When he pulls me toward him, pulls me tightly to his chest, the mist clears. Everything clears. And at last I can see him, look right into his deep, dark eyes. His gaze probing, penetrating, luring me in, framed by lashes so thick they hardly seem real.

“You’ve come,” he whispers, the words like a song on his lips. “You’ve come to save me, haven’t you? You’ve traveled all this way, across oceans, across time, so that we can be together again.” His dark eyes search my face. “Through so many years, so many lives, I’ve tried to find you, and I’ve finally succeeded. You’re as beautiful as you ever were, as you’ve ever been. Look at me, please look at me and see me as you once did.”

So I do. I gaze into his eyes and see all of it—everything. Our love, our grand, sweeping love, and the fire that destroyed it in an instant…

I press my hand to his cold, smooth cheek, shivering from the chill of his touch as he covers it with his own. “I’ll make you whole again,” I promise. “We’ll live together, forever. We’ll never be apart….”

When my eyes meet his, I know exactly what I must do. And even though I don’t want to leave, would do anything to remain here in this beautiful ballroom, wrapped in his arms, with the chill of his lips at my ear, my cheek, my neck…I must go. In order to have this forever—I must wake up and paint.

It’s the only way….

I open my eyes to a mist-filled room. Despite the fact that the doors and windows are closed, it snakes all around me—curling around my legs, my torso, my head, lingering at the stinging, wet sore on my neck as I rise from my bed and head for my canvas, knowing I must complete the portrait, finish the scene, then head downstairs and wait.

There is music. Soft, lilting music that drifts from below. Music that calls to me—signaling the time has now come.

The painting is done.

I place my brush on the ledge and stand back to survey my work. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. Just like my dream. And now there’s only one thing left to do in order for my perfect lover to return to me.

One small task to make this restoration complete.

I gaze into the mirror and run my hands down the front of my black watered-silk gown with the deep, plunging neck. Having no memory of when I swapped out the purple one, but still more than pleased with the reflection that stares back. And when I see the way the mist curls and slithers around me, I know that he is pleased too. I understand now what I failed to see before.

He causes the mist.

He is the mist.

They are one and the same.

He leads me down the hall, the mist trailing behind me, in front of me, all around me, drawing me to the very end, where I stop before a large portrait of me—Lily Earnshaw—painted in 1896 and wearing the same gown and jewels I wear now.

I reach toward it, trailing my fingers along the smooth silk of the dress, the pale expanse of skin, feeling the sensation of my fingers as though touching myself, and knowing we are connected.

Art is life. Life is art. It’s never been truer than at this very moment.

Moving to the one just beside it—the one of him. The frame is singed from the fire, its plaque missing, but I’m not the least bit surprised to find the portrait itself fully restored—just as he shall be, as soon as I reach him.

I head down the stairs and into the ballroom that’s now fully refurbished—looking just like it does in my painting. The walls creamy and glistening and dotted with gold leaf, the floors shined and polished to their former splendor, as Camellia and some red-haired guy I assume is her boyfriend laugh joyously, heads thrown back, faces radiant, as they waltz across the room.

He waits in the corner—so dark and handsome, I can’t help but rush toward him. Wincing as the chill of his touch sends an icy jolt straight through to my bones, as he presses my body tightly to his. The red glow that emanates from his chest drawing me closer, luring me near, begging for me to complete him.

My fingers slip through his dark, glossy hair as I bring his lips to my neck, closing my eyes against the feel of his tongue washing over my wound, as the excited, hushed voices of Camellia and her friend urge me to hurry, to get it done with already.

“We’ve waited so long for this moment,” Camellia murmurs as her friend stands alongside her. “And it was well worth the wait, ’twas. Yer just perfect, miss, just like ye were back then. We knew it from the moment we lured you back here with the contest. Oh, do hurry up and kiss him already! You’re the key! All yer dreamin’ and paintin’—just yer presence alone was enough to spur the restoration in ways we could only hope for. And now it’s time to complete it, miss, to restore Master Lucian so we can serve this house as we used to. Just one kiss, miss—’tis all it takes—”

I turn. Did she say I was the key?

“Well, surely you realize by now that yer wearin’ yer own dress and yer own jewels, and even staying in the manor that was always meant to be yers?” She shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “There was a bit of a mix-up—a misunderstanding of sorts—and then with the fire—” She twists the pendant at her neck. “But never ye mind that, miss—we can have it all again—start over, as it were—all you need to do is kiss Master Lucian, and the past is forgotten.”

“Hurry up now!” her boyfriend says, his beady eyes narrowing on mine. “We’s all been waiting a very long time—”

I turn toward him, Lucian, standing silent and still, unable to do anything more than wait patiently for me to begin. My blood dripping from his lips, luring me to press mine against them. Knowing that’s all it takes, all that’s required, one deep kiss and I can bring him to life.

He groans, grasping me tighter, so tight I can’t breathe. His mouth moving against mine, at first softly, then with greater urgency, attempting to part my lips just ever so slightly—

And I’m just about to do it, just about to surrender, when I hear a muffled scream, a commotion, and I turn to find Bram standing behind me.

“Hey, Dani.” He pushes his filthy, smudged glasses up past his forehead and onto his mud-slicked hair. “I hate to kill the moment you got goin’ here, but trust me—you might want to rethink it.”

I glance between him and Lucian, struck by their resemblance—the clothes, the hair, even their dark, heavily lashed eyes—everything identical, except for the way mist flows from Lucian’s mouth, and words flow from Bram’s.

“Trust me,” he says, moving closer. “This is one guy you do not want to play tonsil hockey with. Remember when we got separated outside? That was no accident—that was them.” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder toward Camellia and her friend, who cower behind him. “Oh, and that sore on your neck? Not a rose, like you think. I’ve yet to see the thorn that can do that particular brand of damage, leaving two strategically placed puncture wounds right smack-dab in the sweet spot.” He shakes his head as he plucks mud, leaves, and debris from his shirt. “And as for that graveyard outside? That would be lover boy’s most recent address. Seriously, he’s spent the last century six feet deep, just waiting for you to show up and save him. And once he moved out, he tried to make me move in.” He gazes down at himself. “Sorry for the mess, but I was forced to dig my way out.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I say, aware of Lucian’s hands on my back, my neck, urging me to turn away from Bram and back to him.