My sleep is anything but peaceful.

Half awake, I toss and turn for hours, stuck in the delirium between dreams and reality. At one stage I think I hear footsteps next to my bed, but I can’t move, can’t open my eyes.

I feel the duvet gently lifted away, and cool lips touching the bruise on my chest. I slip deeper under the tides of sleep, and for a while I’m wandering in a cool green forest, with fir trees as tall as towers, and distant silver birds high up in the branches. They call down to me, and I will my arms to turn into wings so that I can fly up and join them.

Just as the first snowy white feathers break the surface of my skin, a whisper pulls me from my dreams.

“Wake up, Cupcake.”

I open my eyes to find Alastaire sitting on the end of my bed, his face illuminated by the pale light of the crescent flooding in through the window. I can see stars outside – it must still be the middle of the night.

“Dreaming about me, I hope?” He asks, winking at me with a mischievous smile. He’s wearing dark joggers and a white tank top, showing off his beautifully toned arms. His tousled blonde hair shines silver in the moonlight, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat.

I pull the duvet up higher, remembering that I got into bed without my clothes.

Clearly it’s a terrible idea crawling into bed naked in a house filled with teenaged boys. Why do I do these things to myself?

“How did you get in here?” I ask.

“Through the chimney,” he says.

“What?” I ask, trying to picture Alastaire crawling out of the fireplace.

“I’m joking, of course,” he says. “The door was wide open. Anyway, get dressed. There’s something I need to show you.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“That’s a surprise,” he says.

I could tell him I’m too tired and I just want to sleep, but honestly, he’s piqued my curiosity. And it’s not like I’m likely to get much sleep tonight anyway.

“Ok,” I say. “But you have to leave the room while I get dressed.”

“You’d make me stand outside in the cold dark corridor?” He says, giving me his best puppy dog eyes. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“I’m not getting dressed in front of you,” I say.

“I’ll close my eyes,” he says, lying back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. He theatrically waves his hands through the air before holding them over his eyes.

“I can’t see a thing,” he says. “Now hurry up. We don’t have much time.”

I don’t trust Alastaire not to peek. Because I’m not an idiot.

Alastaire’s lying on the duvet across the foot of the bed, so I can’t wrap that around myself. I consider making a dash in the nude over to the wardrobe, or telling him again to go wait outside, before I remember that there’s a pair of pajamas under my pillow.

When I was a kid, my mom would always leave my pajamas folded neatly under my pillow after she did laundry. I liked the convenience of it, and now it’s become a sort of habit of mine.

I slip my hands under the pillow and pull out a pair of lacy white shorts with a white silk bow and a matching cami.

Now for the tricky part.

I burrow down under the duvet, slipping on the shorts first, then the top.

“What’s all the squirming around under the covers for?” Alastaire asks, propping himself up on his side at the end of the bed. “I thought you were getting dressed.”

“I am dressed,” I say, lifting up the duvet and stepping gingerly out of the bed.

Alastaire doesn’t try to hide his interest. These pajamas are miniscule, after all, and I wouldn’t even wear them during a sleepover with the girls. They’re that porno. His eyes flicker up my legs and linger on the very low-cut lacy cami.

I can feel a warm summer breeze coming in through the window, but I walk over to the wardrobe anyway, rummaging through the meager selection of clothes I brought along from home. I take out a chunky grey woolen knit cardigan, snuggling into the soft fabric, still feeling Alastaire’s gaze burning into me all the while.

“There’s no need to wear so many layers,” he says, sitting up on the bed. “We’re only going across the hallway. The surprise is in my bedroom.”

Hold. Right. Up. This isn’t going where I thought it was…

“In that case, no thanks,” I say. “I’m not that naïve.”

“And I’m not that thirsty,” Alastaire says, rising up and walking over to the door. “What do you take me for? I wouldn’t try trick you. Gentleman’s honor. Come along now. Or you’ll miss it.”

He gestures out of the doorway, and with a sigh I follow him down the corridor. We pass Kitty’s room, Lyall’s, Elliot’s, Felix’s, Ben’s, before reaching his.

His room is just like all the other bedrooms in the cabin – a small cozy space with an antique wooden wardrobe (probably carved by my grandmother), a fireplace, and a bed next to the window.

“Come along,” he says, taking my hand and leading me towards his bed.

Oh god. So much for gentleman’s honor.

I’m about to hightail out of there when I hear a faint chirping from the windowsill.

The window shutters are wide open, allowing the heady scent of the climbing red roses outside to flow in.

Alastaire sits down on his bed, his back against the windowsill. He raises his finger to his lips, gesturing for silence as I settle down next to him.

I look for the source of the chirping.

Right outside the window, two snowy white doves have made a messy nest of twigs in amongst the tangled roses.

One dove is sitting on the nest, while her mate watches her from a nearby thorny branch. She shifts slightly, and I can see a clutch of small white eggs, gleaming like moonlight beneath her. One of the eggs is half cracked open, and she gently pecks at it, patiently freeing the new life within. Next to it, something pink and chirping snuggles up under her wing.

A newborn baby dove.

A tiny miracle.

I watch for what seems like hours, until all three of the babies have hatched, and the parents are sleepily settled down on their chirping children.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alastaire. While I was watching the doves, he was watching me. The whole time.

“That was amazing,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “Thanks for… for thinking to show me that.”

