Andy and the Harem

Myra took the long way to the Main Beach, hugging the shaded paths through the garden and past the slow, looping turns of the main drive. The air out here was richer, not quite salt but charged with the memory of waves, the distant tang of dried kelp and sun-bleached rock. Each time her cane tapped a new texture, she felt the faint echo of its vibration through her knuckles, a way of mapping the world she’d never expected to need, let alone enjoy. Sometimes, when she moved quickly and let herself focus, she could imagine the beach at the end of the path as a point of heat and brightness, calling her forward like the answer to a riddle. As it was, she could see her surroundings on fire with colors, a type of sight she had never envisioned, but which she had grown to cherish.

The last two days, a lot of that fire burned with contentment, disbelief, and the feeling of putting away a heavy burden you didn’t know you had carried for so long.

She made it to the end of the garden steps and stopped, savoring the change in sound. On the left, wind rushed through palm fronds, a choral hush like the inside of a seashell. On the right, the slow, insistent breath of the ocean, each wave a new line drawn and erased, over and over. She let herself stand still, soaking up the sun, and tried to picture what she must look like: a woman in a sundress, still too thin for her frame, hair a tangled mess, leaning on a cane with a foxhead handle that fit her palm perfectly.

She heard the voices before she was halfway down the steps. They were familiar in the way that only trauma could make people familiar: not the content of the words, but the cadence, the push and pull of old arguments rehearsed a hundred times and then, somehow, dissolved into nothing. She recognized Laura immediately, of course, the doubled signature of her presence—one body standing near the surf, the other closer to the rocks, both swathed in emotions—a substrate of contentment, happiness even, affection, and that silvery thread Myra had only ever seen on Laura and Andy. Her voices were a perfect harmony, the world’s most uncanny echo. She also saw Riley, lower on the sand, radiating a kind of nervous optimism that hovered just above the line of visible sight. If arousal burned blue-white, like arc welding, then what she felt here was a warm gold, soft and slightly raw.

She walked to where the sand leveled out and called, “Hello?” on the off-chance she was needed to announce herself. She didn’t like to surprise people.

Laura answered immediately, her voices full and alive. “Hi, Myra! Come on down!”

Riley said, “Watch out, the last step is a killer,” her words a counterpoint, filling the gap before it could become awkward. Myra smiled, grateful, and navigated the steps until her feet hit sand.

Both Lauras approached at once, her movements perfecly synchronized. She could hear the difference in weight and the slightly off-beat pattern of their bare feet—one of them favoring the left, the other the right. They stopped a foot away, letting Myra dictate the distance. The effect was like being circled by friendly wolves: no threat, but total attention.

“Can I help you?” Laura asked, voice bright.

Myra thought about saying no, proud of the fact she could now see her way, but she realized what this offer meant, and instead said, “Sure. Lead me to the shade? I think my tail is about to fry.”

She heard a snort of laughter behind her—Riley, definitely—and then a hand slipped into her elbow, warm and dry. The touch was careful, not guiding so much as offering a suggestion, and Myra relaxed into it. She let herself be walked a few paces, then felt the sudden coolness of a beach umbrella and the hush as they stepped out of the sun.

Riley was already there, taking her seat on a striped towel. She patted the sand next to her. “Right here, doc. Unless you want a chair.”

Myra smiled, grateful. “Sand’s good.”

She folded herself down, arranging her tail so it wouldn’t snag. She sensed the Lauras on either side, both sitting cross-legged. The shade under the umbrella was only partial, and the sun still reached her feet, but it was better. She closed her eyes and listened.

There was a pause, then Riley said, “So, uh… how’s everyone doing?”

The question was so ordinary, so unremarkable, that for a moment Myra didn’t know how to answer. She’d expected, maybe, a rehash of old apologies, or a test of whether she belonged in this new constellation. Instead, it was as if they’d all agreed, without saying, that none of that mattered anymore.

“Good,” Laura said, both voices overlapping like an echo. “Better than I’ve been in... well, ever.” She laughed, a sound that rippled between her two bodies.

Myra’s tail twitched against the sand. “I’m... good, too,” she said, surprised by her own honesty. “It feels like a good day.”

