The trolley door opens, and damp air snakes over my seat in the back row, setting the perfect tone for a portrait of a ghost.
I’ve spread Lark’s velvet hoodie across the wooden bench on the other side of the aisle. Studying the sketch pad in my lap, I shade the lines with my pencil, having already captured the wrinkles in the hoodie’s form and the shape of the glittery wings with elasticized straps stretched around the shoulder seams.
A group of commuters step single file off the trolley and onto the rain-drenched street. Goose bumps erupt across my exposed nape and I flip up my leather jacket’s collar, inhaling the wet scent. I smile sadly, thinking of the day Lark and I learned the word “petrichor” for the third-grade spelling bee, when our teacher taught us it was easier to say than the mouthful “that fresh sweetness on the air during a long-overdue rain.”
Back then, I loved this kind of setting—the promise of newness hidden behind a curtain of fog, the chill of a storm’s fingernails parting my hair and scuffing along my neck, and the squelch of moss, mud, and spongy leaves beneath my boots. Now, it’s just another detail that seeps through the sieve of my heart, reminding me how as kids Lark and I waded in water puddles, raced paper boats, and mixed mud pies; we did everything together, until we turned twelve and began to argue over who had to mop the floor or who got to hold the umbrella … until we started growing apart.
Up front, a family of five and two older girls wait for the people exiting so they can board. My throat constricts on a stifled demand that everyone stay to the unoccupied middle sections. Given the date, Sam, the official afternoon conductor, would’ve kept the entire back row taped off as a personal favor to me (perks of having an uncle who owns one of the city’s most beloved and lucrative bakeries … fellow locals will bend over backward for a free cupcake or macaron). Unfortunately, Sam’s visiting his sick brother, and Patty, his temporary replacement, has only lived here a little over a month. I tried to explain the situation to her, but she only frowned and said she was here to man the controls, not play favorites.
I squint, locking my lashes in a thick clutch of mascara while I dig the phone from my jacket pocket and scroll through my earlier text to Clarey.
Sam’s MIA. Open seating. Want to drive over to Maritime Museum and hop on the trolley? You can keep any unwelcome flies out of my web.
My hold tightens around the phone as I reread the response:
Sorry to flake out. Makeup malfunction.
I’ll meet you at 11th with bug repellent prepped and ready. Flannie is always up for noshing flies. 
Clarey was with us on Lark’s final October thirtieth, when alongside a group of friends, we took a city bus after classes let out. We jumped off at Maritime Memorial Park, strolled the Riverwalk, then hopped the trolley and claimed the two back rows as our own. Our destination was Eleventh Street, where shop owners had set up temporary booths along the sidewalks to hand out goodies—totes full of candies, toys, and bottled water with labels displaying the participating shops’ logos. It was the practice run for their updated versions of trunk-or-treat, a means to boost the economy along with the children’s pride in their port city. Lark and I had so much fun on the outing, we finally began to bridge the giant rift I’d put between us.
Sighing, I tuck the phone away. My pencil taps the corner of the sketch pad. Using the empty hoodie and wings as a prop, I’ve drawn Lark exactly how she was that afternoon: the way her arms filled those sleeves; the way she rolled the hems so her shirt’s lacy cuffs would stick out, perfectly framing a French manicure that shimmered with carnation-pink polish to match the fairy costume she would wear the following day for Halloween.
My fingers twitch as I prepare to complete the portrait. From the open army duffel at my side, resting atop a few of my latent graphic novels, the blendable markers taunt me. I have to force myself to look at them, because I’m afraid of what I’ll see. Or rather, what I won’t. Sure enough, no matter how hard I stare, the colors are lost on me—each pigment as indecipherable as shades of ash. The flavor of frustration sits bitter on my tongue.
I can no longer create the perfect blush for her nails, or the lavender for her hoodie; and simply choosing a marker for its name won’t commit her memory to paper accurately. I thought if anything could pump the vividness of color back into my art, into my vision, into my life, it would be portraying Lark on this day, when she was at her happiest.
Growling, I erase the sketch, scrubbing until the scent of hot rubber and graphite burns my nose and holes score the paper. I rip off the page as if the action could hide my failure, but the jagged edges along the spine mock me. Crumpling the ruined drawing, I shove it under the markers.
Outside, the Columbia River glimmers along the horizon to the right of the rails. The overhead lights juxtapose against the dreary sky and cause a mirror effect in the window, flashing a face made up pale enough to blend with my white freckles and matching eyebrows; black hair with choppy mini-bangs that barely cover my widow’s peak, and shorn sides and nape in contrast with the style’s chin-length crown. Sometimes I wear the peak stiffened to a faux hawk, but today it flops over my left ear like a raven’s wing.
