Torrie can't help it, the natural way her mood brightens right along with Sol's laugh, not even his accusal that she's up to something warrants a notch or two back down. There’s no way for her to defend against it because years together have only proven that her brother can read her well. "It can't be better than that," she argues instead, beseeching. "Drag doesn't get old, as a Halloween costume or otherwise, Solomon." Her eyes widen, not quite puppy dog begging, but sitting right on the threshold of it. A bit of personality rarely glimpsed by anyone who isn’t near and dear. Up until he mentioned it she hadn't remembered that Halloween was that close around the corner; it used to be one of her favorites, but it's lost some of the charm now that they’re living with the undead.
Then another accusation, and she shrugs one shoulder up with her mouth twitching into a half-smile. "If the shoe fits," she sing-songs, then nods to show recognition of the name, recalling the woman Sol mentioned. There’s something small that uncoils inside her at the reminder that her brother has people in his corner, even in her absence. "You're too skinny," she adds after a beat, using a nasal tone that is reminiscent of one of their aunts. The one Torrie always hated for the way she picked apart her looks growing up. Too skinny, too angular, her hair was too dark, the list went on. "Fat Mags just knows better than you." Torrie unfolds one leg so she can kick at one of the legs of the chair Solomon is sitting on.
“Are you heading back up tonight?” There isn’t a lot of extra space in her train car for guests, but she’s always made space before.