The silence, when it settled, was almost musical—an arrangement of gulls, the hush of surf, and three women not quite sure what to do with their hands. Myra let her senses float: the doubled pulse of Laura on either side, the hum of Riley’s breath, the faint warmth from sand that still lingered on the soles of her feet. She was so used to arriving late to moments like this—never early, always the one who disrupted the equilibrium—that she almost waited for them to start the hard conversation for her.

Instead, it was Riley who spoke, and she looked to Myra, giving her a turn. “You think about home?” she asked, voice tilted up, as if it were okay not to answer.

Myra considered. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But most days, I don’t want to.” She shrugged, tail shifting to avoid the umbrella pole. “Home feels like something that happened to someone else. Not sure I’d recognize it.”

This, apparently, was the right answer, because Laura hummed in approval, her sound perfectly harmonized. The one at her left scooted closer, and Myra felt the shift in heat, the small gravity of bodies wanting to make space for her.

She braced for the next volley, expecting the topic to circle back to her old self. To the girl who lied, who let Laura die, who spent years trying to undo it with medicine and careful, careful living. Despite their meeting three days earlier, she was prepared for it—the old shame, the script—but it never came.

Instead, Riley kicked her feet in the sand and said, “You know, I don’t think we’ve ever done this. Just… sat. No ghosts. No secrets.”

Laura said, “It’s nice. I don’t remember it being this easy.”

The admission hit Myra harder than she expected. For a second, she couldn’t answer. It was easier to focus on sensation: the warm sand, the salted air, the way her toes curled in the shade and her tail picked up every faint vibration of movement from the others. When she finally spoke, it was quieter than she meant: “I don’t remember ever doing this either,” she said. “Not even in middle school. I was always too busy trying to win.”

She felt, rather than heard, the ripple of recognition that passed through Laura. The one at her left bumped her with an elbow. “Winning is overrated,” she said. “Unless you can trade in the trophy for extra lives. Or a pizza party. Those were the real prizes.”

They all laughed, the sound rising and falling with the surf. Myra found herself smiling for real, and not just because it was expected. There was a strange, genuine comfort in it, like the echo of a childhood sleepover she’d never had.

The conversation drifted from there, as easy as the tide. They talked about food—what they missed, what they craved, what the Mildred kitchen staff at the HH could never quite get right (everyone agreed: too much parsley). They traded stories about their first days here: Myra confessed she thought she’d been brought to a mental hospital, and for a day she half-believed the whole thing was a hallucination; Riley one-upped her by revealing she’d spent her first two days trying to swim her way off the island, only to find out she somehow always ended up swimming towards it; Laura just said, “I was dead, so this is an upgrade.” But there was no bitterness in it, no anger. It was a statement, as if Laura had made peace with her past.

Myra listened, letting herself take up less space than she wanted, and then more than she thought she could. Sometimes she closed her eyes and listened to the shape of the conversation, how it bulged and narrowed, how every word was followed by a pause, as if they were collectively calibrating the right speed for their new status quo.

When the talk inevitably drifted to Andy—because of course it did—Riley rolled her eyes and said, “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the idea of Andy as a chick magnet. No offense, L.”

Laura grinned. “No offense taken. I can barely keep up with him and he’s technically mine. He’s changed. I can tell.”

“Yeah?” Riley asked, and there was a note of hope there.

“Yeah,” said Laura, “but so have all of us.”

They all went quiet again, this time in a way that felt good, like the world was holding its breath just for them. Myra turned the thought over, trying to decide if she agreed. She wondered what Andy would see if he walked up the beach right now: three women, talking and laughing and maybe making progress after so long. It was a novel thought.

Her fox tail flicked in the sand, restless, and she caught herself smiling again. “I have a question,” she said, feeling bold enough to risk it. “Do you think it’s weird that we’re all still here, talking, after everything? Like, shouldn’t there be some dramatic confrontation?”

Riley didn’t even hesitate. “We already did that. Now we get to be people again.”

Laura nodded in stereo. “It’s not weird,” she said. “It’s overdue. Also, if you need a dramatic confrontation, we can stage one.” She raised her fists, playfully. “I do a pretty good impression of a villain.”

