Anusia Battersby

She is taken instead to the dressing room, and given a robe to change into.

The ghost faces the wall politely.

The lady does not ask before pouring the brine onto her head.

She does not explain, nor converse, nor check for comfort as she works the salt water into her skull, massaging with thick fingers adorned with stacked and shining rings."

She works tangles out with a wide-toothed comb, then teases them back in with a fine brush.

She peers through the tresses, micromanaging a ruin of undead follicles, moving three strands left, four right, backcombing here and smoothing there, an abstract of lifelessness blooming from her scalp.

Blooming like roses.

Watchfully, the ghost's smile takes root, and it grows.

It grows as grey is brushed under her eyes.

It grows as a shimmer is dotted across her cheekbones.

The tiniest fissure of red is painted at the corner of her lip.

A spot by her ear.

The ghost grins.

The ghost glows.

The lady with the fringe steps back to admire her handiwork.

She stands with her head cocked to one side and her thick thumb pressed to her lips.

She cups Violet's cheek and applies one final dash of glitter to her cheekbone.

Then she nods.

Your costume is in the other room, is all she says before she is gone.

The ghost shifts from foot to foot, grinning so hard that it looks like it would hurt if it experienced such things.