A Night of Swimming and Enjoyment

It had been dark for hours, the sky over the island settling into a color that wasn’t blue or black but a thick, blue-black syrup, poured up and over the trees until the only shapes left in the world were the ones lit by torch or lantern or the last shimmer of the bonfire on the beach. Most of the bachelorette party was already scattered along the smooth rocks and driftwood benches of the lagoon, some perched up on the higher stones, some drifting in loose constellations along the water’s edge, toes in the foam. The main crowd pulsed with a kind of relieved chaos: a last free night, everyone’s nerves already half-uncorked, the residue of wine and promise and too many secrets riding the salt air like a chemical fog.

Liesa had lagged behind to sweep the stragglers, or maybe she liked the feeling of trailing last and watching the party self-organize. She was good at a crowd; even when she wasn’t the center, she had a way of pulling the room into her orbit. Now, as she moved down the winding path, she checked to make sure everyone who was supposed to be here had made it—one hand counting off as she went, the other held behind her, the ribbon of her yellow wrap fluttering in the breeze. She could see the crowd from here: Emi, sitting low with her feet in the water, all six arms folded neat; Dawn and Chloe and Riley on a fallen tree, heads bent close enough that their voices all blended together; even Myra, already flanked by two women from another season, the three of them talking with heads-down intensity.

At the base of the path, set just above the waterline, Mildred had arranged a long, low table set with several dozen slender champagne flutes. Each glass had a faint, wavering shimmer at the base, as if the drink inside had a living pulse. A few of the more adventurous had already lined up beside it, but most of the women hung back, lingering at the threshold of the torchlight, waiting to see what would happen next.

Liesa let herself take a moment to watch them: the way they fell into clusters, the way the voices carried up and over the rocks, the current of anticipation running through the group. When she finally stepped onto the sand and raised a glass, it wasn’t just to get their attention. It was to signal, in the way only a really good host can, that the next part was about to begin.

She rapped her ring against the flute. The sound was higher and sharper than expected, and a silence dropped across the water, the kind that wasn’t quite expectant but also wasn’t going to leave her hanging. “Friends,” Liesa called, her accent cutting the hush into manageable pieces. “We have arrived at the most important experiment of the evening. There are drinks for all—” she let her hand sweep over the table with an unpracticed magician’s flair— “and all of these are derived from Daphne’s private presents, which means you’ll want to remember every detail.”

A couple of scattered whoops from the crowd. “What’s the catch?” someone called from the rocks, but it was said with enough affection that it might as well have been a compliment.

“No catch,” said Liesa, and there was a little shrug in her voice as she said it. “Except the small one, which is that this—” she held up the glass, and the shimmer inside pulsed a sudden, dangerous orange— “is a mermaid potion. One swallow, and you will have your tail, your gills, and your scales for half an hour. Maybe less if you’re unlucky, maybe more if you’re daring.” She paused, let it hang. “Side effects are documented on the card next to the tray, but for those of you who are currently pregnant, the potion will not interfere. Arabella promised.”

That got real attention. Chloe leaned forward, her hair falling in her face, and stared hard at the lineup of glasses. Dawn’s ears went up and stayed up, her eyes bright as headlights. Even Riley, who had been pretending not to care, uncrossed her arms and made a point of looking. The energy shifted, as it always did in the presence of a challenge.

A blonde wolf-woman reached for a flute, paused, and then sniffed the contents experimentally. She made a face, nose wrinkling in comic disgust. “What’s it supposed to taste like?” she said.

Liesa, a little sheepish, held up both hands. “Okay, so—honest disclaimer? The original flavor was not great.” She turned to the crowd, letting them all in on the joke. “My apologies to Daphne, but shark liver and dolphin blood do not quite scream ‘bachelorette party.’ So I took a liberty and re-flavored these myself, using a present from Mona. I promise it’s improved.”

Now the laughter broke. “You spiked it, didn’t you?” Riley called out, and Chloe, blushing, covered her mouth with both hands to keep from laughing out loud.

“No!” said Liesa, but she was smiling, and her cheeks colored high on her cheekbones. “I promise, it’s all aboveboard. The trick is—” and here she looked at the table, as if considering whether to say it, and then shrugged again. “It uses a supplement from Daphne’s girlfriend Josie.”

She let the name hang, waited for the crowd to catch up. It didn’t take long.

Mona’s jaw dropped, and she nearly spit out her water. “You mean—the bottle I sent Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Cooper?”

“Wait, which bottle?” said Chloe, turning to Mona. Riley started cackling, barely holding herself together.

“Ah, if you drink it, it tastes like—”

“Like the last woman you went down on,” finished Laura, her voices stunned and amused. “If you haven’t, then it’s just… nothing.”

For a moment, the only noise was the water. Then the entire table of women broke into a riot of laughter—two or three with their hands in the air, some doubled over, a couple even falling off their perches entirely. The effect rolled up the rocks and back down again, and even a few of the guests from earlier seasons, who hadn’t been following the exchange, caught the drift and joined in.

It was, Liesa thought, the best possible reaction. She pressed on, hoping to survive the next part. “Look, it’s not that bad! If you’re lucky, it’s sweet. If you’re not, it’s just… water.”

Someone, maybe Elsie, called out, “And if you’re really unlucky, it’s still the original!”

The laughter doubled.

Tess from the Dungeon Crawl season—a young woman with white hair and an athletic swimmer’s body, raised her flute and said, “Cheers to that,” and downed it in a single, practiced swallow.

Liesa watched her, waiting to see if there would be any instant effect. The woman blinked once, twice, then said, “Hey, this is actually—” Her sentence ended as her eyes went wide. She dropped the empty flute, caught herself on the edge of the table, and stared down at her own legs.

The effect was, in a word, spectacular. It started at her toes: the skin shimmered, went from pale to opalescent, then deepened into green, and as it did her feet seemed to flatten, fuse, and in the next second her legs followed, blending and thickening into a single, sinuous line. Her calves rippled with a sudden pulse, and then the new tail—starting deep indigo at the waist, fading out to gold and green at the tip—splashed out behind her, flinging sand into the air.

She didn’t even seem surprised. She just started laughing, a deep, uncontrolled sound, and then she threw herself into the water, arms first, using the momentum to roll herself into the lagoon. She moved instantly, tail cutting the water like a whip, and the crowd on the rocks erupted again, a real, unforced cheer.