Myra laughed, the sound sharp and sudden. “I think I’m done with drama,” she said, “for at least a week or two.”

They all agreed.

In that moment, with the sun just starting to angle down and the umbrella throwing a wide patch of coolness over their bare feet, Myra realized she was happy. And she realized she had never truly felt like that, before. Not for decades. Even at her happiest, the guilt had always been there. Now… now, it was gone. It felt as good as forgiveness, maybe better. She let herself savor the feeling for a long, unhurried minute.

At some point, Laura’s left body nudged Myra again, softer this time. “You want to walk the beach?” she asked. “Both of me are restless.”

“Sure,” Myra said, standing and brushing the sand from her dress. Her tail, eager as a flag, swept the last few grains away.

Riley got up too, stretching, and said, “If anyone asks, we’re training for the Olympic team. Synchronized beach walking.”

The three of them fell into step, Myra between the two Lauras, Riley trailing but close enough that Myra could hear her running commentary on the absurdity of sand between her toes. They walked the waterline, letting the cold foam lick at their ankles, and for once, Myra didn’t try to lead. She let Laura, both of her, guide the pace, and found herself matching stride without effort.

They didn’t talk much, after that. They just walked. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Myra didn’t feel the urge to apologize for being present.

It was enough, for now.

At the edge of the beach, where the sand gave way to garden mulch and the smell of wet leaves, they stopped. Both Lauras turned to face her, and the symmetry was so perfect that Myra had to laugh. “You’re like a matched set,” she said. “One for the road, one for emergencies.”

Laura smiled. “Next time, you can bring a friend and we’ll make it a quartet.”

Riley, never one to miss an opportunity, threw her arm around Myra’s shoulders. “You’re stuck with us,” she said. “Might as well make the best of it.”

Myra didn’t pull away. She let herself be held, just for a moment. “Thanks,” she said, hoping they’d know she meant it.

They did.

They walked the last stretch to the hotel together, the three of them in a loose line, and if anyone saw them, they’d have seen nothing extraordinary. Just three (well, four) women at the end of a day, smiling and together.

But Myra knew better. She knew what it took to get here, and she wouldn’t forget it.

Andy wandered the Inner Gardens with no agenda and no direction, letting his thoughts dissolve into the sensory overload of the place. It was late morning, and the sun was at that angle where every petal looked like a stained glass window, each shadow sharp-edged and impossibly blue. He moved slowly, hands in his pockets, replaying the conversation with Arabella and the unwelcome ache it left in his chest.

His mind kept looping back to the memory of Sarah’s letter, the dog collar, the idea of being rewritten by the game until the world saw only what it was supposed to see. Arabella’s sadness had haunted him, and he felt a strange kinship with her loneliness, as if they were both trying to keep a ledger of every story that mattered.

He rounded a bend in the path and caught sight of two figures seated together on a shaded stone bench. It took him a second to realize it was Emily and Marissa. The contrast was almost comic—naked nymph and headmistress—but they sat close, knees nearly touching, deep in a conversation that seemed to have drawn a small zone of hush around itself.

He paused, uncertain if he should interrupt, but Emily saw him immediately and gave a wave, her smile sheepish and oddly inviting. Marissa glanced up as well, her face softening, and gestured him over with a nod.

Andy moved to join them, sinking onto the edge of the bench. The stone was still warm from the sun, and Emily’s bare leg pressed cool against his. She didn’t shy away.

“Hi,” he said, and then, a little awkwardly, “Am I crashing?”

Marissa smiled, her voice gentle. “We were just taking a breather,” she said. “You’re always welcome.”

Emily tucked her hair behind one ear, which somehow managed to expose even less skin than before. “We were just talking about… stuff,” she said. “Life. Everything. Nothing.”

Andy nodded, letting the silence hold for a beat. He looked at Emily’s face, at the way her eyes shifted between his and Marissa’s, not quite landing, as if she were still deciding which of them was the audience.

Marissa, sensing the shift, cleared her throat. “Andy, is something on your mind?”

