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“And…?”
I sip my whisky. “I’m about the same weight, but mine is more muscle than curves. I’m athletic.”
“Catriona is not.”
“No, but she has a type of strength—from work and daily life—that I’m not used to.”
“So you are taller and leaner. And the rest? What is it like to not see your own face in the mirror?”
“Disorienting?” I smile. “It’s like wearing a costume. Do people ever wear them here? Outside of the theater?”
“There are masquerade balls, but they aren’t truly in fashion.”
“Do you have Halloween? I know trick-or-treating is mostly North American, but I’m not sure about Halloween itself. Do you celebrate anything on October thirty-first?”
“There is Samhain, though that is frowned upon.”
“Okay, well, in North America, Samhain has turned into Halloween. Kids dress up in costumes. Sometimes it’s things like princesses or superheroes, but traditionally it’s the creepy stuff. Believe me, I was all about the creepy stuff. Witches. Skeletons. The Grim Reaper.”
“A memento mori.”
I nod. “The recognition that we all die someday. The holiday has its roots in paganism and the honoring of the dead. Which probably sounds really weird to you—little kids going door-to-door getting treats for dressing up as witches and ghosts.”
“Treats?”
“You knock on the door and say ‘trick or treat.’ You’re threatening them with a trick if they don’t give you a treat, but there are no tricks. Just candy—confections.”
“Confections?”
I grin. “Thought you’d like that part.”
“I am not overly fond of actual confections, preferring pastries and biscuits, but I believe I could make an exception for a plate full of treats.”
“Plate? Try abagfull of them.”
“That sounds positively delightful.”
“It is.” I sip my whisky. “That’s what this feels like. As if I’m wearing the mask of a Victorian housemaid. Except I can’t take it off. Which is…”
“Disorienting.”
“Yep.”
“And if you could take off the mask? What lies under it?”
“Me.”
“Which would be?”
I shrug. “Darker hair. Shorter hair—shoulder length. Green eyes. Leaner face. Straighter teeth—no offense to Catriona.”
His head is tilted, eyes narrow, as if trying to imagine it.
“White skin?” he asks.
I make a face. “Sorry, I should have included that. Yes, I’m white. Even in my day, in my part of the world, we tend to default to that—unless otherwise stated, we presume white—which is shitty.”
“Is life otherwise better for someone who is not white in a predominantly white country?”
