“Free now,” murmured the girl who emerged. Her eyes were down, but Daisy instantly recognized Grace. Everything about her was drained and drooping, and for a moment, Daisy fancied that she really was looking at a ghost.

“Grace? Susan introduced us at breakfast the other week . . . Is everything all right?”

“Uh-huh. Yup. Fine.” But her phone was clutched tightly in her hand, and she sounded as if she’d been crying. No matter how desperate Daisy was for the loo, the thought of leaving Grace feeling that her misery had gone unnoticed was too much.

“I know we’re not friends—”

“None of us are.” Her words weren’t spoken sharply but murmured fast and low. She looked up at Daisy then, her smile sad and crooked. “I don’t mean to be snappy. I’m just not in a party mood tonight.”

“That’s OK. You don’t have to be.”

“It’s the only way I know how to get through.” Grace’s ghostly visage ducked and bobbed in Daisy’s vision as Daisy danced the Dance of the Desperate Bladder. “Toilet’s free. Go pee.”

It didn’t matter how quick she was. When Daisy emerged once more, Grace had disappeared.

Susan and the sentient tree had been joined by a Hobbit. Apparently there’d been a whole fellowship thing going on, but they’d lost the others. Susan, the tree, and the Hobbit found this hilarious and had been giggling about the Mines of Moria and how treacherous Boromir was.

“I mean, he’s gone off with someone dressed as Aslan, and, y’know?” The Hobbit was aggrieved. “That’s just not on—mixing the magic like that. Something bad will happen.”

“Tolkien and Lewis were friends, though . . .” Susan was losing the thread of her thoughts—she’d had a lot of rum and Coke. “So that makes it all OK. I’m sure. Boromir can get it on with Aslan, and everyone’s happy.”

“What is it you’re dressed as, anyway?” the tree asked. “Davy Croquet?”

“That’s not right.” The Hobbit wagged a finger. “It’s Davy Croquette. Like the little potatoes.”

“I’ll give you a clue . . .” Susan set her trapper hat straight and reached out to pluck a weapon from the hands of an axe-wielding murderer, which she then swung about, miming chopping wood.

“A LUMBERJACK!” Susan’s companions bellowed in unison.

“A sexy lumberjack!” Susan corrected, unbuttoning her shirt to an almost indecent level, the other two girls cheering and smashing their plastic cups together to shower themselves in a fountain of Coke.

“No, no, no, no, no . . .” The Hobbit slung an arm around Susan, eyes a little fuzzy, speech a little slurred. “Now, that’s a sexy lumberjack.”