He knew she was noticing the scars. She had her head against him and she wasn’t looking, but she was stroking his arm and she kept tracing the circles. So he knew she was noticing them, because of the circles. He wished she wouldn’t. On the other hand, he didn’t want her to stop.

He was having to feel two things at once way more often since Calliope moved in. Ann politely checked out on him at moments like these. He liked to picture her with headphones on in her own private basement, which she had decorated like Hennessy’s.

They were sitting up in the big double bed, haphazardly under the covers but not wearing anything. Erik was playing with Lucy in the dining room, and adult supervision was just next door in the kitchen, so they had plenty of time to be lazy. They could hang out naked and listen to records if they wanted.

He’d rather do that with clothes on and some sandwiches, or a cookie, but just cuddling like this was okay.

Except she was noticing the scars.

She took a breath and he winced. He knew she was going to say something about them.

“Hey, babe, you mind if I sketch you?”

He drew the blanket up to his chin and hid behind it. He was all done cuddling.

“Hey.” She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the blanket but didn’t pull it down. She looked up at him and he looked away. “It’s okay. I don’t have to. I just think you look cool. You know?”

He shook his head. Calliope thought frogs and lizards and dead pigeons looked “cool” too.

Please don’t. I’m not a project. I’m a person. I didn’t mess myself up like this to look cool.

He wouldn’t have said it even if he could. He’d hurt her feelings. She wasn’t trying to be mean. He believed her when she said she liked weird things. He just didn’t like being a thing.

She put her arm around him, over the blanket, and pressed her head against his shoulder. She was quiet for a while. When she felt some of the tension go out of him, she tried again, “Hey, Milo, do you know you’re pretty?” She sat back and looked at him, trying to gauge how he was handling the concept.

He appeared uncertain, which was better than shut down and trying not to look at her.

She didn’t look in his eyes. She leaned back against the headboard, put her hand on his shoulder and looked across the room at her saloon girl painting of Ann.

“I mean it like you and Ann say it. Desirable based on your form and function. And I don’t just mean it like I think you’re pretty, or like you’re pretty right now. Like, you’re gonna stop being pretty when you’re eating a can of ravioli because you’re not performing a useful function for me. I don’t think that. I mean, it’s a thing you are. Like you have brown eyes. Like, I could say, ‘My boyfriend is the pretty one,’ and they’d know who I mean. It’s not a function of loving you. Anyone can see it.”

Milo sat forward and turned to stare at her.

She snickered at him. “Oh, wow. I just blew right past you, huh? Voom.” She gestured as if following the motion of a fast car and executed a disbelieving double take.

He nodded at her, wide-eyed.

She signed him a thumbs up. “Gotcha. Okay. Lemme pull around again.” She closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “Do you think anyone other than me would ever want to have sex with you, or is that, like, not even an option on the menu?”

He was wildly shaking his head.

She put up her hand. “I don’t mean whether or not you’d order it. I mean, is that something that’s available to you, and you might have to go ‘No thanks, I don’t want that’ if the waiter said it was on special? Do you live in a world where someone other than me might want to bang you?”

He was still shaking his head, but he stopped rather suddenly. Sean…? No, not Sean. He wanted to date Ann. He thought I was Ann. Right. But the boy with the broom…?

He didn’t know about the boy with the broom. That could’ve been a lonely kid who wanted a boyfriend or someone who wanted to hurt him. The boy with the broom had stolen sex from him. That was different.

Okay, but did he want to steal sex from me because I have the quality of prettiness, or just because I was available and quiet so I was pretty for him?

Ann, take off the headphones! Calliope is being complicated and I need you on this!

Calliope assigned meaning to his obvious puzzlement, “You don’t have data, right? You don’t listen when people say you’re pretty because you think it’s conditional. You’re not paying attention. That’s how come I ran you over right now.”

Milo sat there with his mouth open for a few moments. At last, he managed a shrug.

She leaned forward and covered his hands with hers. “Babe, this is information you need. I don’t want you to guess. Can we go out and get you a date? You don’t have to have sex if you don’t want — I don’t mind if you do want — but you need some confirmation here. I don’t feel right about being your girlfriend if you think I’m the only person who’d ever want you. I don’t want you to pick me because I’m the only one. I want to be the best one. Do you get how there’s a difference?”

