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said, stretching out. “This bed is really comfy. And everything’s so pink. This would be much better than a tent. Let’s just stay.”
    â€œCan’t do that.” Dev set his carry-on bag down next to a white wooden end table bearing a porcelain pitcher decorated with painted camellias. “Eyes on the prize, Libby.”
    â€œAnd what is the prize again? Because this bed deserves a prize.”
    â€œGucci, Pucci, Dior, and more,” he recited as he started unpacking, laying out items of clothing over the back of the camellia-covered armchair by the window. “Just keep repeating that to yourself. That’s what I do. I’m making enough money so I can start college looking like I spent the summer in effin’ Milan ripping clothes off the backs of runway models. And that makes all the tents, cots, and mosquitoes in the world worth it. You can spend your share on whatever you want. Even on a . . . I don’t know . . .” He cast around for an idea. “A spinning wheel.”
    â€œA spinning wheel?” I propped myself up on my elbows to shoot him an incredulous look.
    â€œI don’t know what you history types go for!” He shrugged. “It just popped into my head.”
    â€œWell, I could get a really nice stand mixer,” I thought suddenly. “I’ve never had one, and Martha Stewart uses one for
everything,
so it could really take my pastry up a notch—”
    â€œI liked you better lying down than discussing kitchen appliances,” he interrupted. I frowned at him and plopped back down on the bed. Ah, bliss. “Take a nap while I change, Sleeping Beauty, and then I’ll help you get dressed.”
    â€œMmm,” I agreed, eyes already falling closed.
    Far too soon, Dev shook me awake. He was in his shirtsleeves, wearing a herringbone vest over a snowy cotton shirt, a casually tied silk cravat, and pants tucked into boots that reminded me of my time horseback riding at Girl Scout Camp Shingobee Timbers in the Chippewa National Forest. I saw a navy blue frock coat draped over the camellia chair, waiting for him.
    â€œCome on, lazy,” he reprimanded, as he shook me again. “Time to get dressed.”
    Groggily, I sat up. “What time is it?” I wondered. “Is it tomorrow?”
    â€œIt’s twelve minutes later.” He rolled his eyes. “Stand.” I did. “Here,” he said, handing me a pile of white things. “Put these on, and then I’ll corset you. Go on, behind the screen.” He shooed me away. “Better start getting into character now. Modesty and all that.”
    Obediently, I marched behind the curved wooden panels of the white Victorian dressing screen. Okay, things were looking good. I pulled on a white cotton off-the-shoulder chemise and a pair of lace-trimmed pantaloons. I was impressed with Dev’s historical accuracy. He’d chosen not to sew the crotch seam, but to use a ribbon to tie the pantaloons together in back, like they would have done in the 1860s so ladies could relieve themselves more easily. I decided to keep my polka dot underwear on. It felt a little too drafty, otherwise. And then . . .
    â€œStockings?! No. Not cool. In this heat? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    â€œNot kidding. I’m wearing pants, princess. Pull ’em on,” Dev ordered. “And they’re cotton, anyway. It won’t be that bad. ’Bama belles wore cotton stockings all summer long in the 1860s. You can do it too.”
    I picked up the two elastic garters that had fallen out of the pile and secured the stockings above my knees. Now dressed head to toe in white, I skipped out from behind the screen.
    â€œâ€˜Here comes Suzy Snowflake, dressed in a snow-white gown,’” I sang merrily.
    â€œWhat the eff are you singing?” Dev asked.
    â€œIt was my solo at the Eunice Norton Elementary Holiday Concert in fifth grade . . . never mind