You reach for the wolf mask. It’s gorgeous, so detailed, the snout ending in a toothy snarl. When you hold it up to your face it perfectly fits. The women smile at you.
“Good choice,” one says, and they reach into the rows of clothing all around and produce an outfit for you. They take the mask back from you and cover you in a black sheath dress that reaches to the floor, with a high slit in the side. Then they bring you shoes in your size, strappy black high heels.
“Better not run in these, dear,” says one, as she helps you buckle them up. The third is working on your hair, pinning it elegantly up.
“She might run, but she won’t get far,” says the third, and you want to ask them what they mean, but they’re pressing the mask back into your hands. You take it, nervous but curious, and whe