He considered, then said, “Actually, yes.” He looked at both of them. “Yesterday, during the announcement… I saw your faces. I don’t know if I read them right, but I got the sense that neither of you was surprised. Or maybe you already knew what you wanted.” He paused, searching for the words. “I’m not asking because I expect anything. I just realized, after, that I have no idea what you were thinking. And I want to understand.”

Emily glanced at Marissa, then back at Andy, her cheeks coloring. “That’s a hard question,” she said, her voice breathy. “I mean, I think I know? But it’s new to me.”

Marissa rested a hand lightly on Emily’s, an unforced gesture. “It’s okay,” she said. “You can take your time.”

Emily took a shaky breath. She started to speak, stopped, then tried again. “I’ve never really had a choice,” she said, “not since my… my transformations. If someone told me to do something, I’d do it. Sometimes, before I even realized it. At first, I thought that made me a fake person. Like, what’s the point if I’m just doing what other people want?”

Andy opened his mouth, but she waved him off, determined to finish.

She hesitated, then looked Andy in the eyes. “When you showed up, I didn’t want to just be… another body. I wanted to be someone you’d choose. But I never figured out how to ask for that without sounding ****.” She shrugged, letting the motion ripple all the way to her toes. “I thought, if I made myself as open as possible, maybe I’d get picked. Maybe I’d be the one you wanted. And I know we talked about this, and I know it’s wrong. I don’t want to be that person anymore. I want to have the ability to choose. But as embarrassing as it is to say it, I still feel that way sometimes. Even now. ”

She finished, and for a moment the bench felt heavier, as if the weight of the admission pressed them all closer together. Andy let the words settle, then reached for her hand, not as an answer, but as an anchor.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said. “But for the record, I do see you. I’ve always seen you.” He squeezed her fingers gently. “You don’t have to earn it.”

Emily looked down, but she was smiling. “I like earning it,” she admitted, almost shy. “It feels good.”

Andy grinned. “That’s fine, too.”

The air seemed lighter after that. He looked at Marissa, who’d been quiet, her attention laser-focused on Emily, even as she watched Andy from the corner of her eye.

“Your turn?” he prompted, but softly.

Marissa smiled, but this one was different—less practiced, more ****. “I’ve spent so long analyzing other people’s feelings that I’m sometimes not sure which ones are mine,” she said. “When I first came here, I thought it would be a social experiment. I could support others, help them grow, and keep myself safe by never stepping into the center of things. It’s what my mentor is doing in her season, at least.” She met Andy’s gaze, her blue eyes sharp and unblinking. “But then you let me in. Not as a therapist, but as a person. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

She leaned back, folding her arms, but the gesture didn’t feel defensive—just something to keep her steady. “I’ve watched you, Andy, try to hold everyone together. Carry every story, every pain, even when it wasn’t yours to carry. When you asked me just now—when you looked at me and said you wanted to know—it scared me a little.” She laughed, the sound quick and thin. “I’m not used to being the subject. I don’t trust it yet.”

Andy nodded, feeling the honesty like a physical ****. “Do you want to be?”

Marissa closed her eyes, thinking. When she opened them again, her voice was quieter. “I think so. I think I want to be seen, too.” She exhaled, then offered a wry smile. “But I might need you to ask more than once.”

He smiled back, letting her know he would.

They sat for a while, just breathing, the silence less charged than before. A breeze moved through the garden, and Emily’s hair shivered in the air, briefly exposing one pale nipple before the strands fell back into place. She didn’t flinch; if anything, she looked more comfortable now, as if the world was back in its proper orbit.

Marissa, too, seemed to relax. She turned to Emily and said, “You know, when you said you liked making people happy? I think you do it well.”

Emily blinked, surprised. “Really?”

Marissa nodded, sincere. “You made me feel better about being here, from the first day I knew you.”

Emily’s cheeks went pink. “I was terrified,” she confessed. “You looked so confident.”

Marissa laughed. “That’s the trick.”

Andy watched, feeling a sense of pride that was hard to articulate. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever understand these two completely, but he was content to keep trying. Maybe that was the point.

Eventually, Marissa turned to Andy and said, “Can I ask you something, now?”

He nodded. “Anything.”

