.

"Lila, is that you?"

My turn-around feels like it's in slow-motion, but it's only a moment that passes before I see her. Veronica Lourdes, my ex-best friend, ex-arch enemy, current nothing. Leaning against a locker, she's dressed as Elsa from Frozen, a costume that may or may not fit her. I haven't talked to her in so long that I have no idea what her personality's even like anymore.

But from the half amused, half arrogant expression on her face, I'm assuming she's the same person she's always been.

Ashdown doesn't have a clique of popular girls. No Plastics or Heathers roam our aching halls. It's more of a filter, like everybody is happy and popular, save for the few people who fall through the holes and become social dregs. Still, if there were a Regina George at our school, it would be Veronica. With her golden hair and eyes like pure sunshine, she's like a walking archetype.

A very specific memory flashes through my mind. In 5th grade, Veronica and her father took me to see In The Heights, and it's because of that that I'm so into theater now. The story of a child of Latino immigrants, making his way in this horrid, beautiful country... it spoke to me, even back then. I still remember arguing with Veronica after the show over who was cooler, Nina or Vanessa.

Looking at her makes me sad. Once, she was my best friend in the world - other than Will, of course. And then there's the fact that her shimmering blue dress is startlingly authentic, to the point that staring at it long enough makes me feel like I'm watching the arctic snow glimmer once again.

Arctic snow makes me think of Mor. Mor makes me think of death. You're going to die soon, Lila, I say to myself. You need to be confident. Don't be a mat beneath Veronica's feet until the day it all ends.

I may be a social dreg, a veritable pariah, but I'm not afraid of the girl who I'd once loved as a sister.

"Where are your costumes?" Veronica asks, raising her pale eyebrows. "I thought you liked Disney."

"I thought you liked to ignore me," I replied. "But I guess today is a day of changes for all of us."

Veronica laughs softly and pushes herself away from the locker, her pale skin aglow under the fluorescent lights. With a cock of her head, she says, "Are you excited for the first day of drama club this afternoon?"

I blink. I'd totally forgotten about drama club, which held its meetings every Monday and Wednesday. I'd been attending dutifully ever since I was a freshman, auditioning for every musical, never quite starring but always having fun nonetheless. Of course, there would be no musical this year... and no Will. My boyfriend had been in every musical too, our shared love of music one of the things that kept us bonded as we grew up, but I'm not sure if his absence would be felt sorely or simply glossed over.

The school hadn't forgotten about him, I know, but they'd moved on perfectly fine. Which made me feel all the more polarized.

"Totally," I reply, not losing my grip on my facade of confidence. "Although Macy said..."

"We're not having a musical this year. I know, how sad." She sticks out her lower lip and frowns, feigning sadness, but I can't tell if it's mocking or just fake. "But the show must go on, no matter what we lose."

I furrow my brow at her calmness. Am I just being dramatic? I ask myself. Is everything perfectly fine and I just somehow see it differently?

More of Dr. Pavone's words come back to me: "If you find yourself being particularly focused on your bereavement, to the point that almost nothing will make you happy, try to surround yourself with people who understand your grief and care about how you feel."

Is that good advice? Here, let me make a list of people who may possibly understand my grief:

a. My mother, who can't even deal with her own grief, and who spends most of her time throwing herself into her work,

b. Will's teammates, who seem to be not even on the same physical plane as me,

c. and Will's closest friends: ever-oblivious Macy, her unknowable boyfriend Trevor, and the ice queen herself. Veronica.

Veronica hasn't spoken to me in 3 months and 6 days. She hasn't even acknowledged my existence. And now she's here, making sly small talk with me about extra-curriculars.

"She's trying to get to you," Kat murmurs from beside me, knocking me out of my thoughts. I look at her from the corner of my eye and see she's clenching her backpack like it's a life raft.

"I didn't realize you minded," I mutter back, and Kat gives me a really? look.

"We're allowed to treat each other terribly, we're sisters." I want to interrupt and say, I don't think that's how it works, but I let her continue, "But Veronica's just a straight-up bitch. You need to ignore her."

We both turn towards Veronica, who's looking at us with a blank stare. "You know I can hear you, Kat?"

"You know I don't care, Veronica?"

Veronica and Kat have always hated each other, which I assume comes from jealousy they shared when we were young. I don't think either of them truly care about being friends with me anymore, but still, there's a deep animosity that comes out every time they talk to each other.

To make things potentially worse, or potentially better, or maybe not to change anything at all, another person comes running up right at that moment. She's dressed like the Queen of Hearts (if the Queen of Hearts was a pretty teenage girl, that is), and in her hands are two iced coffees. Macy. 

She stops beside Veronica, gives her a coffee, then looks at Kat and I. "Cabreras!" she exclaims. "Hey, what's up?"

