Nons is too busy figuring out how to breathe while examining the unusual scape. Black lollipops and black handcuffs are the most easily recognizable products for sale.

“But I’m loving the drama,” I add, waving my hands around the place to give them something to do.

“Would you like to sit?” She motions at a tufted chair across from the chaise longue, patchy and stained-looking, as if previous lovers couldn’t wait for their tented escapades. I swear one stain is still wet.

“Mm, that’s okay,” I say, bouncing on my toes. “It’s so delicious to stretch. Long, long ride and all that. So. Do you have any pamphlets on that foreign actress who disappeared? Mireille?”

“Oh.” Yuki’s lips purse. “Mireille Maps. Of course.” She eyes me. “I don’t sell many of those maps anymore, let me tell you. I expected to, what with the retrospective, but no one gives a damn about fine art anymore.” Rising to a commanding six feet, she walks over to the wall, where there are pamphlets lined up, like the visitors’ center. There’s a careful precision to the way she moves, a dainty self-consciousness, and I can’t stop watching her every move, riveted. I bet she’s an actress, or a dancer. She follows the rows with a pointed nail before settling on a single stack in the bottom right, a skinny pamphlet printed with Mama’s grainy face.

“That’ll be ten euro,” she says, holding the pamphlet aloft. As Nons reaches for it, she snatches it back. “Ten euro, girl.”

Noni hands her two bills, which Yuki flips through with an overdramatic flourish before handing her the sad prize, a smile repasted on her face.

“Anything else?” she asks. “Flowers to enjoy later at home with your Chanel fanny pack?”

The back room contains pots and baskets of tangled tendrils and waxy blooms reaching out of the dark with tragic desperation.

“God, I wish. They’re … something else.” I watch over Noni’s shoulder as she thumbs through the packet, eager for a surprise. It’s marked with x’s for Stökéwood—at the wrong location, thank the Lord—plus random spots on Viloxin, like this French restaurant that definitely opened after Mama left, marked as Mireille’s Favorite Restaurant, and loads of international boutique outposts. Which, like, okay. She had a Dior sponsorship and got most of her shit for free.

“Wow,” I mumble under my breath. I could have told her the pamphlet would be a waste.

But Baba Yuki just points at a sign above her head that reads, NO RETURNS, NO EXCHANGES—ALL SALES FINAL. And I have to respect the hustle. I mosey past a stack of hot pink flyers, reading, MADAME MIRAKI, BRINGING YOU BUTTERFLY KISSES EVERY NIGHT IN MAY. ONLY AT—

“No touching, princess.”