“Well,” Lark says, standing and smoothing her (black) shirt. She’s arranged her face in such a way that you’d think someone has pointed a camera at her. “I really appreciate that.”

“Lark, this is Sibby, my—”

“It’s Sibyl,” Sibby corrects me, abandoning her small roller suitcase and stepping forward to reach out a hand. They shake, Sibby smiling broadly, but Lark keeps her camera-face on. She looks as though she’s about to say what designer she’s wearing, or that she’s “just happy to be nominated.”

I’m uncomfortable on Lark’s behalf, but I’m also immediately protective of Sibby, because I know once the surprise wears off she’ll be completely pissed at herself for calling Lark Princess Freddie. She will also probably not be happy once she notices that eyeliner. She definitely will wish she was wearing a clean shirt.

“I’ve been doing some work for Lark,” I say, to fill in what might be a millennium of hand-shaking silence. “She’s new to the area.”

“Oh. Well, that’s wonderful. She’s the best, our Meg.”

Our Meg? That’s two “ours” in probably two minutes, and this one doesn’t even make sense, unless Sibyl is the royal-we queen of a land called Sarcastia, because based on the tone of her voice, she does not seem to have meant the compliment.

“Yes,” Lark says, and I think she also senses the tone, because she slides her eyes my way briefly before looking back to Sibby. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Sure,” Sibby says, having shifted her posture to seem completely unaffected, almost—cool. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thank you,” says Lark, equally cool, before turning to me. “Meg, I’ll call you?”

“Yes!” I say, scrambling forward, ushering her around Sibby’s abandoned luggage to the door, and while we say our goodbyes I can feel Sibby in the room behind me, a living shadow now, and even though this has been Apartment Number Awkward for months, this time, I can tell, I’m not going to turn around to polite, distant, everything-is-fine Sibby.

When I look back at her she’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her head cocked to the side. The color is high in her cheeks.

“Princess Freddie, huh?” she says in that same tone.

It’s so irritating that I think of correcting her, of saying, Her name is Lark. Instead I shrug. “Yeah, it’s a job that came up a while back.”

“I kind of can’t believe you wouldn’t say anything to me about it.”

Immediately I open my mouth to apologize, to give her some excuse that puts all the blame on me, or that at least absolves her entirely. I’ve been so busy, I could say. She’s a pretty private person, I could say.