Monet exhales at that -- half laugh, half haughty sniff -- and adjusts her grip on her glass. She wonders if it looks like she's uncomfortable, holding it in both hands. Like someone who never goes to parties. She switches to one, dangling the alcohol in her fingers in a way that almost passes for natural.

"Perhaps I'll file a complaint," she suggests. "Ask Khalil to dress me like a real person. He seems ... agreeable."

A word, for a ghost like this one. A shade. Whatever he is.