She glanced at Emily, then back. “What do you want, Andy? Not what’s expected, or what will fix everything. What do you actually want, for yourself?”

The question stopped him cold. He tried to answer, but found himself without words for a moment. It was rare for someone to ask and mean it, with no script behind the question.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I just want everyone to be okay. To have a life after this, one that’s better than what they came from. I want everyone to be happy. I want to be there for it, if I can.”

Marissa nodded, satisfied. “That’s a good answer,” she said. “But next time, try asking for something just for yourself. You’re allowed.”

He laughed, not at her, but at the impossibility of the task. “I’ll try,” he promised.

Emily leaned in, resting her head briefly on Andy’s shoulder. “I want to try, too,” she said, barely above a whisper.

The three of them sat together, sharing the space and the hush, until the sun began to drift down and the air cooled. Andy didn’t know if he’d solved anything, but he knew he’d learned something new about both of them. Then they got up together, moving back toward the hotel, and Emily tucked her hand into Andy’s. Marissa walked on the other side, taking Andy's other hand, and he smiled.

The Banquet Hall was empty when Andy arrived, except for the silent shuffle of staff laying out the last round of silverware. He took a minute to survey the space: long table for the harem, smaller side tables for anyone needing to escape; windows open to the breeze, the scent of jasmine on the air; a faint hum of nervous energy, like the orchestra tuning up before the big finale. He let the moment sink in, then turned and headed back to the Suite for the painting. He had set Katherine’s painting on an easel at the end of the table, positioned so she could see everyone. He offered her one last chance to back out, but she shook her head—small, determined. Andy felt the surge of pride, the strange kinship of survivors, and gave her a thumbs-up before turning to the others as they entered.

Erin was first to spot the painting. She grinned, waving a hand over her head. “Hey, you brought her out for the big show! Love it.”

Laura and Claire arrived together, the latter scribbling in her notebook even as she walked. Laura, doubled as always, split herself with one body drifting toward the painting while the other zeroed in on the table’s breadbasket. She peered at Katherine, then offered a shy smile, which Katherine returned.

Sam drifted in, her hair wild from the wind and her cheeks pink. She gave Andy a lopsided smirk. “She didn’t chicken out? She finally gets to join the party?”

“About time,” said Emi, who trailed Sam and carried a stack of paper napkins under one arm. She set them on the table, then bent down and gave Katherine a tiny bow. “Welcome.”

Liesa followed, pausing for a full three seconds when she saw Katherine. Then she burst into a wide, delighted smile, her green eyes shining. “Hello, Katherine. Is good to see you.”

Katherine mimed a curtsy, one hand sweeping across her painted thigh. Liesa laughed, and Andy caught the flicker of pride in Katherine’s face—maybe the first time anyone had delighted in her existence without flinching.

The others trickled in, and Andy cleared his throat. “Everyone,” he said, gesturing to the painting, “this is Katherine.” His voice caught slightly. “She’s been here the whole time, but... trapped. In the painting.” He explained how he’d discovered her weeks ago, their silent conversations, how she could see and hear everything but couldn’t speak. “I wanted to bring her out sooner, but she wasn’t ready. It’s not easy being seen as a person when you’ve been invisible for so long.” He watched their faces—Myra’s tail freezing mid-swish, Norah nearly spilling her coffee, Dawn clutching her pastries tighter, Riley and Chloe exchanging glances, Emily’s fingers nervously adjusting her hair, Marissa’s eyes narrowing in assessment.

There was a moment when the room went still, everyone’s attention shifting to the painting as they processed what Andy had revealed. Andy saw the looks—the double-takes, the blinking confusion, the dawning realization that this was not a new art installation but a person, present and attentive.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

The room held its breath, as if waiting for the reveal to be undone, or for Arabella herself to descend from the ceiling and explain the punchline. Andy watched the crowd, counting out the seconds as each woman in the room processed what she was seeing.