Other flutes followed: Chloe, after a short, nervous conference with Dawn, took one and sipped with extreme caution, eyes never leaving the surface. Riley, rolling her eyes, grabbed hers and tipped it back, daring anyone to say something. Marissa, for once, didn’t even hesitate—she drained hers, set the glass down, and waited, expectant.

The transformations were different for everyone. Chloe’s was gentle, almost sweet: her legs faded to a soft, creamy gold, and her hair seemed to float before she even touched the water. She laughed, a little incredulous, and wiggled her tail as the scales appeared, flexing and stretching the new limb until it responded like it always belonged there.

Riley’s was abrupt, but she handled it with cool, bored efficiency, as if she’d known all along this would be the result. She gave a little salute, then slipped off the rock and slid into the water, arms folded as she went, no drama at all.

Marissa’s was all composure until the moment her thighs pressed together and fused into a perfect, gleaming gold-and-coral tail. She gasped, startled by how fast it happened, then caught herself and laughed, cheeks pink. She glanced up at the rocks, caught Liesa’s eye, and gave her a thumbs up.

The pace picked up: pairs and trios grabbing flutes and toasting, then throwing themselves into the water, some with reckless energy, others easing in slow. There was no fear. Only anticipation and the weird, contagious joy of being able to do something nobody else had ever done (except for Daphne).

A few women hung back, choosing to stay on the rocks, drinking in the sight rather than the potion. They watched, talking in low voices, letting the spectacle play out before deciding if they wanted to join.

Liesa herself did not drink, though she let the glass dangle from her hand. Instead, she worked the edge of the crowd, laughing with them, marveling at each new mermaid, always attentive to who needed an extra nudge and who just wanted to watch. Some women shed their clothes and jumped in the lagoon, skinny dipping alongside the newly minted mermaids. Others preferred to sit and talk. Liesa made sure every group had what it needed—a towel, an arm, a story to tell the next day.

After the initial surge, the party started to split into smaller knots. The bravest mermaids took to deeper water, challenging each other to races and splash contests, diving and surfacing with the kind of raw glee that didn’t need an excuse. Others stuck to the shallows, lounging on the rocks with their tails draped behind them, talking and laughing and trading stories about their seasons.

A little further up, Emi, Norah and Mede had perched on a flat stone, tails intertwined, and were deep in conversation—something serious, but with enough warmth that it never quite turned heavy. At the base of the path, two guests who had never met before tonight lay side by side, trailing their tails in the foam and watching the way the torchlight caught on the scales.

For a long while, nothing else was needed. The moon rose, throwing a wide, silver stripe across the surface of the lagoon, and the women—whether in the water or on the rocks—let themselves be taken by it. No one called out the time. No one checked to see how long they had before it wore off. For tonight, it was enough to just be transformed, to let the rules of the world be different for a while, and to enjoy it together.

Liesa, at the edge of the crowd, took it all in and smiled. She set her glass on the table, untouched, and let the moment run as long as it wanted.

---

The farther from the main fire, the less of the world existed. A little back from the waterline, the sand turned cool and powder-soft, the torchlight dropped to a blur, and the only things left in focus were the silhouettes of three women: Merida, tails curled and knees tucked high; Myra, long legs stretched flat and feet crossed at the ankles; and, approaching with a wary, sidelong glance, still learning how to walk with a tail.

Rose, uncertain, hovered just outside the shape of the other two. “Is this spot claimed, or can I—” She gestured at the sand, hesitated, and then sat anyway. Even when she lowered herself, the movement was careful, as if there was a right way to do it and she hadn’t been briefed.

Myra looked up, and said, “You can sit.” She said it easy, no drama, her tails drawing in to make space. Merida was sprawled on one hip and didn’t move at all other than swaying her four tails. The red-headed girl just gave Rose a frank, three-second survey, head to tail, and then nodded as if she approved of what she saw.

For a minute, nobody spoke. Merida stretched one tail out behind her, propped her chin on her hand, and watched the water. Myra scratched at the sand, making little patterns, then let her fingers idle.

It was Rose who broke the quiet. “You’re the… the one who, uh, sabotaged the eggs at that bakery round.” Her ears—already big and attention-seeking—twitched flat against her hair.

“Merida,” The redhead supplied, with a little wave of her fingers, as if she was introducing someone else entirely. “Four tails, bad at losin’, an’ noo probably banned fae the kitchen.” She grinned, a full wolfish thing, and added, “You’re Rose, aye? Didnae think ye’d remember me.”

Rose’s tail bristled. “Well, you’re kind of hard to forget. Not that I’m, um, saying you stand out—”

Merida cut her off. “Och, dinnae bother softenin’ it, lass. Myra’s blind, an’ even she says ma singin’ voice could charm the fish right oot the bloody sea—though she also says the four tails make me look like a bloody octopus tryin’ tae walk on land.”

Myra, who had let the exchange roll over her with a thin smile, said, “I can actually see, you know. But yes, it really could—and you do.”

Rose looked from Merida to Myra, picking up the dynamic, then offered: “You’re Myra, right? Chloe said you were a doctor, before—” She hesitated, trying to find a way to say it that wouldn’t sound wrong.

“Before I lost my vision and decided to reinvent myself as an emotional sponge, yes.” Myra’s voice was dry, but she smiled to soften it. “We’re all in transition, I guess.”

“Not all,” Merida said. She flicked her tail in the sand, sending a little fan of it into the air. “Some o’ us are just here fer the food an’ the spectacle. I’d’ve drunk the potion if I thought I’d get funny-lookin’, but what’s the point if ye’re already a bloody legend?” She grinned, but there was a real affection in it, not the bite of earlier.

Myra shook her head, a slow movement. “It’s not for me, either. I like dry land. And I like knowing I could run, if I wanted.”

That last bit landed in a way neither woman expected. For a second, Rose just sat, blinking. Then she said, “That’s why I stayed up here too.” She looked down at her hands, fidgeting them together. “I know it’s dumb. But the first time I saw myself in the mirror with it, all I could think was that my career was over.”

There was a pause, and then Merida leaned in, elbows on knees. “Ye want tae know the honest truth?” She waited until Rose nodded, then continued. “It takes a wee while tae get used tae bein’ somethin’ ye never expected tae be. But once ye do, ye might find ye actually like it.”

Rose considered this. Then, softer: “Does it bother you?”

