Returning to Villa Lysis, the wedding guests were greeted by a battalion of footmen holding lit torches, dressed in costumes straight out of nineteenth-century Sicily. Entering the villa, the guests gasped in delight to discover interiors that had been utterly transformed since the wedding ceremony an hour ago. “I was inspired by Visconti’s Il Gattopardo,” Isabel told everyone after she made her grand entrance, sweeping down the vine-twined staircase in a Valentino couture ball gown that looked as if it was constructed entirely of silk rosettes and billowing white ruffles, reminiscent of the gown Claudia Cardinale wore in the legendary film.

It was the understatement of the year. Studio Peregalli, the famed Milanese design atelier, had been commissioned to re-create the set of the film inside the villa, and when the guests entered the banquet room, they were treated to a magnificent space draped from floor to ceiling in yellow moire silk, towering antique tulipieres bursting with apricot peonies, and tables set with heirloom china from the royal house of Bourbon-Two Sicilies. The entire space seemed to sparkle, lit only by thousands of tapered candles hung from the ceiling in crystal lanterns.

Lucie took her seat at table 3, feeling giddy as she admired the voluptuous surroundings and watched the waiters crisscrossing the room in nineteenth-century livery and powdered wigs. The decadence of it all was almost too much to bear, and she felt as if she had suddenly been transported into the pages of her favorite childhood fairy tale, “The Twelve Dancing Princesses.”

“Hey there,” said a voice to her right. Lucie turned and saw George taking the seat beside her.

She glanced at the place card in the silver holder, and sure enough, it read MR. GEORGE ZAO.

“Wait a minute! Did you change seats?” Lucie asked in surprise.

“Er … would you like me to?” George asked.

“No, no, I meant … I just thought someone else was sitting next to me.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Lucie said, getting flustered.

“I know,” George said, suddenly flashing a disarming smile.

“Oh.” Lucie felt like a fool.

“How are you today?”

“I’m good,” Lucie replied automatically, before wondering what exactly he meant. Did the addition of the word “today” mean that he was checking if she was hungover? What exactly was he implying? Oh god, she was never ever going to get drunk ever again. Fed up with the never-ending cycle of doubt she seemed to have trapped herself in, she decided it was time to rip off the bandage, hard. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “Okay, I just have to ask … were you on the yacht last night?”

George grinned. “You don’t remember?”

“I do … kinda … Weren’t you wearing some strange furry costume?”

“Says the girl who was dressed like Madonna.”

“I know what I wore. I’m asking what you came as.”

“Myself.”

“Did anything, you know … happen?”

“What do you think … happened?” George asked, clearly amused by her apparent amnesia.

Lucie gave him an exasperated look, and he decided to put her out of her misery. “Lucie, nothing of significance happened that I can think of. I went home pretty early. You were dancing with the girls when I left.”

Lucie let out a quick sigh. Thank God she didn’t make a fool of herself with him, at least. She wondered if what she was feeling was relief or regret. Then she remembered the Neruda poem. Just as she was about to ask if he had slipped the poem under her door, a pretty blond girl in her thirties sat down in the chair to George’s right.

“Hallo! I am Petra [Munich International School / London School of Economics / Barbara Brennan School of Healing / The Omega Institute / Esalen],” she said with a German accent.

“Hi, Petra, I’m George.”

“Are you from Australia?”

“I’m from Hong Kong, but I went to school in Australia.”

“Ja, I could hear the Aussie in your voice!”

“Where are you from?” George asked politely.

“Originally Munich, but I am really just a nomad. I’ve lived in Bali, Ibiza, Fort Lauderdale, Rhinebeck, Big Sur—wherever spirit guides me.”

Lucie wanted to roll her eyes. This girl was obviously one of the trustafarian, New Agey friends Issie had met since moving to LA. Not wanting George to get hijacked for the rest of the dinner, she impulsively did something she knew her grandmother would never approve of. She leaned over George, stuck out her hand, and said, “Hi, Petra, I’m Lucie!”

“Hallo, Lucie! Are you from Malibu?”

Lucie laughed. “No. I’m from New York.”

“Ah, I thought I met you once at a drum circle in Topanga. I know Issie and Dolfi from Malibu.”

“Of course you do,” Lucie said with a smile.

Turning back to George, Petra continued. “I looove Australia, especially Byron Bay! I go there a lot because there is this really great hoshindo sensei there. Have you ever done hoshindo?”

“I haven’t. Is it like ayahuasca?”

“No, no, no, nothing like that. Ayahuasca is so last year! Hoshindo is Japanese for ‘bee venom therapy.’ It’s like acupuncture in some ways, but it predates acupuncture by one thousand years. It was invented before the Bronze Age, in the time before they had needles, you see, so they used bee venom to treat the meridians and heal your body.”

“Bee venom? Are they live bees?” Lucie jumped in.

“No, unfortunately the bees have to sacrifice themselves for your healing. And you don’t get stung—they remove the stingers from the bees and just brush it lightly against your skin, to stimulate an immune response. That’s all it takes. I always do a ceremony for the bees after I have a session. I think that’s very important to honor their gift. I’m an empath, you see. I do energy healing work, so I am very sensitive to all animals, to the land, to places. Like this villa, for example. It has terrible energy.”

“Really, you can sense it?” Lucie asked, genuinely curious.

“Absolutely. Look at my arms! All these goose bumps! If it weren’t for you nice people distracting me right now, I would be miserable here. I would have cramps and be in the toilet making nonstop diarrhea.”

“Oh my. I’m glad we’re here for you,” Lucie said, trying her hardest not to giggle.

“What is it about this house that creates the bad energy for you? Is it because of how it’s sited on the land?” George probed.

Petra stared at George and Lucie in surprise. “Ja, the feng shui is very unfortunate, but that’s not the only reason. You don’t know the story? The owner died here. Jacques Fersen. I can sense his spirit in the house, even among us right now, and he is very restless.”

Lucie looked at her dubiously. “Really?”

Petra took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. “Ja, Fersen was a French baron.fn3 He was very handsome and rich, but he got kicked out of Paris because he was having affairs with all the scions of the French aristocracy. It was a big scandal, because these were the sons of top politicians and noblemen. So they wanted to throw him in jail, but instead he fled to Rome. There he fell in love with another schoolboy, Nino, and he brought Nino here to this island, where they built this villa and threw the most amazing drug parties. If you go downstairs, there’s a sunken opium den where Fersen and Nino would get high and have orgies with the most famous artists and writers of their day.”