"Oh nothing," I answer. I glance at my sister, whose eyes have gone wide. "Just talking to Veronica about our lack of costumes and the school's lack of respect for musical theater."

Macy's doe eyes flicker between Veronica and I, confused. The former says, 'Lila's being dramatic. As always."

I reply, "At least I don't betray people on the regular."

That's not a good thing to say, apparently. The spark in Veronica's eyes instantly disappears. At first, I think, Oh, so she feels guilty about it?  Then I think, why is everybody here communicating their true emotions only with their eyes?

I try to shutter any emotion I show in my own eyes, but it doesn't matter now. Veronica's done with this conversation. Somehow, my comment about betrayal has seriously touched a nerve, which confuses me, because it's true.

My childhood companion has always gone back on her word, even when we were kids. And of course, out of our friend group, I was always the last one to forgive her when she came running back with her tail between her legs. Macy would let it be instantly, acting like nothing happened; Will would accept her apology only on the condition that she would never lie again; and I would resent her for weeks before finally letting go just because I missed her presence.

I don't miss her presence anymore. I miss Will. I miss what my life used to be.

Veronica takes a sharp sip of her iced coffee, then says to me firmly: "Have fun being the only ones not dressed up."

With that, she pivots on her heel, her dress spinning and flying and glittering like it's truly made of ice, and walks away. Macy glances at me, mouths, I'm sorry, then runs after her.

"God, I hate her," Kat says, before quickly adding, "Veronica, not Macy."

"I know. I feel like Cinderella without a dress for the royal ball."

Kat snorts. "If AHS is a royal ball, then the kingdom we live in must be really shitty."

The third bell rings. We're officially late to homeroom. I curse myself, letting the melancholy and general self-pity within me explode because I'm too tired to continue to attempt to tamper it down. Dr. Pavone was conversely right - not only do I need to surround myself with people who understand, I need to avoid people who make my stress worse. If only it was that easy.

✕✕✕

I really did used to love Ashdown High School.

Because the town's so small, they've always let seniors and juniors go home for lunch. Will and I never went home - sometimes we'd go to the Fox with our friends, sometimes we'd stay at school and mess around. Either way, I was happy. The school was happy.

Now, I don't think I'll ever step foot in that lifeless cafeteria ever again. Instead, everyday, I go straight to my house.

Today, I have no idea if Kat is joining me on my 6 minute journey across town; when I get to the car, she's not there, and the service in the school is too spotty for me to text her. I decide to wait a moment to see if she enters the parking lot.

The rain has let up only slightly since this morning. The dips and cracks of the parking lot are filled with water that sloshes under the feet of passersby. Even in my car, with the heat turned completely up, I can feel the icy cold of the outside air striking my bones.

Then I realize it's a different type of cold. With no moisture, no sense of warmth at all, it's a vacuous chill, like I'm in an endless black hole, or maybe just the freezer section at the Price Chopper down the street.

"Is Ashdown always this cold in the Fall?" a voice from somewhere in the car asks. "This seems an awful lot for early September."

I don't need to turn or whirl or have my heart skip a beat to know who it is. Still, my heart skips a beat anyway, and I shift to look my new passenger in the eyes.

Mor's looking particularly Jack Skellington-like today. His cloak has been polished to a dull shine, and his ebony suit is freshly pressed. He's sitting backwards, with his back against the glove box and his spindly legs crossed up the side of the seat, his arms propped up behind him like he's relaxing in a beach chair.

"Is that a new suit?" I ask, hoping my voice won't betray how uncomfortable I suddenly feel. "You seem rather vain for a grim reaper."

The reaper barks a laugh and replies, "Answering questions with more questions. You're getting braver."

I glance away from him, my eyes searching the thinning crowd flowing out of the school. Kat is nowhere to be seen.

"Looking for Katrina?" Mor asks.

I throw a glare at him, though I know it has no effect. Almost nobody calls Kat by her full name, except for our close family when they're feeling particularly serious. I remember what he said on Wednesday, about the file, and wonder who else he knows about. My immediate family, everybody I know, or somewhere in between?

Or perhaps just people who have seriously impacted me, changed who I am, whether for better or for worse. You could say that about both Will and Kat, though in different ways.

"Yes," I finally answer. "Unless you'd like to whisk me off to some beautiful foreign location first."

Mor hums, low and dark, and starts to fish in his suit pockets for an unfamiliar something. He moves in his seat so that he's sitting cross-legged, which seems strangely casual for a death god.

"I am not a death god, Lila," Mor says without looking at me, almost making me jump. "Simply a spirit, a Reaper. I've told you that."

A shiver tiptoes its way down my spine. A spirit? I question to myself. Is he saying he's already dead? Can people be born dead and still... live? AND YOU WEIRDO, HOW CAN YOU READ MY MIND?