For half a beat Merida just stared, tails fannin’ in the sand. Then she smiled. “Me? Nah.” She glanced over her shoulder at the tails, givin’ one a playful flick. “I love it. It’s a laugh. Comes as easy as breathin’.” Her smile softened as she looked back at Rose. “I ken it’s harder fer ye tae see it like this, though.”

Myra reached over, not fumbling, and let her hand rest over Rose’s, a simple, grounding touch. “You’re not alone in it,” she said. “I remember how I felt when I got my first tail, too.”

There was a beat. Then Rose said, “I’m not okay with it.” Her voice was small but steady. “Not yet, anyway. I know people think I should be, but I’m just… not.” The admission sat between them, fragile as a sand dollar.

Merida, who had spent her whole life not saying things, just nodded, tails curling in tight around her shins. “That’s allowed, ye ken,” she said. “Bein’ not-okay.”

The three of them fell quiet. Rose’s tail stopped bristling. Myra’s hands relaxed, splaying her fingers against the sand. Merida’s ears dipped, and she tilted her head, listening to the noise of the swimmers as it carried faint and slow across the water.

After a long while, Merida said, “I once wrote a letter tae Myra. Never thought I’d ever get an answer back, but I said what I had tae say anyway.” She grinned.

Myra smiled. “Never met anyone else who tells a stranger ‘I hope ye embrace the chance ye’ve been gien, even if it's weird an' somethin' ye widnae normally think tae embrace’.”

Rose laughed, not expecting it. “Did you reply?”

“Yes,” said Myra. “And I kept the letter.” She let it hang for a second, then finished: “Still do.”

The quiet was different, after that. Not empty, but peaceful, filled up by the sound of the water and the far-off laughter of women who had let themselves turn wild for a night.

Merida shifted closer along the sand, enough that their knees almost touched. “If ye ever want tae talk aboot it,” she said, “ye can find me, or Myra. Vixens have tae stick together.”

Rose nodded, and for the first time all night, her ears stayed up.

They sat like that, the three of them, a little island of dry land in the middle of all the noise, and thus began the Fox Forum.

---

It was past eleven already, and the first batch of potions had long since exhausted its effects. The noise of the main crowd had thinned behind them, and the three of them—Laura, Riley, and Myra—had found their own stretch of the lagoon’s edge. The path here was rougher, the rocks uneven and streaked with salt, but the shallow water at the base was clear and cold, and it felt like a world away from the main beach. They left their shoes on the sand and picked their way down barefoot, toes curling at each shock of wet.

They didn’t speak at first. After a full day in each other’s company, there wasn’t much left that needed explaining. Riley sat on a low, flat rock, her jeans rolled to the knees, dangling her feet just above the water and watching the torches flicker in the distance. Myra sprawled next to her, knees drawn in, both tails wrapped around her own waist in a loose double ring. Laura stood for a long while at the edge of the rock before sitting, both bodies lowering themselves at the same time, a mirrored motion that for once felt easy and without eyes on it.

It was Riley who broke the quiet. “You know, I used to hate weddings,” she said, not looking at either of them. “The pressure, the expectations, the way it all feels like a trap for someone who’d rather be anywhere else.” She huffed, then dipped her foot in the water and made a slow circle, watching the ripples spread. “But I think this one might be different. And it’s not just because my two sisters are in it.” She paused, shook her head in amusement. “God, it still hits me sometimes that I have sisters. Anyway, I think it actually matters.”

Laura glanced at Riley, then past her to where the noise from the main party carried in little, broken bursts across the lagoon. “It matters,” she said. Her voices were level, the tone calm, but Myra caught the undertow beneath it—a tension that hummed in both bodies at once.

Myra shifted closer, resting her hand on the rough stone between them, then covered the left-side Laura’s left hand with her own. “Are you okay?” she asked, quiet. “You seemed off after dinner.”

“I’m fine,” Laura said, too quick. Her hands twitched, but she didn’t pull away. “It’s just… there’s a lot tomorrow.”

Laura let the silence ride the surface for a moment, just her and the other two watching the play of torchlight off the water. It was Riley who filled in the gap, voice quieter than before: “Yeah, there is. You don’t have to act like it’s not.”

“I’m not acting,” Laura said, which wasn’t true, and all three of them knew it.

“We can talk about it,” Myra said. She didn’t let go of Laura’s hand. Her own tails shifted in place, brushing the smooth rock behind them.

Laura gave the smallest shake of her head, as if she was fending off a mosquito. “We already talked about it. This morning. And yesterday.”

Riley let her eyes roll upward. “We can still talk about it, if you want.”

It was a rhythm now. The three of them had worn through every possible angle of tomorrow: the wedding, the impossible expectations of what would be required, the not-so-small matter of what Ereshkigal might or might not do. Every time, they ended up right here, walking the same circle.

The moon casting a sickle of light across the water. The smooth stone, the tangle of bare legs and tails, the old ache that was never quite old enough to be familiar.

“Tomorrow, it’s just the wedding,” said Riley, but her voice was as much a question as a statement.

“Tomorrow, it’s the wedding,” echoed Laura, both bodies speaking together.

“And after?” said Myra, her voice feather-light. “Do you want to talk about after?”

“No,” said Laura. She didn’t have to. They all knew what tomorrow really meant, what would begin when the ceremony was over and the witnesses gone.

Riley made a soft, dismissive sound. “It won’t be that bad. You got through worse.”

“I did,” Laura allowed, both mouths curving at the edge. “But it cost me everything. I don’t know if I can do it again.”

Silence, just the lap of water and the dry scrape of Myra’s tails on the stone. Then Myra said, “You aren’t going to be alone, you know.”

“I know,” said Laura, and this time her composure almost held. “That’s what scares me.”

They sat with that, letting it settle into the rock and the marrow. Across the lagoon, a distant splash sent up a plume of bioluminescence, the swimmers out there still making the best of the night, bodies slicing light and darkness into ribbons. None of the three at the rock so much as flinched.

Myra watched the swimmers, her eyes blank and blind but her face alive with the colors of the room, every mood mapped in swirling auroras only she could see. She could feel the small tremor under Laura’s skin, the charge it sent through her own hand. “It doesn’t have to go how they say,” Myra said. “There is no inescapable doom. You’re not chained to any of this.”

Riley gave a low, private laugh. “Says the woman who was metaphorically chained to it for sixteen years.”

“Listen to who’s talking,” said Myra, and her hand gave Laura’s a squeeze. “If it’s bad, we’ll break it for you.”

Laura turned, both faces lit by the reflection of torchlight on the lagoon. “You can’t,” she said, but she said it gently, not as a rebuke.