He nodded at her but he put up his hand. She was asking him too many things at once. He couldn’t answer like that. He got up and examined her art table for supplies. There were pencils in the cup and he found a piece of blank paper. He drew.

“Your butt is cute,” she said.

He turned and frowned at her. Hey, do I have to put clothes on for you to be serious? Come on! You’re the one who wanted to talk. I was perfectly okay petting your hair!

She sighed and flopped backwards on the bed. “Oh. I know I’m not data. I can’t prove other people would like you all by myself. I do think your butt is cute, though.”

He shooed a hand at her and went back to drawing.

A couple minutes later, he handed her a rapid sketch of a game show stage. A pink figure was standing just outside Door Number One and clutching a sparkling gold woman who had handles like a trophy. The host, with slicked back hair and a gleaming grin on his otherwise blank face, was pointing to another door and asking, “#3?” Waiting behind Door Number Three, in case the pink figure wanted to trade, was an old tire and a donkey.

After giving her a moment to read, he leaned in with a red pencil and firmly crossed out the donkey and the tire. He shook his head and crossed both hands in front of him too.

“You can’t see,” she said, frowning. She indicated the donkey and the tire, and then the door. “You don’t know. There could be a trophy lady fifteen feet tall back there.”

He was still shaking his head.

She sighed again. “This is how you feel, though. This is a feeling. You feel like a winner and you’re not interested in the other doors.”

He nodded firmly and signed her a thumbs up.

“It’s two different things,” she muttered. “You get that, Milo? I can’t make you be interested in someone else, but I want you to understand other people would be interested in you. I know you don’t like the scars, and I know you think you’re backwards and I’m the only other person who’s backwards too, but it’s not really like that. If that tire has any sense, it’d be thrilled to have you.”

He shook his head and turned away from her. I don’t understand what she wants, but I don’t think I can give it to her. Are we going to break up because I don’t want her to draw my scars?

No, Milo. It’s not that.

Took you long enough, Ann. Goddammit.

He felt Calliope’s arms go around his waist. He startled and turned.

She smiled up at him. “How about a show? Could you do a show at the Black Orchid and have everyone clap for you?”

ME? He staggered backwards and nearly fell over the art table. She grabbed him and tried to drag him upright but he sat down on the floor. He was shaking his head. He kept shaking his head.

“Okay, okay.” She sat down next to him. “I’m sorry. I keep being upsetting. I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to get it across.”

Ann?

Milo, think about when you used to steal things from the starcatchers. You’d eat whatever you could take and you’d be happy because you were so hungry. Even if it was rotten and it made you sick. But the siege ended, and now you have a lot of food and you can make better choices. You wouldn’t touch a can of green corned beef anymore.

Calliope doesn’t want you to feel that way about her. She doesn’t want you to love her because that’s all there is for you. She doesn’t want you to steal her from starcatchers. She wants you to pick her from Hennessy’s, even if you have so much money you could buy anything in the store.

I do not have that much money, Ann.

She loves you and she thinks you do. She thinks you would see it if you’d just take out your wallet and look.

He stared at Calliope, who was hugging him again. Is she out of her mind?

Let’s flip this around, Milo. You’re good at rotating objects in space. Draw it this way: Calliope is a perfect human being and anyone should be thrilled to have her, but she gets to pick. She picked you. Maybe not forever, but for right now, she picked you. How does that make you feel?

Like I’m being crushed by an enormous boulder that I can’t lift because I’m not enough.

Okay, that’s not quite what I was going for. Let me think about this.

“Ann gets you stuff you need, right?” Calliope said.

Milo blinked. He nodded.

“Ann looks almost exactly like you,” Calliope said. “You do know that. She doesn’t move like you and her eyes are wrong, but she looks like you. Especially with no clothes on.”

He nodded.

She put a hand to her mouth and tapped a finger against her cheek. “Would Ann like to go on a date and maybe get laid?”

Oh, my gods. Ann, would you?

Milo, I think you’d better get changed.