Chloe was the first to break. She drifted toward the painting, a curious softness in her steps that almost made her look like a child again, reaching out to something she wasn’t sure she could touch. She stopped a foot away, her wide eyes searching Katherine’s face for signs of animation. Katherine, inside the canvas, met her gaze with the most delicate of smiles and, just as delicately, lifted her hand to mimic Chloe’s. The motion was shy, hesitant, not quite the overacted pantomime of the “living statue” but something closer to the tentative wave of a kid meeting a new friend on the first day of school.

Emily, beside Chloe, stepped forward too, but hung back just far enough to keep the encounter safe. She peered at the painting, then at Andy, then back at Katherine, her own hand fluttering up as if to cover her mouth. Her hair, as always, barely concealed her blush, but when she saw Katherine moving independently—swaying her hips, shifting her arms, giving a subtle head-tilt that would have been impossible in the old tableau—Emily’s face broke into an awed smile.

“She’s… alive,” Emily breathed, voice carrying across the table.

Marissa’s approach was slower, her focus narrowed and intent. She watched Katherine’s body language with the kind of precise, almost clinical attention that Andy had come to recognize as her therapist mode. But there was something else there, a faint tremor at the edge of her composure, as if the sight of a painting that could move on its own struck some ancient chord of memory or longing. She didn’t speak, but the softening of her jaw, the subtle lowering of her chin, said all that needed saying: she believed it.

Riley, true to form, was less measured. She started to say something sharp—Andy heard the first syllable, “Oh for—”—but stopped short as she caught the way Katherine’s painted chest rose and fell with each mimic breath. For a second, Riley seemed at a loss, like she wanted to make a joke but had forgotten how the punchline went. Then she laughed, low and a little wild, and said, “Well, fuck me, this is next-level weird.” Her gaze flicked to Andy, then to the painting, and then back, as if checking for some sign of trickery.

Norah came up next, flanked by Marissa and Myra. Norah’s first response was a hard squint, like she was trying to catch Andy in a scam, but as she watched the interaction unfold, suspicion gave way to baffled awe. She looked back and forth between the painting and Andy, then to Marissa, and finally said, “Wait. She’s not just remote-controlled or something?” Andy shook his head. Norah digested this, then nodded, accepting the new reality with matter-of-fact briskness. “If it’s for real, then it’s for real,” she said, her eyes still tracking every movement of the painting’s subject. She tapped the glass with one finger, then addressed Katherine as if speaking to a newly hired intern: “I hope you like group activities. This bunch does everything as a pack.” Katherine mimed a polite, slightly mortified bow, which seemed to satisfy Norah even more than a spoken answer.

Myra hung back, her fox tail curling tight around her ankle. It was hard to know whether she’d even seen the painting directly, but her blind eyes tracked the interactions with uncanny precision. Andy, remembering her “Emotion’s Map” transformation, wondered how Katherine must look to her—a silhouette painted in feelings rather than lines. Myra’s brow furrowed, and then she smiled, understanding dawning in her face. “She glows,” Myra said, almost to herself. “Like lightning in a bottle.” The words made Katherine’s posture straighten, as if the realization was a compliment she’d waited years to hear.

Dawn, who had wandered in with a tray of pastelitos balanced on one hand, paused at the sight of the gathering, her bunny ears perked forward in surprise. She took in the scene, set the tray down on the nearest table, and made a beeline for the painting. She crouched, careful not to block anyone’s view, and peered up at Katherine with open, unguarded warmth. “Hi, Katherine,” Dawn said. “I’m Dawn. I’m really, really happy to meet you.”

Katherine returned the greeting with a little wave. The gesture made Dawn giggle, and she returned the wave, her cheeks flushing with the genuine delight of someone meeting a favorite character in real life.

Riley, once over her initial shock, circled back for a second look. She perched on the end of the table and peered at Katherine with a measured, almost predatory interest. “Don’t worry. No one here bites. Well, maybe Chloe, but only if you’re made of sugar.”

Chloe, hearing her name, ducked her head, pink flooding her cheeks. She inched closer to the painting, hesitant but obviously drawn to it. She looked at Andy for guidance, and he nodded, encouraging her. Chloe took a deep breath, then said, “It’s so nice to meet you. I always thought… um…” She trailed off, then gathered herself. “I always thought you were very beautiful.” The compliment was sincere, and Katherine responded with a beaming smile and an elegant hand-to-heart motion that spoke louder than words.