"As it happens to be," Mor starts, ignoring my preceding thought, "I believe your next goal actually includes your sister. Which is an interesting turn of events. Many of my charges tend to be more... self-centered." He sits up straight and scans the thing, then raises an eyebrow. "Was yellow colored pencil really the best medium to write this part in?"

"Let me see that," I say, and in a fit of insolence, I grab the crumpled paper right out of his spidery hands. He gives me a look, but I ignore it and focus on the paper.

The return of the sight of my old handwriting makes me cringe. #2 is indeed written in yellow colored pencil, its scrawl reading: "Attend a maskerade ball with Kat".

I recall my metaphor I used earlier in the day. Like Cinderella without a dress for the royal ball. I sigh, but the thought of such an event sends me into a reverie. I imagine being at a true ball, not some crappy American public school homecoming dance. A land of magic and music and enchantment, where coupes of gold champagne take the place of red solo cups of sherbet punch and finely-tailored gowns replace bedazzled halter tops from Kohl's. 

"Whether you're enthused or not, policies are policies," Mor says, "I'm taking you to a masquerade, and 'Kat' is coming with."

"And what are you going to tell her?" I counter, drifting out of my dreams. "'Hey Kat, I'm a grim reaper, I'm gonna kill your sister, but first I'm gonna take you two to a masquerade ball!'?"

He gives me another look, but this one is singed with hurt instead of annoyance. "I'd say I have just a bit more tact than that, Lila. And besides, I'm not allowed to tell people other than you that I'm a reaper."

"Then what will you tell her?"

"Let's find out," he says, and waves his hand at the windshield. Kat's walking to the car, slow as molasses due to her preoccupation with her phone. When she glances up at me, her face is blank, giving no sign of surprise that a strange man is sitting in the passenger seat.

I glance in that direction, then, and see there is no longer a strange man sitting in the passenger seat. Mor is gone, and I know he's going to be back in only a few moments or so, but I'm already feeling warmer.

Kat tears open the door, gets in, then promptly slams the door shut to the point that the whole vehicle rattles.

I don't reprimand her; the car's been through worse, even though it's only 7 years old. It's some Ford sedan that my mom passed down to me, and I've never had any attachment to the thing besides its limited radio.

Quick as a blink, an image presents itself to my mind: Will's car, a red 1972 F-100 that his dad fixed up himself, totaled and collapsed in on itself in the impound lot. On the way home from the hospital after the crash, I had a nasty concussion, but through the pain and fog I remember passing the lot and seeing the car, practically still smoking.

It was the last time I saw the thing.

Ever since the crash, I haven't been able to ride in anybody's passenger seat. It's like it's a pincushion and I'm a balloon, and if I get anywhere near it, I'll pop and every ounce of emotion within me will erupt. Still, I'm okay with driving myself - in fact, I love driving myself. I prefer having control, which is why I drive every day even though Kat has her license.

I glance at my sister, trying not to think about the crash for a moment longer. Kat is busy opening her streaks on Snapchat, oblivious to my frozen heart. I slide my gaze to the rear view mirror and see Mor's now lounging lazily in the backseat. He's no longer wearing his cloak, and his scythe is gone, so he just looks like a human skeleton in a suit. Or maybe a black-eyed foreign model. We catch eye contact, and he winks at me.

My heart starts racing, the fastest it's been since this morning. I don't particularly care that he winked at me; it's the implication that's making me sick. We're going to have to talk to Kat about this. She'll think I've finally gone crazy, that the PTSD has gotten to me and I've started to become delusional.

"Kat," I breathe. She ignores me. I repeat her name, quicker and stronger this time, and she finally looks up.

"What?"

"Um." Where to start, where to start?

The list.

"Do you remember when Veronica made me create a bucket list? In like, 4th grade, or something?"

Kat narrows her eyes confusedly. "Yeah..."

I quickly hold the crumpled sheet of paper up before I can tell myself not to, and say, "Well, one of the things I wrote included you. It was to go to a masquerade ball."

"Yeah, I remember. That was like, at the crosshairs of your emo phase and your musical obsession. You were in love with the goddamn Phantom of the Opera."

"I was not! I was in love with Raoul. The Phantom's toxic," I snarl. She looks at me blankly. "That's beside the point, anyway."

It's really not. The whole reason I dreamed of going to a masquerade, admittedly, was to relive the first scene of Act II of The Phantom of the Opera, which I now believe to be extremely overrated. Still, I can't help but feel that pull once again, that allure of darkness and glimmering lights and the music of the night.

"Look," Kat says, her nostrils flaring with just the slightest bit of irritation, "If you're trying to give me some inane allegorical life lesson here to make me feel better about missing the first half of costume day, you can stop already. I'm planning on at least going home and getting my costume for the afternoon. Which would require you to drive!" She gestured wildly at the steering wheel, sitting cold with disuse.