◈◈◈

They talked about it. They did talk about it. Ann laid out her history of illegal prostitution and explained why she didn’t think a date would make much of a difference. Calliope countered that she couldn’t have taken her clothes off to bang guys in alleys and bushes and it wasn’t exactly intimate. Not much more intimate than purchasing a sandwich, anyway. Ann expressed her reservations about picking up girls in a dress, and Calliope came up with a solution for that too.

So Ann found herself around back at the service entrance of the Black Orchid, having a friendly adhesive name tag smoothed onto her padded chest.

HELLO. it said, with generic optimism. Below this, in bright fuschia marker, Calliope had added, My name is Ann! I’m a boy, but call me a girl! I like girls!

The writing was bathed in alternating red and yellow light from the cabaret across the street. A different bass rhythm was emanating from every building, and multiple voices were chattering and braying raucous laughter. The fog was smoky and pungent.

The Black Orchid was not in what you’d call the best neighbourhood. They had three organized groups of what they liked to call “Happy Wanderers” to help get everyone home safe; north, south, west, and nobody that they knew of lived in the ocean. Anyway, it was right there. Who’d mug a mermaid?

“I’ll hang out and back you up,” Calliope said. “Don’t worry. But if you want me to get lost, just give me a nudge.”

“Sweetheart, I appreciate that you want to help, but this isn’t really a new thing for me. I’ve been trying to explain…”

“This is a new thing you’re doing, and I want to make super sure you understand that and you’re okay with it,” Calliope said firmly. She snatched the lower edge of Ann’s corset and straightened it for her. “If it’s really not a big deal, that’s okay, but I want to be there in case it hits you all of a sudden. You only ever picked up boys you didn’t like before. You’re trying to find someone pretty who thinks you’re pretty too. That’s not a financial transaction. It’s social. I know you can do it, but don’t get mixed up. If you treat this like a job, it won’t mean anything to him, and we’ll never get him to do a show.”

“Careful, dear. If he thinks that’s where we’re going, he’ll stop walking and sit right down in the middle of the road.”

“I guess I’m not sure where we’re going anyway,” Calliope said with a smile. It didn’t have to be a show. She’d just like some confirmation that Milo knew he had options — before it sneaked up and took them both by surprise.

There were a couple of Swans hanging out on the back stairs and eating their dinner out of foil. They were thin and sullen-looking. The apparent boy had a dirty black jacket and green hair. The apparent girl had purple lipstick and a bruise which she’d covered with makeup, not well. She was wearing trousers like Calliope.

“Hello, my darlings,” Ann said, beaming. 

(“Darlings” wasn’t gendered and it didn’t leave anyone out.)

“Don’t you look just marvellous! Don’t be afraid now. Chin up! You’ve found a safe place and it’s going to get better. Take care of yourselves and get just a little bit older, then we’ll find you a nice job indoors. I promise. And we’ve brought you hot sauce packets!” She reached into her purse. “A spoonful of cayenne makes the chicken, steak, or fish with seasonal vegetable go down! Does anyone need doss money…?”

The girl with the bruise accepted a hot sauce packet and then gave her a tearful hug. Fortunately, Ann had tissues.

◈◈◈

The back door opened directly into the kitchen. It was propped open with a largish pot, in feeble hope of providing some cross ventilation. There was a paper sign taped to the front which politely reminded the Silver Swans to knock, but not to come inside unless it was a Real Emergency, because they could get the whole club shut down. Someone with a blue pen had added Fuck the Government!! to this, and underlined it several times.

Ann paused with her hand on the frame and turned back. “Sweetheart, I just want to promise you right now we will eventually get to the bar and I can try picking up girls like you said. I do want to. It just takes a lot longer to get there from here. If you feel like I’m neglecting you or you get bored or anything, please do give me a nudge. It’s not that I don’t care. I just get distracted. Okay?”

Calliope nodded. “Would you rather go around the front?” she said.

Ann beamed at her, “Oh, good heavens, no,” and she opened the door.

◈◈◈

“IT’S ANNIE!” said the kitchen.

Calliope identified three people cooking and about fifteen people doing dishes around a large triple sink, some of whom only had a single utensil to dry. Perhaps a dozen more were hanging around the swinging doors to the dining area and clutching pitchers of ice water with cucumber and lemon slices floating in them. Two of them were engaged in a game of rochambeau — the winner got to run out and top off the glass of the woman sitting at Table 3.

