As I offer Felix an armchair, what seems like millions of frantic thoughts are swirling relentlessly around my head: Will he like my decoration? What if he discovers my notebook, mementos of past love so carefully pressed between the pages? Maybe he didn't even want to come in, and he’s just doing it out of politeness? What if— 

No.

Stop worrying, A. You’ve done this before, after all.

But…

NO.

Look at him. Does he seem like the kind of person who’d sneer at you? Or anyone, really? Get it together!

I suddenly realise Felix is saying something. Oops. 

“What, sorry? Uh— pardon?” 

He giggles, an elegant hand over his mouth.

“I said ‘you must have really focused on this woodwork’, but maybe I overrated your attention span,” he jokes, absent-mindedly ruffling Cicilie’s hair as she plays with the gold fringing on my rug. 

“Thank you… I think?” I laugh. It’s so easy, just being around him. I hadn’t realised how relaxed I am, but it’s undeniable: He makes me feel so grounded, I can also forget the centuries tucked under my belt. The last time I remember feeling like this was with—

No! Don’t think about him, not now, not here! It can’t happen— I mustn’t—

Too late.

A burning pain is beginning to prickle behind my eyes, and in seconds it spreads and intensifies, every inch of curling silver on my body flushing with what now feels like millions of white-hot needles. I might have screamed; I might be as silent as the grave. Dimly, I register the irony through the white fog descending over everything. Desperately seizing hold of my last scrap of clarity, I think: The glamour. Keep up the glamour. Even if nothing else. He can’t see them!

Felix’s worried face.

A glint of gold off my carpet.

Fire in my veins, on my skin.

The white fog turns black, and the images start.