My former psychiatrist would say it helps me feel tougher on the inside when I look fierce on the outside. Truth is, ever since my sister’s face has been glaring back at me from my reflections, this is the only way I know myself. I blow a deep breath, fogging the glass before Lark’s angry eyes can lock me in.
Across the aisle, the rhinestone-fringed fairy wings blink in a fluctuation of light as people begin to board. The married couple and their boisterous kids enter first. I don’t know them by name, but they’re fellow Astorians and regulars at our bakery, so they’re familiar enough with our family tragedy to give me wide berth this time of year. It’s the two girls getting on next that cause my already tense muscles to cinch tighter.
They appear to be college age, and have matching bags that say “Welcome to the Goondocks”—a touristy catchphrase referencing The Goonies movie, shot in Astoria sometime back in the ’80s. The comedy-adventure film earned a cult following that in turn earns our town an annual income via souvenir shops and film locale tours.
“Ugh. Almost five o’clock.” The first girl glares at her watch.
I frown, unaware it was getting so late. My attention strays to my duffel and the antique pocket watch sewn onto one corner. Even though the hands move counterclockwise, Lark couldn’t bear to let it run down. The watch, like the bag, was our father’s, and she believed—as long as it was ticking—it somehow kept him with us. Illogical as it is to carry an antique that doesn’t keep time, it’s a tradition I uphold to honor her.
“The trolley service ends in an hour, and we’ve barely seen anything in this slog,” the girl continues, stalling beside the center row. “Should’ve went to the hotel hours ago.”
“I tried to tell you,” her friend answers, dripping behind her. “Hey, that guy on the Riverwalk said some good restaurants are off Eleventh. We can stop for dinner there, then Uber back to the hotel. Want to?”
Nodding in agreement, the first girl tucks away her folded umbrella. After considering the empty spots close to the family and their hyperactive tots, she crinkles her forehead. Her damp curls resemble muddied rose petals, meaning they could be anything from auburn to poppy red.
“It’s too noisy up here.”
I stifle a groan as she heads toward the back and points at Lark’s hoodie. “Do you know who this belongs to?” She directs the query my way.
“Um,” I stammer. “Yeah.” In an attempt to appear combative, I furrow my eyebrow where a gear-shaped ring spikes the hairs.
The other girl catches up, her swinging ponytail a stale beige under the fluorescent trolley lights. I’d speculate it’s golden because it reminds me of the free-range egg yolks Uncle Thatch uses in his cupcakes, but I wouldn’t place a bet on it.
The blonde jerks a thumb toward Lark’s empty hoodie, jangling her shimmery bangle bracelets with the movement. “So is she on here somewhere?”
Only in spirit. I touch the tip of my tongue to my bottom lip’s piercing and maintain silence, hoping they get the hint and move on. If these clowns hijack Lark’s seat, I’ll lose my shot at drawing her. This is the one place I can capture her essence. Here where she sat, three years ago to this day, when our bond was finally growing strong again.
“Well?” The first girl shakes some droplets off her flip-flop, dimpling the puddles gathered atop the rubber floor. “Is your friend coming or not?”
I suppress the prickly sensation in my gut and shake my head.
“Okay then.” The blonde lifts the hoodie—wings strung loosely around the floppy sleeves—and offers the bundle to me. I clutch the tiny motor box affixed to the back of the fake appendages, cradling the on/off switch against the groove of my palm. “Next time you see her, tell her invisible fairy princesses can’t hold seats.”
Next time … Next time … Next time. The words pound at my temples, overplaying the conductor’s five-minute warning for people to find their seats. The last time I was with Lark was at the funeral. She looked so alive I half expected her to link our pinkies. To ask why I let her die. When she didn’t, I leaned over the coffin’s edge and pressed my nose to hers, close enough to count the stitches clamping her eyelids shut. That was when it hit me that my sister was truly dead, and we would never mend those busted fences between us.
Both girls slide across the bench, leaving soggy streaks over Lark’s empty seat. They may as well be smearing her memory with their wet yoga pants. I watch her smile fade; her eyes—lit up as she demonstrates the flapping fairy wings, her latest robotics innovation—grow dim; the machine oil smudging her fingertips—which juxtaposes with the dried glitter on her palms—peels off and erodes along with her fingerprints. Her very identity wafting away on colorless, tattered tulle appendages. Grief swells in my throat.
