Or maybe not.

Izzy sprayed some rose water on her face and plucked a leaf from an aloe plant on the windowsill. She split the fleshy leaf and squeezed the gel onto her fingers, then rubbed it into her skin. The aloe had a dirty, medicinal scent.

She stepped out into a hallway lined with doors, one of which was open, and she and Dog went inside the white room; Izzy closed the door behind them. Gauze draped a large white bed, and black lacquer furniture with gold lions’ feet looked ready to dance away. Inside the open closet, Izzy saw clothing organized by color—pale blue, white, cream, metallic silver, and gold. Silks, satins, velvets. Even Izzy, who knew little about fashion, could tell this shit cost. She picked up a pair of high-heeled shoes posing coyly on a low shelf and examined them; the soles were a bright, glossy red. Like Clever Gretel’s shoes, Izzy thought, and put them down.

She went over to a bedside table and opened the drawer—a couple of state-of-the-art sex toys, lube, condoms.

Izzy opened the top drawer of a black lacquer bureau. Jumbled, underthings, pricey-looking; she ran her hand over the garments, creamy as fondant. A pair of black lace panties decorated with pink satin roses; the tags were still on. She had never owned anything remotely like this lingerie. Had the woman Cyrus—she made herself think it—fucked owned things like this?

Izzy balled the piece of lace in her fist and then slipped it into her pocket. There was something else in the drawer, too. Something hard and cool. She recoiled for a second but then fished it out. A small stone statue of a woman, all breasts and cleft. Hands pulling herself open for all to see. Sheela na gigs, Izzy knew, were grotesques, also called hunky punks, carved figures squatting erotically on the facades of medieval churches to ward off death, or the dangers of lust. Izzy pocketed the figure.

She’d stolen things before when she was younger—nail polish or lipstick or candy. Sometimes she still poached little soaps and shampoo bottles, tea bags or honey from the 29 Palms Inn when she went to work with Cyrus—she knew Ted would look the other way. She would have stolen books from the library, but she needed to be able to go back there all the time and get more. Besides, books were sacred. But this stuff wasn’t sacred. This place felt somehow like an affront, like the stone woman’s body.

Izzy went into the bathroom again, ripped the tags off the stolen panties and put them on, throwing her old, black cotton underwear with the loosened elastic into the trash. Then she and Dog went back downstairs and outside.

◆◆◆

The upcoming November full moon was called Beaver because this was the month when Native American tribes and European settlers set traps for the animals whose pelts would provide furs for the winter. But this humpbacked gibbous looked more like the so-called Cold Moon of December. The lit-up hot tub shimmered, green and vitreous as an eye. A fire burned in a pit, filling the air with wood smoke tang, and somewhere someone played a hand drum. Izzy could hear the slap of palms and fingers on taut leather.