Really. You wouldn’t think. She was the one with hawks for pets and I had a ratty Pekingese. Her mother was the one with the gossamer blonde hair, her fingers so long and cool and translucent that they looked as though she could snap them clean off (and then they’d grow back again). My mother was the Muse. She was the one with the blue-black hair dyed acid green-white, split ends fraying and constantly reminding me of our financial situation. Why should a Muse and her daughter struggle for fresh air in a pallid vanilla-walled apartment while regular mortal girls flourish and blossom in stone and white clapboard cottages? Why should they have tangles of wheat colored hair and golden angels for mothers? Why should wild flying things want to be tamed by their cool, pale hands? I was the one from an enchanted, other-world background, but she was the one with magic in her life.