Lady Lambdadelta tastes like konpeito and cotton candy, like a toothache you tell your parents doesn’t hurt so you don’t have to go to the dentist; the great Bernkastel tastes like plum tea and miso popcorn, like the guts ripped from a fish still flopping along the boardwalk, like a chance you never had and missed, anyway. The girls giggle and flirt, sugar and spice and everything nice, and between them birth worlds and bring worlds to ruin.

“This doesn’t taste like Bern,” says Lambda, and, of course, she’d know.