“We’ll try,” said Myra. “Isn’t that what we’re all doing here?”

Riley’s hand landed on Laura’s other shoulder. The grip was familiar, equal parts grounding and challenge. “You don’t get to ditch us,” said Riley. “Not after all this. You and the two of us, we’re—” She trailed off, not finishing the thought, but Laura nodded. She knew. She always did.

“I won’t ditch you,” Laura said. “I just—” She started to say more, but the words got stuck. The pressure of Riley’s hand, the warmth of Myra’s, the cold of the stone—she wanted to say it all at once, but her brain refused the order.

The urge to laugh or scream faded after a while, replaced by something quieter: a hush so profound it made the surf seem loud. The world contracted to the rock, the water, the tangle of their hands. For once, nobody pressed, nobody asked the next question.

It was Myra who broke the spell, in the way she always did: with a small, practical gesture. She gave Laura’s hand a slow squeeze, then let her thumb trace lazy circles over the back of it. “You don’t have to know how it ends,” she said, her voice softer than it ever got in a crowd. “But you have to want to see it.”

Laura blinked, once, and a tear broke free, running crooked down her cheek. She seemed almost startled by it. Both her faces flinched in perfect unison, a reflex she couldn’t hide. “God, I am really doing this,” she said, and tried to laugh, but her throat wouldn’t let it out.

“You are,” said Riley. “And you don’t have to be sorry about it.” She tightened her grip on Laura’s shoulder. “You don’t have to carry every part of this alone. That’s why we’re here.”

Another silence, but this one was easier. Myra’s tails fanned behind her, relaxed, neither defensive nor posed. “Tomorrow is going to suck,” she said, a little more matter-of-fact. “But you don’t have to be perfect for any of us to love you through it.”

Laura let the words settle. She looked at the water, watched the moon shimmer on the surface, then said, “If it gets bad—if I break again—”

Riley interrupted, not harsh, just certain: “We’ll fix you. We’ll fix it together.” Her hand drifted up, brushing Laura’s hair off her forehead. “You don’t get to opt out now. You’re stuck with us.”

Laura’s composure finally slipped. For a moment, both bodies just shuddered with the force of it. Then she took a long, shuddering breath, and let her heads drop onto Riley’s shoulders, both at the same time, and for a second it looked like she might never pull them back apart.

Myra watched, not intruding, but her own hand never left Laura’s. “We’re not letting you go,” she said. “Not after tonight.”

“You mean it?” Laura’s voices were barely above a whisper.

Riley didn’t say anything, just drew both of Laura’s bodies into a side-hug, tight enough to be real. “You idiot,” she muttered, and there was an affection in it so fierce it almost hurt to hear.

They sat like that, breathing together, as the party’s laughter faded farther up the beach. In the distance, the mermaid swimmers were pulling each other onto the sand, flopping and laughing, tails tangled together as if they’d never been separate.

“Can I say something?” Myra asked. She didn’t wait for permission. “I don’t think you’re actually as resigned as you keep acting. You talk like you’re on the way to the gallows, but you keep picking fights, and you keep making plans, and—” She let her hand squeeze Laura’s, just once, then drew back. “I don’t think you’re done fighting at all.”

Laura didn’t answer right away. Both bodies went very still. Then, in a voice smaller than Myra expected, Laura said, “I don’t think it would be enough, even if I was.”

Riley gave a low, sympathetic hum. “You don’t have to die for anybody. Not this time.”

Laura almost laughed. “You sound like Andy.”

Myra’s tails shifted. “You’re allowed to want the same things he does,” she said. “You don’t have to win the misery contest.”

That landed. Both sets of Laura’s shoulders slumped forward a few degrees, as if something large and invisible had just let go of her spine.

“I know,” she said, after a while. “I do. I just—” Her voices wavered, and both stopped at the same point, a cliff-edge in the sentence where nothing good followed. “I don’t know what else to do with it.”

Riley, who had been watching the swimmers, turned all the way back toward Laura. “You ever think about just saying ‘fuck it’ and going for happy instead?”

Both of Laura snorted. It was funny, even if it wasn’t. “I wouldn’t even know what it looks like,” she said. “It was never an option.”

“You could try,” said Myra. “Just for a night.”

Laura made a face. “I don’t even have a frame of reference for that.”

Riley shrugged. “Maybe that’s the point.”

A pause. Laura opened her mouth to answer, and Myra, watching the movement, said softly, “You’re allowed to want it. You’re allowed to be scared. None of that makes you less.”

Laura looked at her, blinked twice, then looked away, embarrassed by the attention. “You’re both very persistent,” she said. The compliment in it was real, but it was also something else—something almost like hope, just thin and not quite ready to show.

The rock was cold, but the air was close and thick. Laura let her shoulders fall all the way forward, resting her elbows on her knees and both chins on her palms. Her eyes tracked the distant swimmers—splashing, racing, yelling, making the kind of spectacle that, in another universe, she’d have run to join. She didn’t envy them. But she felt something, watching them, that she wasn’t ready to name.

After a while, Myra said, “So what do you want to do tonight? Last night before you become a married woman, for whatever that’s worth.”

“I don’t know,” said Laura. They sat like that for a while, not speaking, until the water started to numb the bottoms of their feet.

“You know,” said Laura, after a long silence, “he left that ribbon on the tree.” She blushed when she said it, even though it was almost too dark for anyone to see. “I wasn’t supposed to see who wrote it, but the handwriting was—”

Myra smiled. “Yeah. Mildred’s confession clinched it. It was his.”

“It said—” Laura started, but the words balled up, snagged in her throat. “It said he’d choose me again, even if he didn’t have a choice.”

“You believe him?” said Riley.

Laura nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“Then you should tell him,” said Myra, and there was a finality in her voice. “Tonight. Before any of the rest of it happens.”

“I’m scared,” Laura said, both mouths moving together. “Not of her, not even of what comes after. I’m scared of letting anybody down.” She let the confession sit, so heavy it seemed to press the three of them closer together on the rock.

Riley let her own head rest against Laura’s shoulder. “It’s not your job to keep everybody whole,” she said. “That’s not how any of this works.”

“It used to be,” said Laura, and there was a bitterness to it that surprised even her.

Myra gave her hand another squeeze. “Not anymore,” she said. “You don’t have to be the one who takes the hit for everyone else.”