The water-dispensers were wearing tuxedos with purple jackets, even the women. About half of them were wearing corsages, which might have been some kind of ranking system. Hair length, lipstick and eyeshadow appeared to be a matter of personal preference not related to gender or corsage complexity.

The cooking people were wearing white, and most had not bothered with makeup — their hair was concealed in nets. The dishwashers were also benetted, but dressed every which way, with damp aprons which were not uniform in colour or design. One gentleman had decided to come to work in a frilly maid outfit, and one of the ladies was in overalls, with goggles hanging out of the back pocket that marked her as a part-time metalworker of some kind.

Nobody had any nail polish — nail polish was disallowed in the kitchen, it tended to flake and show up in the dinners.

“Hello, sweethearts!” Ann said. “Are you surprised to see me? I’m just visiting with Calliope. This is Calliope. Have you met Calliope? Say hello, Calliope.”

“Hey,” Calliope replied, like a good ventriloquist’s dummy.

The kitchen enveloped them. It was kinda like those near-death experiences you hear about where your dead family shows up in the tunnel to say hi, except there’d been a mix-up and Calliope didn’t know these people. Some of them were vaguely familiar, she thought maybe they’d filled up her water glass or said hi before on Ann and Milo’s birthday, but this obviously wasn’t her near-death experience. Heaven was welcoming one of its top ten angels and nobody minded that she’d brought a friend. That was cool too! Hey, cute pants, hon!

It was just as well that Ann had shown up when she wasn’t due to perform because several people desperately required her. She had to taste sauces and sample the dessert. The gentleman wanted to show off his maid outfit. The woman in overalls had made herself a new pair of earrings. Someone had added pictures of their new baby to the bulletin board with the schedule on it.

One of the cooks demanded that she explain to the other two that you could so taste the difference between fresh and frozen fish — and I walk right past the fish market every day on my way to work, Daphne, you lazy trollop, it is not a matter of scale, these damn frozen fillets don’t even have scales.

“They are fresh-frozen!”

“That’s an oxymoron!”

“You’re an oxymoron, Jean-Louis!”

This rapidly devolved into what seemed to be an ancient argument over whether they ought to add salads to the menu. Not even necessarily for the people out front, just so the Swans had a little variety. Or what about watercress sandwiches? Excuse me, Miss Calliope, you like watercress sandwiches, don’t you?

“I think those kids would rather have some soup,” she said. It got cold near the ocean at night, even in summer.

This spun off a new argument, which also sounded well-worn, about what kind of soup, and how to serve it to a bunch of kids who weren’t allowed to come inside.

“How about those paper mugs they put the coffee-flavoured chicken noodle in?” Calliope said. She meant the kind that comes out of a machine, but Ann pulled her away before she could explain.

“Hey,” Calliope said.

“Don’t encourage them or we’ll never get upstairs,” Ann said.

There was light at the end of the tunnel, although it wasn’t exactly light. A yellow glow was visible through a round window above the swinging door, but it was dimmer than the white-and-chrome kitchen.

Backstage was their first objective, but “backstage” was not, in a literal sense, in back of the stage. There was a tight space under the walkway, hidden by a curtain with access to more rooms, storage and lighting controls, but it was advised to stay out of there during shows and let the tech people work. Anything that involved human beings — including makeup, costuming and interpersonal drama — was upstairs.

This was a quirk of occupying a building that was once a molly house, which required a lot of little private rooms for the convenience of the guests. The staff of the Black Orchid embraced their history and had learned to put up with the inconvenience. Many of them had no other entertainment experience and no idea there ought not to be jury-rigged lighting hung under their feet.

There was a lovely spiral staircase at the edge of the dance floor that allowed performers to make a dramatic entrance, a retrofit Lalage and Barbara had removed from a church after the war, but it was one way only.

The other staircase was slightly less lovely, and had been concealed behind walls, doors and a screen with potted plants in front of it. All performers were required to exit stage left and duck behind the plants, after which point the lighting people quit following them and pretended they had turned invisible. To the uninitiated, the entry looked like part of the kitchen, and they politely ignored it — as well as the occasional noises of banging and screaming that came from that direction.

