“Excuse me,” I managed to squeak. “I have to find a restroom. I’ll be right back.” I grabbed my sandals from the lawn and started walking toward the house, my cheeks hot, sweat running down my sides, intending to flee. I didn’t think I could drive. Maybe I could catch a ride home from somebody at the door, or even walk if necessary.

On the second floor, I passed my painting. It was lovely as ever. As my eyes ran over its contours, there were flashes of making it. Though only six, maybe seven years had passed—was that possible?—I felt much older than the twenty-seven-year-old girl who had hauled its magenta acrylic up nine stories. That girl (and she was a girl) kept pot in a little gold box and she loved a musician who left her over and over again. She used to sit on the roof of 11 Dutch and look through binoculars at the buildings rising up over her head and wonder if she was ever going to make it.

She could never have conceived of standing here, in this dress, in front of this painting, in this house, in this context. I sighed and ran my fingers along the edge. That needed more beeswax, I thought, touching one section with the back of my index finger. Oh, that’s still so right, I remember feeling that rightness, I thought, brushing another.

“You shouldn’t touch the painting,” someone said behind me. “It’s completely disrespectful.” They didn’t specify to whom—to the artist—or the owners.

“I know,” I said after a moment, withdrawing my little paw. “I couldn’t help myself.”

*  *  *

The scolding stranger stormed off, revealing an open door to the left of my painting glowing with warmth. I peeked in to find a spectacular library, a double-depth room extending down and lined with shelves, brass rails, and hanging ladders. There were thousands upon thousands of books—on every artist you could think of. Oooh, said my brain. Picture books. But as I was about to step through, a claw closed around my wrist.

“YOU,” Max yelped, pulling me away from the doorway, dragging me to the third floor. The hard bars of cement felt dangerous beneath my bare feet, but soon they gripped a fine rug, and then we ducked through a doorway done in a pale-blond wood. The transom window was made from a smooth pink slab of semi-opaque rose quartz.

“Let’s talk,” Max cooed. “Welcome to my lair.”