Laura drew a long breath, in through both noses, out through both mouths. It was ragged, a little uneven, but she got all the way through it without breaking.

Then, softly, Myra said, “When this is over, I want you to know that we’ll be here. Whatever happens. That’s not a promise you have to keep—it’s one we do.”

Riley grunted. “You’re not getting rid of us, even if you try. I’d hunt you down just to say ‘I told you so.’”

Laura managed a laugh. It broke the tension, just enough.

After a while, they picked their way back up the rock, feet numb and raw but not really minding. The night was big, the air full of sound and salt and the feeling of everything about to change. As they reached the edge of the main beach, Laura paused. Both bodies looked back, just for a second, as if committing the moment to memory.

When she turned to rejoin the others, both faces were smiling, just a little. Not because the fear was gone. Because, for the first time, she was beginning to feel she didn’t have to be the one carrying all of it alone.

---

The party’s pulse was easy to find if you wanted it—laughter and shouts, the sharp clink of glass, all sweeping back and forth along the far curve of the lagoon like someone had lined up all the world’s noisemakers and set them to fire in sequence. But the water didn’t care about the party, and neither did the quiet edge where Sumiku and Katherine found their place: a shallow shelf of smooth, warm stone sloping gently down to the water, half-lit by a string of lanterns someone had tied haphazard along the last palm trunk.

Sumiku was the first to spot it, and the first to decide. She tapped her companion once on the shoulder, then hopped down the rocks with all four hands braced against the stone, feet bare and her white robe trailing in the breeze behind her. Katherine followed in the same way she did everything—unhurried, upright, never missing a step or a beat even when she looked like she should have no balance at all. They’d spent most of the afternoon in each other’s company, content to let the rest of the island play host to the bigger dramas. There was something easy between them. Maybe it was the way neither of them ever wasted words.

The Mildred on mermaid duty had set a tidy tray of flutes on a stand at the water’s edge. Sumiku scanned the options, then plucked one up without ceremony and set it down again beside Katherine. She watched the water, then watched Katherine, then raised her own glass and drank.

The change was not gradual. It started as a pulse at her ankles, a little warmth and a pinching pressure. In the space of a heartbeat, her feet vanished and the calves zipped together, merging her dragon’s tail into a smooth, slender line that went from ghost-pale to deep indigo. The new tail rippled once—like a flag in a quick breeze—and then all at once she was sitting on the rock, a tangle of long, gold-flecked blue where legs had been, toes and knees and thighs all wrapped into a single, flexible whip.

Sumiku flexed the tail, cautiously. It moved. She flexed again, and it moved exactly as she meant. She laughed, low in her chest, the sound surprised out of her. “Remarkable,” she said. “This one has never seen—” She flicked the tail again, this time sending a splash up onto the rocks.

Sumiku raised both sets of arms overhead and gave a little bow, then shrugged. She took off her robe and let herself slide into the water, swimming circles as if she was born to it, a delighted expression on her face.

Katherine, who had settled onto the flat of the stone with her knees together and her hands clasped loose in her lap, looked down at Sumiku’s delight and broke into a silent laugh of her own. She spread both palms wide, a gesture as clear as speech: where in the world had that come from?

“This one does not know,” Sumiku said. “This one had never even seen the sea, before being brought here.” She paused, considered, then said, “This one knows the skills of the harem.” She blushed slightly. “With a harem of this size, this one knows a lot of things.” She turned her attention to the water, eyes narrowing as she calculated the depth and distance.

Sumiku’s first circle around the cove was half-experiment, half-impulse: the tail felt less like a costume and more like a missing piece finally slotted in, every flick of muscle rippling effortless power from the small of her back down through to the golden, split fins. She looped once, then twice, keeping a careful, respectful arc around Katherine, who sat perfectly composed on the pale stone, knees together, spine upright, hands relaxed in her lap like a queen at her throne.

After the third pass, Sumiku surfaced, hair dark with water, and caught Katherine’s eye. It was impossible not to laugh—the whole body wanted to, not just the throat—and she did, a high bright sound that drew a couple of glances from the party’s nearest edge.

“Did you see that?” Sumiku said, her four hands sweeping wide, then crossing herself in a quick, ridiculous bow. “This one has never done this before. Never even seen a lake, except from the shore. Yet here this one is, spinning like a river eel.”

Katherine watched her, then opened both hands, palms wide and up, fingers spread as if ready to catch rain. She made a show of blinking, tilted her head in exaggerated doubt, then waggled her fingers in a rapid flutter, a mute gesture of pure, bemused amazement. Sumiku was happy, and Katherine felt something deep inside herself, a kinship borne of the suffering they both had known.

Sumiku snorted, grinning, and gave Katherine a quick, sly look. “Would you like to come closer? The water is warm. And there are no witnesses.”

Katherine responded with a tiny tilt of the chin—imperious, but with a glint of mischief. She slid herself down from the rock, ankles together, toes pointed, and let herself ease into the shallows, every movement precise but unselfconscious. Once she was in, she let her arms float at her sides, then dipped herself under, vanishing completely for a moment before surfacing with a rush, water streaming off her long hair and down her shoulders, sparkling in the torchlight.

For a moment, neither spoke. Sumiku rested her folded arms on the edge of the rock and watched, eyes soft, while Katherine turned slow, deliberate circles, her hands paddling gracefully just below the surface. She wasn’t showing off, exactly; more that every move was an answer to an unspoken question, a deliberate act of presence.

After a time, Sumiku asked, “You seem at home here. Is it always like this, with them? With the Master and the women, both?”

Katherine considered, then drew her hands up in front of her face, fingers extended and tapping rapidly against each thumb in sequence, as if flicking through a dozen conversations at once. She broke the motion with a full-body shrug, arms up, and flashed a smile that said, sometimes, yes, exactly like this. Then she brought her hands close together, folded them, and rocked them like a cradle, her expression suddenly softer, then looked out at the dark beyond the lagoon, a little wistful.

Sumiku watched every motion. “Talkative, then, and also… something else.” She nodded out toward the torch-lit stretch of sand, where the main party was still in full cry. “This one could hear the voices, even from the kitchens. They do not stop, not even when nobody is listening.”

Katherine grinned, all teeth and warmth, and pointed first at her own chest, then at Sumiku, then out at the world at large. She followed with a second gesture—back straight, chin up, one flat hand held at her own shoulder height, unwavering—then curled her arm in, cradling it close across her torso, palm covering the place above her heart. Steady, the gesture said, or maybe: the thing that holds the rest together.