There was a little of that going on now, which Ann acknowledged with a brave smile in Calliope’s direction. They just had to pop in, sort out which room Ann could use if she found a friend, and maybe let Cerise or someone know that Calliope was visiting so she’d have a friend of her own to look after her. Anything else that happened would just have to be put up with on the way.

Just as Ann was about to push open the door, a pale hand smacked the round window and shoved it open in the opposite direction, barely missing her nose. Another hand came out from behind it and levelled a shiny silver pistol right between her eyes.

“I need a butter knife!” cried a bare-breasted woman in a long feathered headdress and face paint. She was wearing glittery buckskins and platform shoes. “An ice pick! Something! I can’t get it… Oh, Annie, thank gods,” she said. She grabbed Ann and pulled her through the swinging door.

Calliope considered for a moment, shrugged, and then followed after.

◈◈◈

The snug space was wooden and panelled. It smelled of sweat and sawdust. There were three doors — stage, tech and kitchen — all of which had their pathways marked on the floor in coloured tape to keep people from being hit in the face. The stage door had a helpful sign at eye level reminding performers to Shh! and hide behind the plants if they weren’t supposed to be seen.

The spiral staircase wound its way up to a walkway lined with a railing, all of which were remnants of the original molly house design. These guest rooms had once been proudly displayed to the patrons below, just a friendly reminder that they were available to rent by the hour. Now they had been tucked away behind more cheap panelling, rendering them more claustrophobic than welcoming.

There was just enough space to hang things on the railing, and many people had. There were so many feathers, faux-fur and boas it looked like a puppet show. The marabou drifted down like snow.

All kinds of people in all stages of dress and undress were rushing back and forth and crashing into each other and chattering. There had to be magic in play or else everyone would’ve been able to hear. The panelling rattled when the doors slammed.

Each walkway door had a star on it, and multiple strips of coloured tape beneath. As Calliope watched, a man wearing a three-foot-high powdered wig and a regency gown with panniers burst out of a room and removed a strip of red tape with a flourish. “It’s not my fault you didn’t label your makeup box, you dumb quiff!” he declared. He walked two doors down, reapplied the tape, and peeked inside with a smile. “Hello, dears. You don’t mind if I dress here, do you?”

Ann and the topless woman were standing to the right of the staircase, trying to keep out of the way.

“Seraphine, for heaven’s sake stop pointing that thing. You’re going to poke someone’s eye out,” Ann said.

“No I’m not because it doesn’t work!” replied the topless woman. She banged the pistol sharply on the banister, aimed it at her own head and pulled the trigger to emphasize. There was a click and the faint noise of grinding gears, but nothing more impressive. “I’m on in ten! I haven’t even got my damn binder on!”

“Is it the Village People or Wig-Wam?” Ann said.

“‘Wig-Wam Bam’! I haven’t any ‘Bam!’ I’m going to have to hit Johan over the head with a mop!”

“No you won’t. I’ll fix it. Go on and get dressed!”

The woman departed up the stairs with a smile. “Bless you, Annie!”

Calliope backed off with a few apologies and squeezed next to Ann. “Isn’t that more Milo’s thing?” she asked of the prop pistol.

“It is, but it’s not as if I don’t have him to help me. This thing always sticks. No one remembers it’s got moving parts, they just throw it in a cupboard and ignore it until they need it…”

“But she didn’t ask you to ask Milo, she just asked you,” Calliope said. “Is she mean or did she forget?”

“Oh,” Ann said. She focused on the pistol and didn’t look up. “No. Neither. Not everyone knows about Milo, not really. Not that he’s another person. It’s hard to explain. I don’t know everyone here all that well. It’s not like at the house. You understand?” When she glanced up, Calliope was frowning.

“Ann, if you hide him from your friends like dirty laundry he’s going to feel like dirty laundry,” she said. “He’s your friend and you love him. We don’t lie to our friends, or about our friends. That’s mean. He can’t come back and do a show here if nobody has any idea who he is. What’re you guys doing?”

Ann winced. “We’re doing our best. It’s just… It’s compli…” The gears socked suddenly into place and ejected the flag in a cloud of white smoke and silver glitter.

BANG! said the flag.

