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“No. You look beautiful,” I murmur.

When she smiles, the years fall away. In the softness of her face, I catch a glimpse of my mom. “Thank you. Now, come! The party has started.”

I grab my purse and camera, then follow her downstairs.

The house buzzes with energy. Guests in silky gowns and crisp collared shirts glide through the rooms like colorful birds, chattering, laughing, clinking glasses of wine. But as I pass, conversations hush and stares burn at my back. I can only imagine what they are thinking. There goes the cursed girl. Wonder whose life she will ruin next.

Despite this, I have to give Karmela credit. They could have stayed away, but they came, as she said they would. Morbid curiosity, at its finest.

As I help Karmela carry trays of appetizers outside, my stomach dips at the sight of Luka’s mom and uncle. They stand beside the brick grill, roasting what I assume is the lamb on the spit Karmela mentioned. His mom, Iva, pauses to cast a wary glance in my direction.

“Iva told me Luka wasn’t feeling well,” Karmela says in a low voice. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

“No,” I lie. It’s both a disappointment and a relief to know he didn’t come. Good, I tell myself. He’s safe. It’s better this way. Despite this, my breathing grows tighter, like my heart’s being squeezed in a vise.

Just get through the gala, and everything will be fixed.

“Oh, there’s Father Antun. I must speak with him.” She hurries over to the priest. He’s dressed in a black shirt and pants, a strip of white at his collar. Despite the cooler weather, he swipes sweat from his hairline and peers around nervously.

I reach for a glass of sparkling wine, downing it quickly to drown the pain. Taking a second glass, I weave through the crowds, taking photos and doing my best to play the aloof yet amiable host. Tables adorned with lace tablecloths are scattered throughout the garden, laden with food, drinks, and rustic bouquets of not only lavender but also blushing roses and minty eucalyptus leaves. Lanterns glow on hanging strings like trails of fairy lights. A group of male singers—Tomo’s klapa—croon a stirring melody on a small stage.

It’s all so lush and enchanting, just like Karmela wanted, and yet an ominous tension vibrates in the air, emanating from the dark clouds looming overhead and the gray ruins of the workshop in the distance. I can’t help but think of something one of my college professors said about Twelfth Night. How it’s set in Illyria, a region that includes Croatia, because the Elizabethans saw it as exotic and remote, a place where the ordinary rules of society didn’t apply. Where anything could happen—something wonderful, or terrible.

No one knows an innocent woman was killed at this very same gala over a century ago. I wonder if they’ll even care.

As I finish my glass and dusk deepens, my feet carry me away from the crowds to the outskirts of the garden. Without intending to, I find myself before the trellis where my parents once stood, enraptured by each other. Adorned in string lights, it glimmers just like in the photo. Only, now it is empty.

Love is fleeting. And I lost it before it was even fully mine.

A flood of melancholy swoops up so fast I feel like throwing up. I stumble toward the trellis, my hands fumbling to unsling the camera from around my neck. Leaning against the wooden frame, I fight back both tears and nausea.

“Petra, are you alright?”

For a second, the vise around my heart loosens, but as I realize who it is beside me, holding out a steadying arm, it constricts more tightly, threatening to crush me entirely. No. He can’t be here.

Horrified, I turn my gaze up to Luka. To his dark navy slacks and smooth white shirt. His swept-back hair and freshly trimmed jawline. His brown eyes smoldering with longing and concern. Facing his tall figure is like staring up at an eclipse, dazzling and devastating, obliterating whatever composure I managed to have up until that moment.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, breathless. I jerk my head from side to side, scanning for any sign of long, dark hair, a red crown adorned with pearls.

“I had to see you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. He steps forward slowly, as if unsure he’s welcome.

“I told you not to come.” My words come out angry and curt, wreaking pain across Luka’s face. I want to apologize, but it’s no use. I am all sharp edges, a knife designed only to hurt.

“I know, but . . . I need to tell you something. I’ll be quick, I promise.” He takes another step closer, his eyes glimmering with fear. I haven’t seen Luka like this, and the sight unsettles me. He may not be afraid of the curse, but he’s terrified of whatever he’s about to say—and it is this realization that roots me to the spot, unable to move.

“You asked me before if I spoke to my father before he left,” he begins softly. “And I told you no, that I had nothing to say. Well . . . that was a lie. There were a lot of things I wished I’d said back then, but I let my chance slip by. I was going to do the same thing with you, just take what I could get . . . But I can’t. I can’t let you go without saying how I really feel.”

He swallows, and for a single heartbeat, time suspends.

“When I first met you,” he begins, looking down at the ground, “I thought you were just some American who didn’t care about her roots, let alone Tolba. But the more time I spent with you, I realized I was wrong. You care deeply about this place, and your family, and the past, more than most people here. And then something else happened.” His gaze flits up to me. “I started looking forward to seeing you. To hearing about your day, seeing your smile, trying to make you laugh.” Anguish is written over every inch of his face. “The truth is, this island hasn’t felt like home in a long time, but with you, it did.”

My heart thumps hard in response. It is everything I want to hear and absolute misery at the same time.

“So if you want to act like you don’t care, then fine. But I’m not like that. I can’t just walk away from someone I love.”

Love. The word vibrates between us like an ominous toll.

He steps closer, his eyes pleading. “If there’s any chance you didn’t mean what you said about us . . . then I’m yours. We’ll fight this curse together. But if not,” he adds with a tortured sigh, “then I’ll leave right now and try to forget everything that happened.”