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Mellie’s eyes are full of longing as I get ready for the party on Saturday.

“I wish I was invited.” She sighs wistfully from a stretched-out position on her bed.

I don’t deign to reply. I finish fastening a pair of square, French-cut diamond studs in my ears—a little gift from Raymond.

One he doesn’t realize he’s lending me for the party.

I wonder, faintly, if I should consider a matching pair of emerald and obsidian earrings to complement the Cleopatra collar and ring…

but I’ve barely had any time to work on my pet project.

Best finish what I’ve started before adding more to my plate.

I dig through my closet until I find my black high heels, then reach for the final touch—a black-velvet cat-ear headband. I slip it on and turn to face Mellie. “Well, what do you think?”

“Do you want my honest opinion? Or the sugarcoated one?”

“Oh, Mellie.” I laugh softly. “I think you’ll give me the honest one whether I want to hear it or not.”

“It’s a lot, Kat,” she says, eyeing me from head to toe. “I mean, you look quite hotsy-totsy, and it’s certainly…progressive.”

“Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment.”

“Matthew will like it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I can see your gams,” she points out .

I spin around to the mirror, checking myself. I fluff the tulle around my waist speculatively.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, if my legs looked like that”—she gestures at me—“maybe I’d wear an outfit like that too. But probably not.”

“There’s a skirt over my legs, Mellie.” A beautiful cascade of shimmering black tulle over charcoal silk stockings, to be precise.

“A sheer skirt.”

“There’s no skin showing,” I maintain. “I’m a black cat, a Kat-arina, if you will.” I’ve always loved irony.

Mellie snorts. “I get the costume. Subtle as it is.”

“All right, well, this has been a gas,” I say, clapping my hands, “but I best be going.”

“Have fun.” She follows me to the door. “And for heaven’s sake, tell him to keep his hands to himself.”

“Goodnight, Mellie.” I close the door in her face and sigh.

Florence, whose own family is made up of Jekyll Island regulars, is waiting for me in the Academy’s entry hall.

She’s styled herself in a blush pink ballerina costume, complete with a scooped neckline and tapered skirt to showcase dainty heels with ribbons trailing up her calves.

The heavy and exquisitely detailed beadwork along her bust and shoulders suggest the gown is a House of Worth original.

When I inquire politely, Florence confirms with a rather pleased simper that it was, indeed, shipped straight from the Parisian fashion house.

Outside, a black motorcar and driver await, ready to escort us to Jekyll Island.

We pass most of the drive in silence, perfect for me to take copious mental notes as we near our destination.

There’s a one-lane bridge marking the sole entrance and exit to the island, followed by an iron archway complete with gatehouse and guard.

Unlike in downtown Savannah, there are no streetlamps—neither gas nor electric—on the island.

The only illumination comes from our car’s flickering headlights.

We drive under a shadowy canopy of trees, winding our way deeper and deeper to the heart of the island.

When we round the final bend, the majestic Jekyll Island Club rises before us like the moon.

The turreted Queen Anne clubhouse is lit up spectacularly, the famed northwestern tower beaming brilliance into the dark night.

The hedges and flowerbeds are perfectly manicured, not a blade out of place on the grand front lawn.

A wraparound drive deposits at the foot of a double-wide staircase, which leads to a sweeping veranda.

Three men sit in rocking chairs, puffing cigars and sipping drinks in the moonlight.

Behind them and through glass doors, an elaborate, crystal chandelier dangles, filigree glinting amidst flickers of soft candlelight.

Regrettably, our driver bypasses the main building before I can glean much more. We begin wending our way through private residences. Florence is kind—or perhaps arrogant—enough to narrate.

“That’s Crane Cottage,” she murmurs, pointing. “Finished construction only two years ago. It’s an Italianate Renaissance work of art, the biggest and most expensive cottage on the island.”

“Wow,” I murmur.

“And here’s Indian Mound”—she gestures again—“the Rockefeller property. Oh, look, that’s Moss Cottage, where the Macys stay. Theirs was the first home here to be wired for electricity. It was quite innovative near the turn of the century, you know, but of course they all have it now.”

“Of course.” I play along.

She continues to provide a delightfully comprehensive guided tour—one I plan to regurgitate, word for word, back to Paul—until our car pulls to a halt.