Sumiku was very still for a moment, floating up to the rock so their faces were almost level, separated only by a thin sheet of water and a line of shadows. “This one understands,” she said, low. “It is very different, with the others. But it is not unwelcome.”

Katherine reached out, closing her hands gently around both of Sumiku’s, then released her, only to pat the stone in invitation. Sumiku levered herself up, tail sweeping beneath her, until she and Katherine were shoulder to shoulder on the broad shelf, watching the dark together.

The silence was companionable. Only the distant party broke it, now and then, with a whoop or a shout or the muted splash of bodies hitting the water farther down the cove. The torchlight shimmered on the surface, gold and red in stripes, and the moon’s reflection had doubled in the last hour, the water so calm it looked painted.

Sumiku broke the stillness first, her voice softer now. “This one used to think the point was to become better than all the others. More useful, stronger, cleverer, more loved. It was something the Audience disagreed with. Amaterasu-no-Ōkami tried to warn this one. This one did not listen.” She flexed her hands, fingers splayed. “This one gave up then, and spent more than three hundred years as a vessel. Amaterasu-no-Ōkami was merciful, and let this one slumber. But whenever this one awakened, this one knew despair.” She hesitated, taking a deep breath. “The thing this one likes most, here, is that no one expects competition. It is just… it is allowed to be good.” She turned to Katherine, honest and open. “This one is not special, but this one is free again, and tonight, this one would not trade places with anyone.”

Katherine, who had never been able to say as much out loud, even when she could still talk, simply nodded. She reached up, cupped Sumiku’s chin with one palm, and tapped the tip of her nose—one, two, three—then let her hand rest there a moment. She rolled her eyes, a little mock-self-conscious, then lifted both arms overhead and stretched wide, fingers flickering in a burst of silent applause. She let herself fall backward into the water, sinking out of sight, before coming up again, hair plastered to her cheeks, laughing in a voice no one else could hear.

Sumiku didn’t hesitate this time. She caught Katherine’s hand, pulled her gently further out into the water, and they drifted together, first in the shallows, then deeper, until the noises of the party became small and the lights of the torches made only the faintest halo on the surface. Here, even talking felt like a risk—better to just be, to float, to share a pocket of night with nothing owed and nothing asked.

They held hands, turning slow in the warm water, both looking up at the sky or at each other as the moment required. Every so often, the wind would carry a sharp cry or a laugh from the main crowd, and Sumiku would snort, and Katherine would make a face, and then they would fall quiet again, perfectly at home in the hush.

Sumiku’s tail fanned out behind her, beautiful and strange, but she’d already stopped being surprised by it. Instead, she leaned back, floating half-supine, and let the world shrink to just this: the soft lap of water, the press of Katherine’s fingers, the sound of their own breathing.

Katherine, for her part, was content to drift. She spread her arms, turned in place, making slow, deliberate arcs that left a trail of bright droplets behind her. At one point, she swam a circle around Sumiku, then surfaced and shook her hair, flinging a comet of water out into the dark. When she finished the lap, she slid in close, bumping her shoulder gently against Sumiku’s, then hooked their fingers together and tugged, as if to say: come, let’s see how far we can go.

And they did. The two of them, a dragon and a painting come to life, two women who had been bereft of their own body and agency for far too long, now held their arms folded together, bodies weightless in the lagoon. Neither spoke, because nothing was left to add.

Behind them, on shore, the noise of the world faded out. There were other stories happening, other circles of light and talk and noise, but none of them needed to care about it right now. For this hour, the rest of the world was just a distant, beautiful myth.

They floated. They drifted. They were together.

---

Oudemia found her place well before the others did: a low, smooth shelf of rock set back just far enough from the water to keep her feet dry, the wall at her back cool and absolute, her knees drawn up and arms wrapped loosely around them, chin level, eyes fixed on the darkness above the lagoon. The din of the main crowd was more a presence than a noise, a shimmer on the edge of hearing that didn’t demand attention unless you chose to give it. She didn’t. Oudemia was perfectly still, every part of her seemingly at ease, except maybe her hands, which every so often found each other in her lap and began that slow, practiced spiral—palm against palm, fingers pressed together, the way you might warm them on a cold day if you’d forgotten what warmth was supposed to feel like.

The arrivals came in stages. First was Dawn, padding barefoot along the path and easing herself down onto the lowest ledge of the rock, just one step up from the water. She said nothing for a while, just let her legs dangle and kicked them gently, watching her own toes like it was the most interesting thing in the world. She glanced up, caught Oudemia’s eye, and smiled—a small, quiet thing, not asking anything in return. After a few minutes, Marissa came up from the other direction, hands in the pockets of her robe, posture as casual as if she was arriving early for a therapy session. She nodded to both of them, then took a spot two ledges up, back straight and eyes half-lidded, looking out at the main crowd with the sort of measured, practiced detachment that could only be developed over years of watching everyone else pretend not to be hurting.

Last were the twins, Summer and Autumn Weaver, their shared body moving in steady, practiced steps, the coordination so ingrained it didn’t look like choreography at all. Autumn’s head was turned a little toward Marissa, Summer’s angled slightly downward, gaze set on Dawn. They settled just below Marissa, two heads bent together, and for a while it looked like that was going to be it—five women, silent and separate, watching the water and the noise from a safe, untroubled distance.

Dawn was the first to break the quiet, but even then she did it softly, with the kind of care you use when you’re not sure if words are needed at all. “Are you going to try one?” she said, tipping her chin toward the water and the tray of mermaid flutes, the last light of the torches catching the edge of her teeth as she smiled. Her voice was kind, but she wasn’t waiting for an answer. It was just a small nudge, an acknowledgment that sometimes you have to say something just to prove you’re there.

Oudemia only shook her head once, a tiny gesture, then let her eyes drift back to the lagoon. Her face didn’t move, didn’t betray anything of how she felt about the question. Dawn nodded, as if she’d already expected it, and let her attention wander back to the slow arc of her feet in the air.

The moment passed. It was Marissa who next reached for a flute—not with the fanfare or self-consciousness that might have once haunted her, but with a plain, unshowy motion, as if it was simply the next thing to do. She had done it already, after all. She raised it, looked at no one in particular, and drank. The effect was nearly instantaneous: the robe split along the hem, legs fusing together in a rush of gold and coral, her feet vanishing into a single, smooth limb with a broad, fan-like tail. She caught her breath, but there was nothing forced or false in it—just a flash of real, unguarded delight. She didn’t hesitate; she kicked off the ledge and slipped into the water, moving away from the rock with a surety that belonged to a woman who, for once, wasn’t thinking about how she looked from the outside.