“Oh, dear,” Ann said. “Well, they can’t do ‘Wing-Wang Bang.’”

“It sounds Xinese,” Calliope said.

Ann held up the pistol and raised her voice to a bellow, “Excuse me! Has anyone seen the ‘Bam’ flag? We have five minutes to find the ‘Bam’ flag or else I…” She paused and frowned for only an instant. “Or else… Or else Milo and I are going to have to get extremely creative with this gun! ‘Bam’ flag, please! Anyone!”

One of the doors opened and a blush-pink woman with a cotton-candy-coloured upswept hairdo looked down.

“Annie?” Cerise said. She clapped her hands. “Calliope! Yay! What are you doing here?”

“We’re looking for the ‘Bam’ flag,” Ann said, “have you seen it?”

“No, but I’ll help you!” Cerise said with a smile.

◈◈◈

They located the “Bam” flag with two minutes to spare. Ann screwed it into place and gave it one last try to make certain it fired with all the effects, then she handed it off to Johan on his way down the stairs.

Cerise rolled up the “Bang” flag and stuck it in the makeup box with the others. The label on the box just said “Misc. NOT MAKEUP.” They’d never find it again. “So why are you really here?” she said. “Quick, before someone grabs you for something else.”

“Well, Calliope thought that I…” Ann shook her head. “That Milo and I ought to have some experience. With girls. But I’m a bit more confident, so I’m going first.”

Cerise squealed and clapped her hands. “Are you and Calliope both going to pick someone up? Can I play too?”

Ann sighed. “Cerise, we’ve been over this. I’m not…”

Cerise shooed a hand at her. “Oh, I know you’re not. Not really. But if you pick up a girl, and I’m a girl, and Calliope’s a girl… Calliope, you don’t want to go to bed with a man, do you? You can do that anytime. Broaden your horizons!”

Ann was just staring, open-mouthed. Calliope lifted a finger and said, “Uh.”

Cerise overrode her, “Oh, I don’t care if you do. That’s still, what? Seventy-five-percent women? Look, I’m not great at math. It’s more. I can work with it!”

Calliope lifted her finger a bit higher and shook it to scold, “Cerise Angelica Poirier, we are not playing here tonight. We’re trying to get Milo to understand that he’s desirable and worthy of love. I dunno where we’re going from here, but this is step one. This isn’t sex stuff, it’s relationship stuff. You can be supportive if you want, but you’re not invited. And neither am I. Ann just wanted to find me a babysitter in case she had to leave me alone. I’m cool hanging out with you, but we are not going to bang. Not tonight. Got it?”

Cerise had a hand pressed to her chest. “When did I tell you my middle name?”

“It’s embroidered on your hanky you left at the house. There’s angel wings on it. Cin tried to wash it for you and now it’s got a big rip in the middle, so she hid it in the junk drawer and then she forgot. Do you want it back?”

“No thank you. I suppose you can glue it to your wall or something,” Cerise said faintly. She straightened her corset and cleared her throat. “I’m all right to babysit after ten, that’s when we have our last set. They’re making me dance with Pierre again and I’m annoyed, but I think I’ll just deal with that myself. What room do you want, Annie? I’ll reserve it for you.” She searched through the costume pieces and picked up a roll of pink tape, then a black marker.

Ann put a hand on her hand. “Angel, that’s rude. I don’t even know if I’ll find anyone.”

“You?” Cerise scoffed. “Half the club would go to bed with you if you asked. Come on! We’ve got two rooms open and you don’t want to make your lady wait.” She smiled and pulled off a length of tape. “I want to write it!”

“I’m a little embarrassed,” Ann said.

Cerise removed the cap from the marker and drew an exclamation point in the air. “If I write it, they’ll think it was me!”

Ann turned aside and shooed a hand at her.

There were two rooms without any tape at all on the doors. Cerise applied pink tape to the nearest and wrote: GLORIA GAYNOR!

“I will survive,” Ann muttered.

Cerise grinned and bumped her lightly with her hip. “Of course you will, you slut.”

Ann snickered behind her hand. “Trap,” she said.

“It’s ‘tramp,’ Ann.” Calliope said.

