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McKenna’s a pirate, if pirates plundered exclusively for crop tops, and Riley’s dressed as a police officer in a skirt short enough to violate several actual laws. Both are in fishnets. Between the two costumes there’s maybe enough fabric to make one respectable pillowcase.

They’re both stunning. Both glowing. Both making me feel approximately one thousand years old. I gave them life, and this is how they repay me. With fishnets.

“Mom!” McKenna squeals, throwing her arms around me. “You’re a cat!”

“And you’re hypothermic,” I counter, eyeing her hemline. “Where’s the rest of your dress?”

“This is the whole dress.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Riley hugs me next. “You look hot, Mom. Very MILF energy.”

“Please never say that again.”

“No way, is that a doll head?” McKenna’s eyes go wide as she spots Henrietta.

“That’s so freaking cool!” Riley reaches out to touch it. “Why didn’t I think of that? Mom, you’re killing it with the creepy accessories.”

“It’s for protection,” I say.

“From what? Fashion police?” McKenna grins.

“Murderers, actually.”

“Even better,” Riley says. “Especially since your parties always come with a body count.”

She’s not wrong, and that’s the most depressing part.

McKenna’s phone lights up and she glances down. “Jack and Emma are here!” She bounces on her precariously high heels. “We’re going to find them. Love you, bye!”

They disappear into the crowd, taking all my unasked questions about jackets and common sense and basic parental guidance with them.

I watch them go, my heart doing that thing where it wants to bubble-wrap them against all possible dangers while simultaneously being proud they’re confident enough to wear those outfits. Motherhood is basically twenty years of holding both feelings at once and pretending you’re fine.

A woman dressed as a zombie librarian pauses beside me, she squints at Henrietta, and gasps. “Oh my gosh, does the gift shop sell those? The cursed doll head necklaces? Because I need one immediately.”

“They don’t,” I say. “Yet.”

How did she know Henrietta is cursed? Come to think of it, who doesn’t.

The woman drifts off looking bereft, and I’m talking to the gift shop about it first thing tomorrow. If Henrietta can move merchandise, she can fund the fog machines for a decade. The doll head earns her keep or she goes back in the tote bag. Those are the rules.

Felicity and Gertie trot back my way, their plates brimming.

“Were those your daughters?” Felicity asks with a smile.

“Unfortunately,” I say. “I mean, fortunately. But also unfortunately in moments like this where I wish I could lock them in a tower.”

“They’re gorgeous!” Gertie says, taking a nibble out of her coffin cake.

Felicity’s smile falters. Something sad and knowing settles behind her eyes. “I understand that impulse more than you know. Wanting to protect your daughter from the world. From people who might hurt her.” Her voice goes quiet. “Sometimes protection isn’t enough.”

There’s weight in those words, a history I don’t know but can feel hovering between us. And in a crowd full of authors who write murder for a living, I have a feeling I’ll be thinking about exactly what that history might be at two in the morning.

Gertie clears her throat. “On that cheerful note, I’m going to get more of that purple mac and cheese before Georgie eats it all.” She glides away, trident in hand and her tail swaying with glee.

Felicity sighs at the crowd. “I should mingle. There are readers to charm and books to sign. You know how it goes.”