“I’m Black and trans in the South. I’m resilient,” Veronica said with a sniff.

“We were just experimenting,” Helen muttered, winking at Veronica.

“I have total faith that y’all won’t make me clean up glitter no matter what you do,” Carys said, then blew kisses at her housemates and grabbed Greta’s hand. “We’re gonna go hang out in my room. Happy caking.”

“Nice to meet you,” Greta said before following Carys.

Helen saluted her, and Veronica waved elegant fingers with a knowing look.

Carys’ room was painted midnight blue, and mobiles of geometric shapes hung from the ceiling. She had a large window hanging on the wall that she used as a white board—it was scrawled with equations, dates, and symbols Greta couldn’t guess at.

A clothes rack burst with colors, patterns, and textures, and several hats hung on hooks above it. She had a standing desk, and the legs were encrusted with…teeth?

Greta leaned closer to inspect it.

“They’re real,” Carys said. “Things decompose really quickly here because of the heat, so animals that die get stripped to the bone. I think their teeth are so beautiful.”

Never having given the teeth of animals much thought beyond not wanting them to sink into her flesh, Greta was obliged to agree now that she was confronted with them in this context. They were of all different sizes and shapes, some curved, some serrated, and some ground flat.

“It’s like what we were talking about the other day—what’s the difference between animals and plants when a plant has teeth, basically,” Greta said.

Carys nodded and hopped onto her bed, leaning against the headboard. It was a stately affair, with carved posts and diaphanous fabric spilling from the top.

Carys pulled out a glass pipe and some weed. She packed a bowl and held out the pipe and a lighter to Greta. “Want some?”

“Thanks.”

Greta sat cross-legged on the bed facing Carys and blew smoke at the ceiling. Carys wiped off her lipstick and they passed the pipe back and forth.

Above the bed hung an enormous painting of a horse rearing against a backdrop of choppy waters. On the horse’s back was a figure, her hair flowing around her nude form but failing to cover her ample curves. It was glorious.

It was…

“Is that, um, you?” Greta asked.

Carys grinned and handed her the pipe and lighter.

“Yeah. My friend Edward painted it for me. The horse is supposed to be—”

“Teacup! I can tell.”

“Yep. I helped him propose to his boyfriend by doing this personalized ghost tour based on spots they’d been on dates around town, and this was his thank-you.”

“His thank-you was to paint you naked?”

“Well,” Carys said, blowing smoke elegantly toward the painting, “I requested the subject matter.” She grinned.

“Is it, uh… Never mind.”