In the bathroom, frayed washcloths in our hands, Bee and I scrub the remnants of last night from our faces. Daisy’s left a couple dresses on the sink for us. I don’t know if they’re hers, I don’t know where they came from. Everything seems to be shared here, a primordial vat of scrappy hand-me-downs and secondhand treasures.

“Do you think they really know her?” Bee flicks a cinder from her shoulder. “That they’ve met Jane?”

“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to disappoint her, not wanting to lie, either.

We shed our worn clothes, these gowns we’ve owned for longer than some of the kids in this house have been alive, and slip into the outfits Daisy gave us. Bee looks at home in her embroidered frock, stitched meticulously with tiny pink flowers, but I just stand here next to her, fidgeting. My dress is shorter than hers, the pale fabric gauzy, practically see-through, the neckline dipping down.

The Victorian in me can’t help but blush.

This isn’t me. None of this is, not the house or the clothes or the bohemian company. We’ve only been in this city a few hours, yet I already feel like I’m dissolving, becoming someone else.

Not that I know what I look like in this dress, not really. I’m right in front of a mirror, but I can’t see my own reflection. There’s only a gray shadow, an impossibly hazy outline where my figure should be. After all these years, I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Bee leans against the sink, her reflection right there where it belongs. She won’t look at herself.

“Can you drive tonight, Lucy?” she asks, and her hands won’t stop shaking. She’s terrified we won’t find Jane, and also terrified we will.

“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile, pretending everything is normal. Nearby, the two urns whisper on the floor. The fractures in the clay have widened again. They can’t stay like this. They’re too strong together.

I scan the bathroom. There’s a hole near the ceiling, an old furnace vent where somebody removed the metal grate. I wrap an urn, the quiet one, in our discarded clothes, muffling the sound of his voice, before stuffing him into the dark.

“Is that safe?” Bee purses her lips, wincing a little. “What if somebody else finds him first?”

I grip the other urn, the one from the Hollywood sign. “And what if Renfield finds us?”

Downstairs, the front door is already open, and Daisy is waiting outside on the sidewalk, her crocheted bag slung over her shoulder.

“Ready?” she asks brightly, and we all pile into the Buick.