“You’re as bad as I am!” the doorman tells him, while other guests are now also clamoring to go to Staples. “Okay, I’ll let you all come with me, but you have to walk in front of me so I can see you.”

And the guests in my apartment miraculously depart. Lily has outdone herself. My urge to follow them to replenish my stock of printing paper almost equals my relief that they’re gone. I can tell that my friends are struggling with similar issues as well.

Jen Bloominosky, Georgia’s editor, is one of the last to leave. Before exiting, she turns around and says to me, pointing to my body, “I didn’t dream the extent of it. But I was onto you, give me credit.”

I can’t help smiling.

She says, “I wish I could stay and chat about it, but unfortunately I’m in desperate need of file folders.”

When all the guests are gone, Jack locks the front door and phones the police downstairs. He alerts them that the doorman and guests are on their way down and headed to Staples, possessed by an irresistible need to buy office supplies.

We melt all over Lily, congratulating her, thanking her, and then we do the same with Peter, thanking him for saving my life. If he hadn’t come to the party, I’d probably be dead. I express my gratitude to Penelope and Georgia as well, for their efforts. And of course my friends do some fussing about me—being the one who almost got killed.

We’re all in high spirits except for Lily, who seems sadder than ever.

Some of us use the bathrooms, others pour ourselves drinks. When it’s my turn to emerge from the bathroom, I’m surprised to see Georgia coming back into my apartment from the outside hall.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I was just throwing out some trash,” she replies. She pats Lily’s arm with concern and says to her, “God, you look even less well than Barb did. You can relax now. The nightmare is over.”

“Yours is. Mine never will be.” Lily goes back to the piano and resumes her sorrowful playing.

I suddenly feel the need to put my disguise back on. “Excuse me for a minute,” I mutter, and head toward my bedroom-office to find it.

“Don’t bother,” Georgia says. “It’s shredded.”

I freeze. “What?”

“I sliced it up into a million pieces and threw it down the garbage chute just now.” She finally looks at me.

I’m speechless. I feel a rapid headache coming on.

She says, “You don’t need it.”

All my friends are looking at me now.

“I can make myself another one,” I blurt.

“And undo tonight’s silver lining?” she says. “That would be a shame. And pointless. My publicist saw you being stripped. Now that she knows what you really look like, you can be sure the whole world knows. The era of the disguise is over. It’s no use wearing it anymore. It would just look affected.”

“Plus,” Penelope says to me, “it’s not your beauty that’s dangerous, it’s your personality. We found that out tonight.”

I say to Georgia, “If we ask your publicist nicely not to tell anyone, I’m sure she won’t.”

Peter is wisely choosing to stay out of the conversation.

I look at Lily, who hasn’t yet said anything on the topic. Her feelings on this issue are those I care most about.

Sensing this, she stops playing. “You know my opinion,” she says. “I’m glad Georgia threw out your disguise. I think you should enjoy your beauty. You don’t seem to realize how lucky you are. And sometimes I find that inconsiderate. To see you not appreciating something that could have made my life so happy is almost offensive to me.”

Even though I realize this might be a selfless attempt to help me overcome my need to hide my appearance, her words come as a shock, which must be visible on my face because she quickly adds, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve been great. I’m just so depressed about Strad.”

“You’ll get over him,” Georgia says.

“I know. What I’ll never get over is the world. The importance of the casing.” Lily resumes playing her sad but beautiful piece.

“Don’t you want to sit with us on the couch?” I ask her.

“No, I just want to play a bit longer,” she says.

I have a profile view of her sitting at the piano, and from where I’m standing it looks as though she’s wearing gloves. Having never seen her, or anyone, play the piano with gloves on, I approach her to take a closer look.

I stop in my tracks when I realize she’s not wearing gloves. Her hands are like nothing I’ve ever seen, though exactly as she has described them to me. They’re as reflective as mirrors.

Filled with horror, I watch the transformation creep up her forearms. I remember full well that she thought this change meant death, and I also remember her telling me she was tempted to give in to it.

“Lily!” I bark.

She doesn’t even flinch, as though she hasn’t heard me. She continues playing, her expression glazed.

The reflectiveness is spreading over her chest. Her clothing fades away as her skin turns to mirror.

I shake her, but it makes no difference. The metamorphosis descends toward her legs and simultaneously rises up her neck.

I take both her arms and pull them away from the piano keys. She doesn’t resist. Nearly her entire body is a reflective surface now, and the effect is crawling up her face like beauty once did. She looks at me and murmurs, “I’m sorry.” The transfiguration creeps up to her eyes, making her look as though she’s sinking in mirror, drowning in what’s around her. I see myself in her. But because she’s three-dimensional, I’m grotesquely deformed, like in curved mirrors at amusement parks.

“Lily! Lily!” I yell. I grab her by the shoulders and shake her again, then tap her cheeks. Her gaze, though fixed on mine, is vacant. “Lily, stop that. Come out of it. Fight it, don’t let go.” And suddenly there’s a little crack that appears on Lily’s chest, at the level of her heart. And the crack expands like a cobweb.

“What’s happening?” I scream, turning to the others. They are gathered around me, looking at Lily’s chest.

“Lily, don’t,” I say, putting my palm over her heart, hoping to stop the web of cracks from growing. But the fissures continue to radiate in an ever-widening circle. It’s only a few more seconds before they reach her arms, her thighs, and then crawl up her neck.

I yell to her that she can stop it. I beg her not to let this happen.

The cracks cover her face.

“It’s not too late,” I tell her, more softly. “There’s so much to live for. Everyone loves you.”

It’s not working.

“I order you to stop.”

It does not stop. The cracks continue spreading, dividing each fragment of her into smaller fragments. Her entire being is now cracked in a million places.

I close my eyes. “I can’t live if you die.”

I sob, my eyes clenched shut. When I open them again, a fragment of her broken reflective surface comes loose and falls at my feet. And then another piece becomes detached and falls. And then a tiny piece of her arm. The holes left behind are dark and empty.

I won’t let her come apart. These broken pieces must be held together because they are all there is left of her now. I loop my arms around her. I lift her off the bench to a standing position, and I plaster my body against hers to prevent pieces from falling. I ignore the pain as her sharp fragments cut into my flesh. It doesn’t matter. She must be held together. I move my arms against her back to make sure I’m holding onto as much of her broken self as possible. In the process I get more cuts. If I’d still been wearing my disguise, I would have been protected by the padding.

Our friends haven’t yet noticed my injuries because my back is to them, and they’ve barely had a chance to process what’s happening.

“Lily, I will help you,” I tell her. “We’ll all help you. We’ll do a better job, this time. Give us another chance. Don’t let yourself come apart like this. Fight it! You can still fight it.”