“Right. Obviously not. This is just some fantasy to you where your long-lost daughter returns to cook you breakfast and sleep on your sofa. But I care. I loved Moony. I found her lying dead in her bedroom. I lost the only life I’ve ever known, the one I thought I was making for myself. That just happened…yesterday. So excuse me if I don’t feel like painting each other’s toenails and meeting all your crazy buddies down in the square. And I was never lost. You left me, remember?”

She doesn’t answer me, doesn’t even look at me. She just picks up her plate of eggs and walks stoically into her bedroom, closing the door with a soft click.

It takes everything I have not to throw my plate across the room.

When she emerges an hour later, the sofa is folded up with my comforter lying neatly across the back. I am curled at one end with a sketchbook in my lap, taking advantage of the good light. An open suitcase lies on the floor next to me with clothes spilling out of it. Her eyes go to the mess.

“We’ll have to get you a wardrobe or something for all your clothes. I’ll call Gary this afternoon.”

“Yes, let’s. Surely Gary will save the day.” I am still smarting from this morning, still angry that she has yet to shed a tear for Moony and that she robbed me of the only closure I might have gotten by skipping out on a proper funeral. I don’t care about her money excuse right now, even if it does hold water. Even if I need every penny we might have spent on a funeral to pay for a decent school. I don’t care about any of her excuses.

She rolls her eyes and starts tugging on a pair of long, fingerless gloves. That’s when I notice what she’s wearing. If it’s a costume, I’m not sure of what or who. But it’s not normal clothing and definitely not business attire. Her boots are mid-calf, dark leather, and heeled. They peek out from beneath a flounce of burgundy, layered skirting. Her black corset is thick, like canvas, with tarnished buckles across the front. Her breasts rest on top like two big scoops of marshmallow crème.

She is gifted with curves that must skip a generation because Moony was simply round like a potato and I am lean and straight like an upright arrow. You have a delicate build, Cat, Moony would say, but the boys just called it flat.

Mary’s hair is curled and cascades over one shoulder, and her lips are the same color as her skirt—too red to be purple, but too purple to be red. Her eyes are dark like mine, and they glisten beneath the weight of her heavily mascaraed lashes.