“My pleasure,” he says. Even though I can’t see his face, I know he’s wearing that charming, rakish grin of his. “I knew you’d appreciate it.”

Thankful that my blush should be hard to see, even with the bright moonlight streaming in through the window, I turn back to the doves and watch them close their eyes and drift off to sleep. Their pearly feathers shine silver under the glinting moonbeams.

Just like the silver birds in my dream earlier.

“It’s weird,” I say, turning to look at Alastaire. “Before you woke me up… I was having this dream. About silver birds, really high up. And I was… I think I was a bird too. Or becoming one. Stupid, right?” I giggle at the end, wondering if he’ll laugh or think I’m a freak for telling him that.

“Seriously?” Alastaire asks, his cool gaze suddenly turning to surprise.

He runs his hands though his hair, his bright blue eyes looking searchingly at me, like he’s trying to make up his mind about something.

After a short pause, he nods, slowly.

“I’ve been having dreams about a city in the sky, as far back as I can remember,” he says.

“Like a… sci fi sort of thing?” I ask, picturing the Cloud City in Star Wars. “Are they… futuristic dreams?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “The opposite, actually. It’s a long time ago. A really, really long time ago. The dreams feel like they belong to another person, but also to me, if you know what I mean. As if I’m another person. And there are birds, thousands of birds, and people with wings like birds. In this kingdom high above the clouds.”

“Angels?” I say.

“Precisely,” he says. “Bizarre, isn’t it? Every night, without fail, I’m flying around in birdland, swooping through the air with my feathered chums like a fool. It’s not all fun and games though. Over the years the dreams have gotten darker. There’s fighting, and violence, sadness. It’s all been a blur recently.”

“Do you think… they could be memories?” I ask.

“Memories?” He asks incredulously, a smirk forming. “Now you sound like my mother.”

“Your mother?” I ask, wondering where there is going.

"Yes," he says, the smirk gone. "Besides you, she's the only other person I've ever mentioned this to. Consider yourself highly privileged. Anyhow, she was a rather... esoteric woman. Fairies, ghosts, goblins. Angel guides and crystals. You name in, she believed in it. When I told her about the dreams, she was convinced I was remembering some sort of past life. Can you imagine?" He laughs, but it's a hollow sound, more sad than happy.

“I always thought she’d get a hoot out of how the media started calling me ‘The Angel’, like I’m some sort of celestial deity or something,” he says, a faraway look in his eyes. “She would have loved that.”

She would have loved that. Past tense.

I don’t remember ever reading anything about Alastaire’s mom, and now I know why. I decide not to pry. Perhaps that’s why he has such a carefully cultivated persona – the charming rake, the hedonistic, aristocratic playboy. Is it all to hide a deep sorrow, his secret pain? If so, then who is the real Alastaire?

Perhaps that’s what lies at the heart of all this. Who he really is. Who I really am. Who all of us really are. Now’s the right time. Time to ask the angel, and get to the bottom of the all the crazy stuff happening.

I’m about to speak when Alastaire suddenly reaches out, taking my hand in his.

“There’s something you’re hiding from me, I know it,” he says, his voice gentle. “What happened to you, Ashling?”

I’ve gotten so used to him calling me Cupcake that it makes me uncomfortable when he uses my real name. None of the boys know about the accident, about Evan and Mia and the others. I’m not ready to tell them yet. I may never be ready. I shift nervously as Alastaire stares at me, and my cardigan falls away slightly, just off my shoulder.

Too late, I feel the warm night air caress the love bite just above my collarbone. I quickly pull the wool back up over my shoulder, but it’s too late.

He saw it.

Alastaire reaches up, pushing aside the fabric.

He stares hard at it, then looks into my own eyes.

“Who did this?” He asks slowly, his voice dangerously low.

I shake my head, desperately trying to think of an excuse.

“I’ll kill him,” he says, rising up from the bed.

Without thinking, I lunge forward and grab him, wrapping my hand around his wrist.

“Wait,” I say. “It’s not… it’s nothing. I can look after myself.”

“Really?” He asks, his face twisting with anger. “You don’t even know what you’re messing with. I thought you understood. Stay away from Felix. He’s dangerous.”

“What do you mean, he’s dangerous?” I ask, knowing that my tone is growing more heated, more exasperated, but not really caring much about it.

I wish he’d just be clear for once. Why won’t anyone tell me WTF is going on?

“What is Felix?” I ask, gripping him tighter. “What are you?”

“What?” He asks, a puzzled expression on his face. “What do you mean… what am I? What sort of question is that?”

“SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.” Ben’s muffled yelling carries through the wall from the room next door. “Some of us are trying to sleep Al. You’re talking in your sleep again.”

We both look at the far wall, before Alastaire clutches my arms, pulling me towards him.

“Just stay away from Felix,” Alastaire says into my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. You don’t really know him.”

“I’m starting to think I don’t really know any of you,” I whisper back. I free myself from his grip and walk over to the door, pausing at the threshold. I could try talking to him again, but it’s pretty clear he’s not going to give me any answers. Maybe he can’t. Or he just doesn’t want to. So I turn and steal a last glance at him, as he lingers in the moonlight, watching me with a strangely wistful expression.

“Goodnight, Alastaire,” I say.

I hurry down the hallway, back to my own bedroom.

Lock the door again, useless though that may be.

And then I lie in bed until dawn planning my next move.