“And this,” she sighs dreamily, “is Cherokee Cottage, the DaMolins’ property. Their view of the East River is simply divine.”

If I could pick my jaw up, I’d agree. The “cottage” is sweepingly majestic with an adobe tiled roof and white stucco walls.

The architecture is pointedly symmetric, the north and south wings pristine mirror images.

Palm trees flank the front of the estate, fronds blowing gently in the riverside breeze.

Florence and I walk up to the home together, and the paired front doors sweep open to welcome us.

My gaze peruses the high ceiling of the entryway, then the countless gilded mirrors hanging over paneled walls and crown moldings.

Beneath my heels, the Bocote wood floor gleams. I’m so captivated by the opulence, I almost miss the creeping, servile attendant in our midst.

“Good evening, Charlie,” Florence says.

“Miss Vanderbilt, a pleasure to welcome your return,” he replies. “Shall we?”

I must not merit a greeting because Charlie turns on his heel to depart.

Faint party chatter echoes as we step deeper into the home.

I reach my fingers out, phantomlike, to brush the ivory banister as we pass the grand staircase.

It’s double-wide and covered with plush carpet, curling and sweeping up to the second floor.

The grandeur calls to me, the thief inside salivating.

What must it have been like to grow up here?

I think, almost automatically, of Peter’s den with Wendy and his Lost Boys.

Of sleeping on stone floors in the Catacombs with Paul, Abe, and Tony…

a completely different world. An insidious feeling of insecurity—a rising suspicion that perhaps I’m out of my depth—creeps into my stomach.

I should hate this excess, should decry its very existence when there are starving people in the Catacombs of Savannah right now. People like me.

I should.

But I don’t.

Instead, I’m possessed with the most primal, single-minded want I’ve ever felt in my life.

A hunger so deep, it lives and breathes in my very core, a snake rising from slumber with a rattling tail.

Hissing its way through every fiber of my being until I’m poisoned and electrified from the inside out.

It actually frightens me, how sharp and crystalline this festering desire is, how my fingers burn with it.

Trailing insidiously in desire’s wake is fear. Fear that I couldn’t possibly measure up here. Fear that all this—the deepest desires of my avaricious heart—will never be mine. That I, the starving and abandoned girl from the Catacombs, am simply not worthy.

Charlie guides us to the revelry, depositing us at the edge of the party before melting away. Predictably, Florence is gone seconds later, off to curry Daniel’s favor. I’m left alone.

In this area of the house, a series of drawing rooms and lounges spill into each other, overflowing with mingling costumed guests.

There’s a milled-hardwood phonograph with gold finish nearby, spinning notes of classical music throughout the soirée.

Waiters circulate with trays of bubbling champagne.

I absentmindedly snag a glass, fingers registering the delicate composition of the crystal stem.

As I glance around the room, I suddenly worry my fashion-forward cat costume will read gauche in a scene overflowing with such old money.

I take a swig of champagne. As the drink glides down, my mind crystallizes, categorizing several important things at once.

Principally, no one here is looking twice at me.

The fear of inadequacy is on the inside, not the out, and that simply won’t do.

In a single sweep, I note the gait and posture of the guests in the room.

I listen to the lilt of their voices, observe the genteel flourishes of their gestures and polite head tilts.

I become a chameleon and melt seamlessly into my surroundings.

I roll my shoulders back and glide into the room with renewed confidence.

My steps are unhurried and smooth, my eyes bright, a vague smile playing at my lips. I become .

As I weave through the crowd, a woman compliments my costume.

I give her a closed-lip smile and delicate murmur of thanks before continuing on my way.

As I stride deeper into the room, curiously appreciative eyes flick to me, then away.

In this highly exclusive club that sees the same faces year after year, I am a black-clad enigma. Hopefully, a beautiful one at that.

Beauty may be only skin deep, but it opens many locked doors.

It’s not long before I locate my target. Matthew wears a pair of tan breeches, a tattered white shirt, and a leather vest. A lopsided sash is knotted haphazardly around his head. He appears, even from a distance, distinctly disheveled.

As I approach, Matthew’s gaze catches mine, and his smile lights up. He quickly excuses himself from his companions. My heart upticks as he comes closer. There’s at least two days of blond scruff on his face.