Dawn watched her go, then made a decision and slid off her ledge into the shallows, wading in up to her knees. She turned back toward the rock. “Come on,” she said, voice low, an invitation to both Oudemia and the twins.

The shared body shifted, Summer’s head turning eagerly toward the water while Autumn’s remained angled slightly away, observing. “Let’s go,” Summer told her sister, and Autumn gave her a small smile. They moved as one unit down the ledges, their steps synchronized and economical. Summer’s left hand reached out toward Dawn even as Autumn’s right hand stayed close, fingers resting against her thigh. When they reached the water’s edge, Summer let out a soft, delighted breath as their left foot entered the foam; Autumn’s expression remained watchful, but she didn’t resist as their body waded in after Dawn.

What started as murmured words turned into a game. Dawn flicked a spray of water with her palm toward them—aiming for the left side. Summer laughed, a bright, contained sound, and their left arm rose to shield their face. In response, their body turned slightly, and the right arm—Autumn’s—swept through the water, sending a gentle arc back toward Dawn. The motion was unified, a single gesture sourced from two wills. They traded these soft splashes, not trying to win, just enjoying the sensation. Autumn’s face held a soft, amused smile while Summer’s shone with unfiltered joy. Every so often, Autumn’s gaze would lift from the play to track Marissa—now some fifty feet out, her tail catching the torchlight as she dove—then return to her sister’s profile, as if content to let the world take its time.

The accidental splash happened so fast it looked like an accident, and maybe it was. Summer, in the act of a particularly wide swing, sent a sheet of water arcing out of the shallows and up onto the rocks, where it landed squarely across Oudemia’s face and left shoulder. There was a moment where no one reacted, as if the world had to catch up with what had just happened. Summer threw a quick, laughing apology over her shoulder, then turned back to the game. Dawn grinned, her eyes bright and wide.

But the splash had changed something. Oudemia went absolutely still, her posture perfect, her face utterly blank. Her hand rose, slow and deliberate, to her own cheek, and for a long time she just pressed her palm against the wet skin, unmoving. Then, very carefully, she let her hand fall, and a single tear ran down after it, cutting a clean line through the droplets still clinging there.

Marissa saw it first. She had surfaced not far from the rocks, arms braced against the ledge, tail curled underneath her, the picture of ease. She watched Oudemia’s reaction, and the old instinct to fix, to comfort, to fill the silence with something that would make it better, rose in her—an urge so strong she nearly acted on it. But she didn’t. Instead, she made the same choice she’d been practicing all week: she let the moment be Oudemia’s alone, let her have the space and the privacy to feel whatever she was feeling, to process it without interference.

Oudemia stayed like that a long time, hands folded in her lap, eyes unfocused on the world in front of her. After a while, she leaned forward, found the edge of the water with both hands, and rinsed them off in a slow, measured motion, like a ritual or a reset. When she was done, her face had returned to its usual stillness—calm, contained, but not cold. She stayed right where she was, no further from the water than before.

To Marissa, watching from her spot in the lagoon, none of it looked like panic. It looked unhurried, deliberate, the action of a woman who had learned a long time ago that feelings could be set aside until there was room for them. For the rest of the night, Oudemia didn’t move from her place on the rock, but her hands, once they found each other, stayed twined together, palm to palm, as if holding something precious or secret.

The others kept playing. The splashing game grew wilder for a while, until Dawn, Summer, and Autumn, all breathless, collapsed onto the lowest ledge, water streaming from their hair, shoulders pressed together in a loose, companionable sprawl.

Marissa swam a few more laps, then let herself float on her back, eyes half-closed, every muscle loose. The water held her, the world distant and soft, and she thought about nothing at all for a very long time.

On the rocks, Oudemia watched the dark, then the party, then the water. She didn’t speak, but every so often her hands would start that slow, careful spiral again, as if warming them by a fire only she could see.

When the torches burned lower and the effects of the potion faded, Marissa kicked herself out of the water, shook herself like a dog, and crawled up onto the ledge, careful to stay out of splash range. She found a towel, wrapped it around her hips, and sat with the others, silent and easy, as if she’d been doing it every night of her life.

For a while, no one spoke. Then Summer, her face still damp, looked at Oudemia and said, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But if you ever change your mind, we’d be happy to have you.”

Oudemia considered this. She didn’t answer with words, but she gave a small, precise nod, and her face, for just a second, softened.

That was enough. The five of them sat, not touching, but together, watching the last of the torches gutter out. The world was still, the air thick with the memory of laughter and something harder to name.

Nobody said another word.

---

Laura needed a pocket of the night that was just hers, or as close as it could get. She moved up the low shelf of rock, the last torch behind her hissing faintly in the salt damp, and let the sound of the party dissolve into the hush of the water. The tide had receded since sunset, leaving a long stretch of flat, dry stone above the blackness of the lagoon. She could still hear voices if she wanted—an argument over a shell game, the high laugh of a woman being swung into the water by her friends—but she let it fade to background, her mind on nothing but the air and the hardness of the rock beneath her feet.

Sassafras was already there, all three of her. One sat on the very edge of the shelf, knees up, chin resting in her hands, looking out over the cove. The second was standing, balanced on the balls of her feet at the lip of the drop-off, arms crossed, loose hair blowing into her mouth every time the wind shifted. The third was on her haunches, gathering a heap of abandoned towels into a neat, squared pile, every fold and crease perfect. The three worked in absolute silence, and it wasn’t clear at first if they even knew Laura had arrived.

Laura watched for a long minute before joining, letting the sense of the space settle around her. Then she stepped up beside the sitting Sassafras, lowered herself down, and said, “You know you are a guest here, right? You don’t have to do this.”

Sassafras shrugged and smiled. “I don’t mind. But thank you.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Laura hesitated, even after Sassafras nodded. “Is it like this all the time for you?” She didn’t clarify what she meant—didn’t need to, probably.

Sassafras gave the question its due. The three bodies operated with an unshowy coordination: one of her bent to the towel pile, hands folding with a kind of soft-brained automation, the second crouched to look at a moth on the edge of the rock, and the third considered Laura with the mild, open-eyed stare of someone used to taking stock before replying.

