May is gone. In her place is a creature hunched atop four clawed-footed legs that bristle with pine cone scales. Glowing red eyes glower from beneath a spiked mask of deep aubergine, a lethal spike slicing up from the snout like a gargantuan Japanese horned beetle. A riot of leaves and rotting flowers grow from the creature’s ridged back, where two ragged wings of transparent cerulean twitch. Its whole body sprouts clumps of neon moss and fungus that glisten in the fluorescent lights of the convention center. It looks powerful and decrepit and diseased at the same time. Shockingly monstrous.

“Perfect,” I tell it.

I tell May.

“You look pretty good, too,” she says from beneath the mask.

Whereas May’s Pinehorn cosplay emphasizes illusion, mine is a more subtle, though just as complex, build. My character—the Spring Keeper—is mostly human-shaped. But because I’m extra, I’ve fashioned prosthetics that give me a long, sharp nose, spiked cheekbones, and an overbearing brow. I’ve altered my exposed chest, too, creating tissue-thin, clammy skin over blue veins and spindly bones. The image of health.

Only the shine of my one black eye shows from beneath my hooded robe, which I’ve sewn and embroidered. It took ages to do, but the effect looks both whimsical and ghastly, as though I’m one blink away from being completely overtaken by nature itself.

We are unrecognizable. We are totally transformed.

We are for sure going to qualify.

“Remember the poses?” I ask her.

“Of course.”

“And the cues?”

“Yup.”

“And you can walk okay?”

“For a girl in a forty-pound costume, balancing atop four stilts? Sure. But Raff, next time can I be the one in the pretty mushroom dress?”

I barely acknowledge her sarcasm as I unfasten and refasten one of her straps for the eighth time. I’m afraid that the moment I decide we’re ready, everything will fall apart.

“Relax, Raff. Listen, this is going to go well,” she tells me. “We’re going to win, and we’re going to get you that sponsorship, okay? And then it’s only a matter of time before those fancy-shmancy art schools will be begging to review your portfolio, okay?”

I force a smile (a small one—I don’t want to risk dislodging my prosthetic cheekbones). I hope she’s right. Everything—every dream of mine, every winking whim—rides on proving I can do this without Evie. In spite of her, in fact.

“And listen.” May’s voice turns solemn. “I know you miss him, and I know it was supposed to be him in this costume and not me, but—”

“Stop.”

“Raff—”

“You know I don’t want to hear about him.”

“Yes, but Raff—”