No. I won’t let these strangers see me break down; won’t let them know how hard it’s going to be to get out of bed before midnight tonight to face the date that stole my family; won’t admit how often I wish the calendar would skip straight through to November first every year so I could abandon staying awake for twenty-four hours—the one means to ensure my survival and the safety of those I love.
Gulping down the knot of emotion, I thread my jacket’s arms through the elastic straps of Lark’s wings, centering the mechanism at my back. With a flick of a switch, the wire pinions flap behind me.
I reposition my right hand around the pencil and skim through a dozen storyboard panels—disparate-size boxes waiting to be filled with unnatural creatures formed of metallic slivers that sprout from enchanted flesh. When I first began drawing Mystiquiel, I tried to veer away from the dreams, choosing instead to conform to the traditional fey lore I’d heard all my life.
The eldritch species—dryads, elves, trolls, gnomes, piskies, sprites, wights, sprigs, and more—were flesh and blood, scales and bones, all stitched and sealed with leaves and twigs and sap. They looked like their images in books and movies. But my muse wouldn’t let those changes stick. I couldn’t move forward with my stories and drawings until I abandoned those attempts and reverted to the blueprints and the denizens I saw in my sleep: an urbanized Astoria, inhabited by cyborg faeries and goblins, and warped by magic, steam, and galvanism.
I turn several unfinished pages, until I arrive at a partly drawn figure of Angorla, a feisty goat-faced hobblegob. Hobblegobs, a dwarfish breed of goblin with mismatched legs that make their gaits floppy and off balance, deceive their attackers by blending into the scenery. This gives a false sense of calm before they reappear, razor-sharp claws morphing into deadly harvesting tools. One sideswipe of a sickle, and they leave their enemies in a pile of shreds.
I cast a cursory glance at the tourists in Lark’s seat. With my body blocking my work, I draw myself as Angorla, shading and smoothing the grayscale lines that in my dreams are prismatic: copper ram’s horns, patinated green and protruding from my head, red circuit board eyes flashing at the top of my cheeks, my skin the texture and tensility of silvery spider silk.
Patina and brass … which markers do I blend together to depict antiquity? Or the luster and depth of new metal? I wriggle against the plastic box poking my spine. The wings have already run down because I forgot to replace the battery after fishing them from Lark’s keepsake box.
I clench my jaw and burrow deeper into the scene appearing on the paper. Under my pencil, the trolley morphs into a rusted serpentine beast—Mystiquiel’s living, mobile dungeon. The sides of the cars become metallic ribs, and the floor scaly flesh. I can almost smell machine oil combined with musk, feel heat rising in white vapors, hear the pings of metal and the buzz of voltage and the feral snarls of eldritch prisoners peering from behind the seats.
Next, I sketch the two girls as caricatures in clown masks. Their exaggerated features quickly come into view—triangle-lined eyes wide with shock to find themselves aboard a living trolley alongside a monster wearing my face and clothes. Moving on to my hands, I draw steel weeding forks in place of fingers. The prongs twist in the girls’ hair, braiding dual-toned strands into a thick rope that tangles around both their heads until they spin off their bench like a two-headed top, splitting their clown masks in half and revealing their true horrified faces.
I tune out the rustle of last-minute arrivals boarding the trolley, barely noticing when people amble down the aisle toward the middle section. A flush of heat rushes through my ears and cheeks as my pencil dances to an uninhibited rhythm I haven’t managed in months. Lark’s image appears in the panel, her wings and fairy costume swirling effortlessly from the graphite tip. She perches right where the girls pushed her off, and the two of us high-five while the tourists writhe on the floor beneath a frenzy of rat-pack sprites brutally ripping away all their shiny jewelry. A shadow comes to loom over us all—tall, horned, and powerful—in the shape of my goblin king ready to claim his newest captives.
For the final touch, I etch puddles across the floor around the girls’ supine bodies and busted masks. Then I stretch out my sketch pad for inspection. Did I mean for those puddles to be formed of raindrops or blood? My stomach flips at the question, because I really don’t know. And no matter what color I choose, it will all look the same to me.
As daunting as that thought is, an even more disturbing realization surfaces: this is the first time I’ve drawn Lark alongside characters from my graphic novels, and the first time Halloween masks have made an appearance in my sketch pads. My dreamscape is the one place in my life where Lark hasn’t left a footprint, where our family curse hasn’t infringed. I must keep Mystiquiel separate and secret, so I’ll always have that sanctuary.
I’ve barely managed to erase Lark’s face when a warm, strong hand cups my shoulder and stops my eraser at the tip of her wings, just as the trolley door whooshes closed.