“It’s not the same as you,” said the sitting Sassafras, voice as calm as the water below. “I have twenty, total. Usually. Three here tonight.”

Laura blinked. “Twenty?”

A nod from the standing one, then a faint smile, almost self-mocking. “Yes. Seventeen currently on set, attending the Master and his contestants, overseeing the season while the Host is here.” She shrugged, as if listing houseplants. “You’d think it would get old. It never does.”

Laura stared at the line of Sassafras, a thin bubble of envy rising through her. “Is it—are they really all you?”

“Yes,” the standing Sassafras said. “They’re all me—every single one of these bodies is me. Much like you,” she added, with a smile. The sitting Sassafras glanced over at Laura, then said, “Your version is harder, I think. With two bodies, you have to split yourself right down the seam.”

That landed harder than Laura expected. She looked down at her hands, watched the way her thumbs fidgeted with each other. “It used to be hard. I hated being doubled, at first.” The memory of it—the sensation of waking up, for the first time, in two bodies, everything doubled except for the part of her that was supposed to decide what happened next—sent a brief, ghostly shiver through her. “Now I really like it. Some nights Andy makes two of himself and then it’s…” She trailed off, but the thought was clear enough. “It’s easier to not be the default me. There’s enough of me to go around.”

The Sassafras at her elbow turned, studying Laura’s faces with a care that bordered on affectionate. “It suits you,” she said. “You walk different now.”

Laura didn’t know what to do with that, so she reached for the easiest joke. “Are you saying I have a swagger?”

“You have two,” said all three Sassafras, in perfect unison, and then they each smiled: the kind of smile that showed teeth, but not in a way that made you want to run.

The rock’s edge was silent for a long time after. The towel-folding Sassafras joined her other selves, and the three lined up, knees touching, all watching the dark of the water. A comfortable quiet grew, the sort Laura was only just now starting to find peace in.

“Have you thought about more?” asked standing Sassafras. “Adding another. Or two.”

Laura hesitated, the way you hesitate before saying a secret you only half believe yourself. “Yes,” she said. “There’s an upgrade in the Commissary. I could do it. It’s just… permanent.” She snuck a glance at the towel-stacking Sassafras. “Andy could do it, too. He wants to, I think. But we haven’t talked about what that would look like.”

“That could be fun, wouldn’t it?” said the rightmost Sassafras, so plainly that it was almost a benediction. Then she asked, softly, “Look at it the other way. What about when you’re just one? If the other one goes away, what does that feel like?”

Laura looked down, then up again, eyes a little brighter. “I get tired if I only have one. It’s like holding in a sneeze, or breathing through a straw. I’m supposed to be more. If I make the second one go away for too long, I start feeling… compressed, like if I was wearing a dress three sizes too tight.”

Laura nodded, feeling that in her bones. “I can do it if I have to. I did it, when I met Andy’s parents.” She remembered those two visits—how the effort to keep herself one had grown, and grown, until at the end it felt like treading water with an anchor tied to her leg. “But I don’t think I ever want to be just one again. Not unless I have to.”

Sassafras didn’t answer for a while. Then the leftmost one said, “That’s good. Some people think they’re supposed to go back to one. Or they have to. It’s not true. It’s your body now. You should be happy in it.”

The towel-folding Sassafras paused her work. “Have you tried any other upgrades? Some of them might help with the effort.”

Laura frowned. “You mean the Commissary? I saw one for distance, like I could have my bodies further apart, but nothing about making it easier to run both at once.”

“Hasn’t any transformation helped with control?” asked the standing Sassafras.

Laura’s cheeks warmed slightly. “There’s ‘Twice the Fun.’ It makes things... much easier when we’re intimate with Andy.”

All three of Sassafras nodded in understanding. “Look for upgrades to that one,” said the sitting Sassafras. “Sometimes enhancing what already works extends that ease to other activities.”

“How do you know?” Laura asked.

“Because it’s always like that,” said towel Sassafras with a little shrug.

Laura let her head fall back, eyes on the stars. “I could look. I should, before it’s too late.” She let the words sit for a while, then added, “You know, it’s funny. For most of my life, I thought I had to be one thing. One girl, one person, one version that was good enough for everyone else. Now that I am two, I keep thinking about what it would be like to keep going. Not to have to merge again.” She took a long, slow breath. “Do you think that’s selfish?”

“No,” said all three Sassafras, in perfect chorus. “I think it’s overdue.”

They let the conversation float, each lost in their own head, for a time. The water below caught the moon and tossed it in broken pieces up onto the rocks. The air felt just shy of cold.

Emi came up the path with the peculiar grace of someone who’d spent a lot of her life tiptoeing through other people’s spaces—quiet, alert, but determined not to hover on the outside. She stopped a few feet from the rock, both hands clasped behind her back, and waited for a beat before speaking.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said. Her voice, soft even at full volume, barely carried above the water’s hush.

All three Sassafras turned as one and Laura’s two bodies did as well. “You’re not,” Laura said, warmly.

Emi smiled, then hesitated, caught for a moment in the unfamiliar social geometry. “I just wanted to say…” She trailed off, then started again, looking at Sassafras. “You look lovely tonight. Every one of you.” She blushed, but didn’t look away. “Watching you earlier, in the kitchen, with all the arms and all the hands… it was beautiful. I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

She brought her hands around front, then, and held them out: cupped in her palms was a small, intricate glass sculpture, no bigger than a fist—three tiny women, near each other, caught in the moment of a turn. The details were precise down to the folds of fabric and the curve of a cheek; if you looked, there was no question who they were meant to be. A single, faintly pink glow burned in the heart of the statuette.

“I made this,” Emi said. “I hope it’s okay.”

Sassafras went still, a different kind of stillness than before. The silence was thick, not tense, just full. After a long moment, towel Sassafras reached out and took the figure, cupping it in both hands. She turned it over, studied the lines, then gave a short, soft nod.

“Thank you,” she said. “I will keep it where I see it every day.”

Emi’s smile went from small to explosive. She stepped forward, gave towel Sassafras a quick, nervous hug, then slipped away again, back to the path and the echo of the party. Even after she left, the smile lingered.

The three Sassafras sat with the carving between them, and after a while, Laura found her own hands reaching for it. She held it for a second, thumb tracing the tiny figures, then handed it back. “It’s really you,” she said, and the words were equal parts envy and admiration.

“Yes,” said Sassafras. “But it could be you too, if you want.”

They sat in a loose knot on the rock, the night wide around them.