“But you weren’t, and now you’re better prepared for pit traps in the future,” said Mom. “She’s still figuring out who she wants to be when she grows up, that’s all. Sometimes she gets jealous because you seem to know who you are.”

That was an overly simplified version of a fight I’d been having with my sister for years. I decided to let it go. Bringing Antimony further into this was just going to complicate things, and I didn’t want to complicate things. Technically, I was an adult, and didn’t need my parents to approve of what I did with my life. At the same time, going on television did represent a risk of exposure, however small, and they deserved to have input, even if I was going to ignore any input that didn’t come down to “you should go.”

“You should go,” said Dad. “I know you’ve mostly managed to get the dancing out of your system, and that’s wonderful, but I also know you’re never going to get it completely out. You need to do this, so you can be sure you made the right choice for you.”

I stared at him. I’d been hoping for grudging approval, not full-out support. “What?”

“Your mother and I were delighted when you said you were done trying to be a dancer,” said Dad. “But you made that choice while under duress. You’d been seriously wounded, and Sarah was very ill. Decisions we make when we’re that stressed aren’t always the best ones for us. We want to know that you made the right call. So go back on the show. Dance for a live audience one more time, and let the voters decide whether you belong in cryptozoology or dance.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” I said, blinking back tears.

Dad smiled. “Don’t thank me. I remember how many bruises you came home with last time. I might as well be shipping you off to boot camp so you can think about what you’ve done. Now eat your waffle. You’re going to need the calories.”

He was right. I laughed, and ate, and tasted nothing, because my mind was already far away, in a mirrored room, listening to the choreographers bark instructions.

I was going back on the show.

First, though, I was going to have to get Valerie’s life back in order. All my dance costumes and wigs had been packed up for the trip from New York to Oregon, and were still in their boxes in the storage shed out back. (We had a garage. We just didn’t use it to store boxes, since we needed a place to park. We couldn’t use the attic, either, as the Aeslin mice had a tendency to co-opt whatever was put into their space, and the barn was where we did the taxidermy. After years of crap building up in closets, spare rooms, and everyplace else that it was possible to wedge a shoebox, Dad had finally thrown up his hands and bought a prefab shed from the nearest hardware store. After the hot tub, it was definitely the smartest thing he’d ever invested in.)

Dominic watched me wade through boxes. He was smart enough not to get too close, since he didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. “How many costumes do you need to bring?”

“Most of the dances are choreographed, which means I’ll be dressed by the folks in wardrobe,” I said, pulling a strip of bedazzled fabric out of a box. It was barely wider than a scarf, and ended with a foot of long white fringe. “What do you think of this one?”

“I think it looks like a handkerchief with delusions of grandeur,” said Dominic.

“Great, put it in the ‘take’ pile.” I tossed the dress to Dominic. “I’ll be expected to do solos as often as the producers want to shove them in, and this is a new format: I could be dancing solo every night, if they feel like being vicious. I need costumes for when I dance solo, and having something eye-catching is a good way to drum up a few extra votes. Besides, it’s not like my costumes take up much room.” Competition Latin ballroom outfits tended to be more rumor than reality, to steal a phrase from my grandmother. There were big poofy feather dresses, sure, but they were few and far between, and mostly unnecessary in the styles I preferred.

“That’s true enough,” said Dominic. “When we watched the videos of your last run on the show, I was amazed some of those costumes had made it past the censors.”

“They cover the salient bits,” I said, brightening as I saw my wig box. I waded deeper into the pile. “We’ll need to fly to Los Angeles. Or at least, I’ll need to fly, since the producers will send me a ticket, and I don’t think you want to make that drive by yourself. If we go a little early, we can get you set up someplace near the cast housing. This will let us give your new photo ID a test run.” A new identity had been part of my wedding gift to him, as well as a necessary component of bringing him home to meet the parents. If he hadn’t been able to pass basic background checks, he would never have been allowed in the house. “Do you have a credit card for someone who isn’t Dominic De Luca?”