It took a ridiculously long time for the sisters to finish their instructions, though that was largely because they were constantly interrupting one another. But Margot thought she was a pretty good sport about it. She took note of how wide each section of hair needed to be, the volume each clip could hold, what diameter she needed in an iron, and which direction to rotate either an iron or a clip to get the desired effect—though she still wasn’t sure she actually desired the effect. She practiced a few times on her own, and she didn’t say what she was thinking about how difficult it would be to get the back into the silly little curlers by herself.

She wasn’t going to point out that she now lived alone. She wouldn’t.

She’d remember the process, though, and do what she could with it. At least since she could simply go to bed with her hair wound around the pins at night and take them out in the morning. A bit of pinning and, according to Elinor, she’d be finished. At least since she’d solidly refused the offer of the pomade the blonde had brought.

At last, they deemed the style complete and let her face the mirror again.

Margot wrinkled her nose at her reflection. “It isn’t me.”

“It is now.” Willa smirked and smoothed down a tuft of her daughter’s hair. Zurie had at some point abandoned Lukas, it seemed. “Unless you want us to make you match your niece.”

Right on cue, Zurie lunged for Margot, chanting, “Go-Go! Go!”

A game board flashed before her mind’s eye. A strange man in the park, playing it. He’d been there a few more times, though not regularly.

Zurie’s fingers found her new waves and latched ahold of them, earning a laughing reprimand from the others. Margot didn’t much care if the style was destroyed, but she also didn’t object when Willa took the little one back. She liked Zurie, and she would like her even more as she grew up a bit and could carry on a conversation. But she never experienced whatever tug these other young women must feel, to make such silly faces and coo over each new addition to their family.

“Let’s show Lukas.” Rosemary tugged her to her feet and gave her a helpful push toward the door. “You know, Go-Go, I could work wonders with that dress, too, if you let me—”

“No. And you’re not allowed to call me that if you’re over three years old.”

Rosemary gave an exaggerated sigh. “You’re hopeless. But we love you anyway.”

A minute later, she stood obediently in front of her brother while he regarded her with lifted brows. His silence stretched long enough that Margot’s fingers curled into her palms. “What? I know it looks strange, but—”