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Kasey looked like a smaller, softer version of her mother. The child spotted me first and said, “Hi, Anita. Isn’t this dress dumb-looking?”

“Now, Kasey,” Elsie said, “it’s a beautiful dress. All those nice pink ruffles.”

The dress looked like a petunia on steroids to me. I stripped off my jacket and started moving into my own dressing room before I had to give my opinion out loud.

“Is that a real gun?” Kasey asked.

I had forgotten I was still wearing it. “Yes,” I said.

“Are you a policewoman?”

“No.”

“Kasey Markowitz, you ask too many questions.” Her mother herded her past me with a harried smile. “Sorry about that, Anita.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. Sometime later I was standing on a little raised platform in front of a nearly perfect circle of mirrors. With the matching pink high heels the dress was the right length at least. It also had little puff sleeves and was an off-the-shoulder look. The dress showed almost every scar I had.

The newest scar was still pink and healing on my right forearm. But it was just a knife wound. They’re neat, clean things compared to my other scars. My collarbone and left arm have both been broken. A vampire bit through them, tore at me like a dog with a piece of meat. There’s also the cross-shaped burn mark on my left forearm. Some inventive human vampire slaves thought it was amusing. I didn’t.

I looked like Frankenstein’s bride goes to the prom. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but Mrs. Cassidy thought it was. She thought the scars would distract people from the dress, the wedding party, the bride. But Catherine, the bride herself, didn’t agree. She thought I deserved to be in the wedding, because we were such good friends. I was paying good money to be publicly humiliated. We must be good friends.

Mrs. Cassidy handed me a pair of long pink satin gloves. I pulled them on, wiggling my fingers deep into the tiny holes. I’ve never liked gloves. They make me feel like I’m touching the world through a curtain. But the bright pink things did hide my arms. Scars all gone. What a good girl. Right.

The woman fluffed out the satiny skirt, glancing into the mirror. “It will do, I think.” She stood, tapping one long, painted fingernail against her lipsticked mouth. “I believe I have come up with something to hide that, uh . . . well . . .” She made vague hand motions towards me.

“My collarbone scar?” I said.

“Yes.” She sounded relieved.

It occurred to me for the first time that Mrs. Cassidy had never once said the word “scar.” As if it were dirty, or rude. I smiled at myself in the ring of mirrors. Laughter caught at the back of my throat.

Mrs. Cassidy held up something made of pink ribbon and fake orange blossoms. The laughter died. “What is that?” I asked.

“This,” she said, stepping towards me, “is the solution to our problem.”

“All right, but what is it?”

“Well, it is a collar, a decoration.”

“It goes around my neck?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Ms. Blake, I have tried everything to hide that, that . . . mark. Hats, hairdos, simple ribbons, corsages . . .” She literally threw up her hands. “I am at my wit’s end.”

This I could believe. I took a deep breath. “I sympathize with you, Mrs. Cassidy, really I do. I’ve been a royal pain in the ass.”

“I would never say such a thing.”

“I know, so I said it for you. But that is the ugliest piece of fru-fru I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“If you, Ms. Blake, have any better suggestions, then I am all ears.” She half crossed her arms over her chest. The offending piece of “decoration” trailed nearly to her waist.

“It’s huge,” I protested.

“It will hide your”—she set her mouth tight—“scar.”

I felt like applauding. She’d said the dirty word. Did I have any better suggestions? No. I did not. I sighed. “Put it on me. The least I can do is look at it.”

She smiled. “Please lift your hair.”

I did as I was told. She fastened it around my neck. The lace itched, the ribbons tickled, and I didn’t even want to look in the mirror.