Poof, and I’m in a Christmas sweater. Tinsel fringes the collar, hem, and both sleeves.

“Not dazzling enough.”

Poof. My pants have tinsel fringe, too.

“You’re thinking small scale,” I tell him, and then convey us through a series of wardrobe changes. I try on Christina Aguilera’s outfit from the “Lady Marmalade” music video, just for funsies. (Hall blushes.) Marilyn Monroe’s white dress billowing in a blast of air. Every single outfit from Crazy Rich Asians. Sissy Spacek’s blood-drenched prom gown. Björk’s swan dress. None of them are grand enough. I begin to despair. “I want something big and powerful. A statement. Something fit for a queen.”

Hall snaps his fingers and I’m in a dress of rich gold and crimson brocade, with a magnificently jeweled collar that fans up toward my chin and then flares out. It weighs about a hundred pounds. I admire myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. “Damn, boy, is this medieval?”

“I took it directly from the closet of Mary the First.”

“See? This is what I deserve, Hall. Actual royalty.” I do a twirl, with no small amount of effort, knocking him out of the way. My skirt takes up the whole room.

“You need to spiff up, too,” I advise. “Try on that confusing cowboy archaeologist getup from Indiana Jones.”

He does, but it’s not enough drama. “We need a jaw-dropper, or Grandma’s going to lacerate you from top to bottom again as soon as you walk through the door. It’s those marshmallow snowmen on your sweater—she looks at them and sees a bull’s-eye.”

“Actually.” He bites his lip, a bit bashful. “There is something I’d like to try.”

“Go for it! Big guns.”

“But don’t laugh.” He swallows, shutting his eyes tightly, a fog of mint enveloping him. When it’s dispersed, he’s decked out in a sharp white suit, chestnut hair slicked back. The crisp onyx collar beneath his white waistcoat is scandalously unbuttoned, exposing a distracting quantity of chest, and—is that—?

It is. A gold necklace winks at me. It flashes little cartoon sparkles and I swear I hear it make a ding! sound. He looks . . . unsettlingly attractive. If he were simply a guy I’d spotted in a bar, I would definitely ruin his life.

“Is the chest hair too much?” he asks self-consciously, skimming one hand along his truly spectacular coiffure. “I gave myself a lot more of it, to better emulate John Travolta.” He strikes a pose. “I’m Saturday Night Fever.”

“You look great.” I clear my throat.

“Are you all right? Your face is pink.”

“No, it’s not.” I clap, and we both turn to check the crack of light bleeding under the bathroom door. No shadows of feet. “Let’s go.”

We teleport to the limo, and then, as soon as I’m finished sputtering out eggnog, we make our grand entrance. The Watsons’ front door creaks open, Mom and Dad poking their heads out to watch. It’s a suitably chatty affair, with many ooohs and ahhhs. Or at least I assume that’s the noises they’re making; I can’t be sure until we’re sauntering down the walkway.