I take a deep breath, trying not to get irritated myself. "Kat, if I told you there was a way for us to go far, far away from here within an instant, and come back just as fast, would you believe me?"

It's like I've flipped a switch. Kat's no longer frustrated and vaguely confused. Instead, she's looking at me as though I just suggested we go jump in the New Haven River.

"Lila," she cautions, "Are you okay? You know you're making no sense, right?"

Unease dots her eyes, and she gently sets her phone down on the seat beside her.

What do I tell her?, I think to myself. I can't just be open and honest about it. Why the hell isn't Mor explaining this?

And then, a more worrying thought: I barely believe Mor. Why would skeptical, tough-hearted Kat trust what he's saying? Or what I'm saying?

Then, as if he has more of a heart than I may have thought, Mor lends me a metaphorical hand. He speaks:

"She's making plenty of sense, although she could've been more eloquent with it. You just need to understand what she's talking about."

I've never seen Kat's skin go so pale. When she turns and sees Mor, she jumps, hitting her head on the roof in the process and swearing loudly. After coming back down and closing her eyes in pain, Kat stares wide-eyed at me, then at Mor, then at me again.

"What the hell, Lila?" Kat hisses. "Why is there a man in our car?"

"Hello to you too, Katrina," Mor replies.

My sister turns her head like an owl to stare him directly in the eyes, while saying to me, "Did you tell him my name? What the he-"

I breathe in sharply, then interrupt her: "Kat, this is Mor. My..."

"Guardian angel," Mor finishes simply. I raise both my eyebrows at him, but then I begin to see it. Without his cloak and scythe, his otherworldly presence and over-righteous aura do seem to make him seem darkly angelic, like some deathless avenger. My own personal Azrael.... If Azrael were sardonic and caustic and dressed like a wall street broker.

Kat's really horrified now. "Oh my God, Lila, are you on drugs?" She lowers her voice, as if she's worried someone outside will hear, and says, "I heard some guy was selling joints with PCP in them out behind Cumbies the other day. Did you buy some?!"

"You know, Lila thought the same thing when I first appeared to her," Mor says, "What is up with teenagers these days and drugs?"

"Lila, I'm serious," my sister continues, ignoring the reaper. "I will call Mama if you don't legitimately explain what's going on."

"Here's what is going on, Katrina," Mor drawls, sitting up straight and taking on that strange, deathly tone that he used when he first appeared as a silhouette on my window seat. "Your sister almost died in a car crash 3 months and 6 days ago, at exactly 7:12 p.m. As her guardian angel, I saved her, and am now here on a mission from God to help her be happy again. Part of being happy is doing things you want to do, so we're going down her childhood bucket list and crossing everything off, slowly but surely."

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles, and I can't tell if it's a result of Mor or someone - something - else entirely.

With his voice infused with venom and charm, Mor's a good liar, but Kat's an equally good skeptic. "If you're an angel, where are your wings?"

"On my back, like most wings are," Mor answers matter-of-factly. "I'd show them, but it's too tight in here."

"So," Kat cocks her head, her voice betraying her surprise, "You're telling me you're going to take us to a masquerade ball. Over our lunch break."

"If you let me. Or if you don't let me. Either way, we're leaving this... wonderful town."

Mor reaches out his hands to both of us. To try and set an example, I take his right.

Kat stares at me, eyes wide and lips curled in heartbroken disbelief. I admit I knew this was coming; Kat has always been more rational and less romantic than I. She's the never-breaking rock to my unpredictable water. Still... if anything can erode the stony bank, it's the wild river that flows through it.

"Kat," I plead, halfway between embarrassment and anxiety, "Please take his hand. I know it sounds wild, but you have to trust me."

My sister does nothing except let her jaw go slack. I realize she's not going to do anything on her own, so before I can overthink it, I grab her wrist and forcibly put it in Mor's grasp. For a millisecond, I'm terrified she's going to explode on me, but before she can even react, our surroundings change.

Like I'm dreaming again, everything around me is gone, and then I'm standing with my eyes closed.

It's the noise that hits me first, this time.

In the distance, bells are ringing, and below that is the dull drone of hooves clopping and wheels running over cobblestone. I count to 5 before I open my eyes. Instantly, I recognize where I am.

Paris. I'm in Paris.

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A/N: Uh... to be continued, I guess. That is to say...

Y'ALL. Yes, all 2 of you. This took me literally over a week and a few days to write (which is why I'm so late with the update) and it's not even a finished chapter! My original draft for chapter 3 ended up being super long AND taking super long, so I had to cut it in half. Kind of like those specials in TV shows with a Part 1 and Part 2.

But I'm trying, guys. I really am. Idk when part 2 will be up but it will!

Until then, please vote and comment!! Positive vibes, everyone! Stay awesome!

xoxo, Athena

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