Cerise put an arm around her and gently shook her head. “No, sweet baby, not for little boys who know how to run in high heels. Or little girls who look like little boys. It’s a mean word, but we’re allowed to say it because people have tried to hurt us with it. You shouldn’t try it yourself. Ooh, I’m going to have a few hours to educate you. This is going to be fun!”

“Angel, please don’t get too political,” Ann said wearily.

“I didn’t ask to be political,” Cerise said. “I’m stuck with it until everyone gets their nose out of my business and just lets me be.”

“I can’t vote in San Rosille,” Calliope said. “I don’t own anything.”

“Oh, none of us do, but there are ways around it,” Cerise said.

“Ah!” said Ann. “Please. I’m just here to be a slut. I’m going down to the bar. Calliope, you can stay here if you want. I’ll be all right.”

Calliope shook her head and took Ann by the arm. “Uh-uh. You can shoo me later, but I want to be there.”

“Can I come too?” Cerise said. “I’ve got fifteen or twenty! Just let me put on some shoes. I’ll introduce you!”

◈◈◈

The bar area was carpeted in mauveine plush and separated from the dining area by a brass railing. Loud purples and greens were a bit of a theme in the Black Orchid; there were a lot of plants, after the war they just decided to roll with it. With sophisticated black and white linens and furniture, it all came off a bit patriotic. They were only missing the cherry blossoms to make a Marselline flag.

You could order a Marselline Flag at the bar, but they were made with layered green and white chartreuse, blackberry liqueur, simple syrup and a candied flower. You might as well throw a handful of potpourri in a blender with a cherry Pin-Min.

There was a polite sign at the gap in the rail, reminding patrons that they needed to be twenty-one or older to drink at the bar — which Calliope recalled was Mordecai’s fault. Something about absinthe and the revolution.

There were three bartenders. That seemed a bit much for the space, but one of them had already peeled off to do the nodding and listening thing, so maybe it was more like two bartenders and an optional counsellor.

Ann laid a finger on the polite sign and concealed a wince with her other hand. “Gods, I feel ancient. I wasn’t old enough for the bar when I started working here.” She’d been bar-legal almost four whole years!

“Stop it, Annie, or I’ll have to start telling people I’m younger than you,” Cerise said. “Now let’s see.”

She leaned in closer and began pointing at women, but subtly, as if she might’ve been pointing at the drinks or the decor. “Annoying Laugh,” at the end of the bar with a sticky-looking umbrella drink, “Cheap Perfume,” sitting at a table eating pretzels, “Stuffed Corset,” laughing, with her hand on the arm of, “Detestable Political Views. And I haven’t talked to any of the others.

“Personally,” she added, “I’d go with Stuffed Corset or Annoying Laugh, although now I’m a bit worried Stuffed Corset also has detestable political views and she might say something, you know? I don’t mind a woman with a brain, but I wish the ones with stupid brains would just be quiet and let me look at them. The dumb ones are always prettier, they don’t get wrinkles from thinking. It’s tragic.”

“Thank you, angel. You’ve made me suspect there is no point to this exercise and we’ve wasted a Gloria.”

“It’s for Milo,” Calliope said. She frowned and shook her head. “But it’s for you too, Ann. Don’t do it if it’s not for you too. It’s not fair if Milo has all the fun. You’re better than guys you don’t like in the bushes.”

“I think I’m better than detestable political views and an annoying laugh too,” Ann said. She wasn’t sure about the stuffed corset. She had one of those herself, but at least hers was proportionate.

“Talk to them and find someone you like,” Calliope said firmly. “Then it won’t matter about the other stuff…”

“That has never worked for me,” Cerise muttered.

“…And if you don’t like anyone, we’ll have a few drinks and go home. That’s fun too.”

Ann sighed and nodded. “Will you come with me?”

“I’m there until you tell me to get lost,” Calliope said. “I will not let go of this bicycle without permission!”

Ann appeared baffled by the bicycle metaphor, but Cerise got it. Her father had let go of the bicycle without permission, and then laughed when she plowed into a mailbox.

“I think I have time for a drink or two,” the pink woman put in, even if she couldn’t help hold the bicycle the whole time. “I’m dancing with Pierre. I need a drink!”

They both took hold of Ann’s hands and stepped onto the tacky carpeting together.