I step up to a typical-looking ranch house in Middle Purgatory and ring the doorbell. Outside, the place looks just like my home: a one-story gray ranch house on a bland street of other one-story gray ranch houses. A few seconds pass before a beautiful blonde couple opens the door.

A willowy-tall woman tilts her head to one side, setting her blonde ringlets jiggling. “Hello, Myla.”

Damn, Cissy’s mom totally hates me. “Hi, Mrs. Frederickson.”

“I’m here, too.” Cissy’s dad’s handsome face droops into a frustrated frown. He hates me too. It’s the tail. Most quasis don’t see Furor as demons per se, since they have two deadly sins and all. We’re more like freaks of nature, which is how Mr. Frederickson is glaring at me right now.

“Hello, Mr. F.” No point using his full name; he loathes me anyway. I pop onto my tip-toes and peer over their collective shoulders. “Is Cissy home?” I look beyond her parents, seeing the familiar interior of oriental rugs, gilded furniture, and modern art.

“Myla!” Cissy bursts through the wall of her parents, grabbing my hand. “The gowns arrived last night!” She drags me past the parental gatekeepers and through their elaborately-decorated house. I’ve been here a hundred times, but I’m still shocked that any walls can hold so many tiny shelves, statues, and pricey knick-knacks. Cissy leads me into her bedroom and kicks the door shut behind us. “I had to empty half my closet to make room for them.”

Something colorful on the wall catches my eye. “Hey, you got a new painting.” I stare at it and wince. “What is it?”

“Some kind of human modern art thing my dad scared up. Jackson Polly-somebody. Dad got a deal on it.” She tilts her head, setting her blonde ringlets bouncing. “I think it may have fallen off a truck, if you know what I mean.”

I scan her room, looking for anything else that’s different. My bedroom’s standard ghoul issue: drab carpet, blah bed, and non-descript dresser. It hasn’t changed since I was two years old. Cissy’s room looks like a decorator show house from the old quasi republic days. There’s a matching bed-set, plush carpet, and line of funky paintings on her walls. Her dad is constantly adding new goodies from his black-market deals.

My best friend pulls the cover from her gown. It’s an emerald-green sheath with long looping sleeves that’s trimmed with black velvet.

I lean back on my heels and stare. “That looks lovely. What do the colors mean?”

“Green means I’m a single woman in a relationship. The black ribbon says I’m a guest of the House of Rixa.” She pulls the cover off my gown. It looks like the first one, only it’s blood red.

“What does red mean?”

“That you’re a single lady who’s unattached.”