Her home, then. I wonder, with a shiver, if I should expect a faithful re-creation of the interior of Mama’s childhood home—not that I would know what that means. She never told us stories about it herself—the past was past for a reason. At first, in the darkness, I only smell stale tobacco, spilled coffee, and, faintly, sewage. Mothballs, too. But my eyes adjust: The whitewashed house’s dark interior is no dream—it redefines filth. The front room’s packed with ruined wooden furniture and filled to bursting with wet-looking books—drawers sag with them; shelves overflow. Stained fabric lies in a pile in the corner, reeking of sick. Tiny fruit flies speckle old, crusty containers of lemon yogurt—above them, a display of rusted-over machíkíl cleavers on the wall. Tai hovers on the doormat behind me, lips pinched.

“Shoes off,” Daria snaps, pointing at a few soiled, mismatched shearling slippers next to where I stand. Something dark and many-legged scuttles past me and out the door, desperate for fresh air, maybe, and Tai flinches into the cracked doorframe, before shooting me a look.

“It’s such a nice day outside,” Tai says brightly, course-correcting, even though it’s plainly overcast. “Why don’t we find a café? My treat.” Her eyes hold on mine. “Come on, Manon.”

As if I’m the one who lured us here. As if we could have any kind of private conversation of substance with Daria out there.

She bounces on the toes of her heeled shoes, so ready to retreat, and my mind could shove her right off her spindly stilts with its frustration. We came here with a purpose. She made the appointment. But the second it upsets her delicate sensibilities—

“I’m agoraphobic,” Daria replies flatly. “I don’t go outside.” She looks Tai up and down with amused slowness. “Now. I gather you’re here because you saw my interview—or perhaps, to talk about my upcoming article. If that’s the case, kindly remove your mother’s 2007 Prada shoes and come inside. Before I change my mind.” She disappears into the room beyond.

I’m the first to obey. My toes crunch on something inside the slipper, but I don’t say a word. My eyes flick to Tai’s, which are flaming. She keeps almost falling while easing off her heels, until I try to steady her.