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material fluttered down to drape over her hands like the long petals of pale lilies.
    When the bell rang, she jumped and the knife nicked the base of her thumb. Drops of blood formed and fell, red as rose petals. The pain was quick and sudden, and it felt like a tiny mouth breathed on her hand. She stuck it between her lips and sucked at the blood, feeling a little bit disoriented and a little foolish. She turned her back on the ruined painting.
    Her father would freak out if he saw the cut on her thumb. She wrapped it in a wet paper towel and hurried off to class, wondering how she was going to hide it from him.

3
    The day was still bright
    and warm when Beauty walked up the driveway to 17 Thorntree Drive. The tall house was a riot of muted colors and the gardens were a wild mess. She itched to get in there and start pulling at the weeds. The black-eyed Susans were choking and the roses were growing leggy, stretching out to search for sunlight. Wind chimes, Chinese fortune coins and tin lanterns danced in the maple tree in the front yard. Somewhere down the street a dog barked.
    She paused in front of the lavender-hued door and lifted the brass knocker shaped like the snake-haired face of Medusa. She jumped when the door swung open suddenly. A barefoot woman in a sundress barely glanced at her. She was concentrating on the old book in her left hand, and her fingers were stained with ink. Her hair hung down to her elbows.
    â€œYeah?” the woman asked.
    Beauty hesitated. “I’m, uh, looking for Luna?”
    The woman nodded, waved her in. “She’s around,” she said before wandering off.
    Beauty stood uncertainly in the front hall. The living room was off to her left and the walls were crammed with paintings, mostly of women in medieval gowns or knights in armor. The lamps were off, fringed shades like ornate Edwardian hats. She could see dusty plants in the kitchen, and the hallway was papered with intricate dizzying patterns in burgundy and green. The air smelled like burning wood and paint.
    Luna laughed from the top of the staircase. It was old and wooden with a faded carpet runner marching up the center. She was barefoot too, and silver rings gleamed on her painted toes. A jumble of Indian anklets rang out when she crouched down to be seen.
    â€œNever mind Simone,” she said. “She gets like that when she’s writing poetry.”
    â€œIs she your sister?” Beauty asked.
    Luna shook her head. “She just lives with us sometimes. Come on up.”
    Beauty climbed the stairs, feeling like she was entering Aladdin’s cave or some distant land where oranges grew in rivers and flowers were eaten for breakfast. Luna led her down a narrow hallway. Doors opened onto several rooms filled with easels and towers of books. They went up another staircase and Luna ducked into the door on her left. A purple bead curtain swayed and clinked together, sounding like raindrops on the roof.
    Beauty’s eyes widened. “Wow,” she said. “You’ve got a great room.”
    Luna grinned and threw herself down on her unmade bed. “We move around a lot. I’ve learned to decorate quickly.”
    There were candles burning on the windowsills and incense smoke coiling lazily from a wooden holder shaped like a branch. Music she didn’t recognize spilled out of a small stereo covered in rhinestones and star stickers. The sound of it was thick with drums and women’s voices, making her think of long nights and abandoned castles. There was a desk and a chair and a beanbag cushion surrounded by a pile of embroidered pillows. Beauty lowered herself down into one and had to smile. She felt dangerous and interesting and her name suddenly didn’t seem so absurd.
    Posters of rock bands and movies shared space with reproductions of old paintings. Beauty recognized the sad woman painted on Luna’s knapsack.
    â€œWho’s that?” she asked.
    Luna followed her