Carys lived in a different part of the Marigny than Truman’s house was in, though Greta wasn’t clear enough on directions to understand exactly where. Carys explained that the term riverside meant closer to the Mississippi, while lakeside meant closer to Lake Pontchartrain. And upriver and downriver referred to the directions of the Marigny versus the Garden District. Greta tried to recreate the route she’d taken from Truman’s house the morning she’d seen Teacup in the backyard of Carys’ house, but she’d turned hither and yon on a whim that morning and couldn’t unravel it.

“So you live…upriver and lakeside of me?”

“Uh. Yes. You wouldn’t really use lakeside that way, but it’s true. Really, you live in Marigny-Bywater, and I’m in Marigny closer to St. Claude. Here we are.”

Carys’ house was painted a cheery apricot color, with olive shutters, light pink woodwork, and a bright red door. The porch was white and covered with potted plants, as were the wood steps that led up to it. Lanterns and tiny disco balls hung from the edge of the porch, and bunches of dried herbs and flowers hung between them.

“Come on in,” Carys said and opened the unlocked door.

Music greeted Greta as she stepped inside. Then something nearly hit her in the face. She jumped backward and stepped into Carys, who steadied her.

“Shit, sorry!” someone yelled from out of Greta’s line of sight.

Carys let out a bark of laughter. “It’s king cake season. Don’t be alarmed.”

Greta didn’t know what that meant, but she could now see that what had almost hit her was just a balloon filled with a lot of glitter.

“It’s a hazard. If it pops, it’ll blast glitter into someone’s eyeballs, and we’ll get sued!”

“Psh, they’ll have to find us first,” came the response.

“Hey, y’all!” Carys shouted. “Can I introduce you to Greta?”

Two people emerged from what Greta assumed to be the kitchen, since they were wearing aprons.

“Greta, these are my housemates. This is Veronica.”

Veronica was a tall Black woman with her hair braided and pulled into a low ponytail. She wore a black baseball cap with ZERO stitched on it in neon orange, and her owl-printed apron covered mismatched shortie pajamas that showed off her long legs. She was beautiful, but when she smiled, revealing a small gap in her front teeth, she glowed.

“Greta from the far north country of Maine,” Veronica said, holding out a hand. “Welcome to paradise.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” Greta said.

“And this is Helen. They don’t usually throw things at guests.”

Helen was small but muscular, and when they held out a hand, their grin was feral. Greta got the distinct impression that perhaps they wished they could throw things at guests often.

“You won’t tell, will you?” they said to Greta.

“Uh, no? Tell what?”