Emily, who had been lurking at the edge of the group, moved up quietly. She crouched next to the painting, her face level with Katherine’s, and just looked for a long, silent moment. Then, softly, she said, “I know what it’s like. To be stuck on display. To be seen, but not really… seen.” She reached out, almost touched the glass, then pulled her hand back, aware of the boundary. “If you ever want to talk—or, you know, just hang out—I’d like that.” Katherine nodded, the gesture deliberate, her eyes bright with something that looked like kinship.

Marissa, who’d been watching the room more than the painting, finally approached. She stood with her arms folded, her gaze analytical but not cold. “How long have you been here?” she asked, as if she could interview a silent painting and get a useful answer. Katherine responded by pantomiming the passage of time, using both hands to show the rising and falling of the sun, then counting on her fingers—first to five, then to ten, then to fourteen. Marissa’s eyes widened in recognition. “Fourteen years?” she said, voice barely above a whisper. There was a long, brittle pause, and Andy saw the ripple of empathy move across Marissa’s face. She didn’t say anything else, but she took a seat at the table, closer than before, as if offering her silent company as a balm.

The initial wave of introductions passed, and a new, subtler current of interaction emerged. The women settled into their places at the table, but everyone kept glancing back at Katherine, checking to see if she was still there, still watching, still real. She was, and each time someone met her gaze, she responded with a wave, a smile, or a little dance of her hands in the air, like a mute language only she could speak.

As Andy watched, he felt the atmosphere shift from spectacle to belonging. The painting was no longer a curiosity; it was a person, and the harem adapted to her as naturally as it had to every other impossible thing the Hotel had thrown at them. The table filled with talk and laughter—stories about the morning, the upcoming challenge, the slow-motion soap opera of who was into who and who was pretending not to notice.

Katherine’s presence at the end of the table became less and less extraordinary as the lunch hour approached. At one point, Norah stood and, without fanfare, refilled Katherine’s “wine” glass with a careful, steady hand, as if to make up for her earlier skepticism. Dawn brought over a napkin and tucked it over the corner of the canvas, “so you don’t get crumbs on you.” Even Chloe, usually the shyest in any group, found herself asking Katherine’s opinion on the day’s lunch options, and though the answer was only a series of enthusiastic pantomimes, it was enough to draw Chloe into a peal of genuine laughter.

Myra, who had been quiet, finally spoke up: “You look happy.” Her voice was even, but there was a warmth there, a softening that Andy hadn’t heard from her before the meeting on the dock. Katherine responded by miming an explosion—fingers flared wide from her heart, face radiant with mock awe. The gesture was so pure, so completely unguarded, that it stopped the whole table for a second.

Andy felt something twist in his chest: pride, maybe, or a kind of triumph. He’d wanted to give Katherine this moment, but watching her take it, he realized she’d done the hardest part herself. The group had welcomed her, yes, but only because she’d made them see her—not as a painting, but as a person.

The table buzzed with energy, the kind that could only come from a group of people who had finally, truly, chosen each other. Katherine’s painting anchored the far end, but her presence filled the room, every glance and gesture woven into the rhythm of the meal.

By the time the first course arrived—platters of fruit, delicate cakes, and a pyramid of pastelitos that Dawn had engineered with obvious pride—Katherine had become just another voice in the chorus. Her laughter, though silent, was infectious; her happiness, unmissable.

Andy leaned back, letting the sounds of the group wash over him. For the first time, maybe ever, he saw what Arabella meant when she called the harem a family. It wasn’t about the rules, or the contest, or the transformations. It was about moments like this: a table crowded with the improbable, the miraculous, and the mundane, all tangled together until the boundaries blurred.

He looked at Katherine, who caught his gaze and gave a small, bashful wave. He waved back, and in that instant, everything felt exactly as it should.

The lunch wasn’t just a meal; it was a gathering, a symposium, a celebration. Andy realized, as he watched the conversation unfold, that he’d never seen the entire harem together in one place like this, not without the prodding of a formal challenge or the veiled threat of elimination. Even during meals, someone was always missing, busy with something else, or taking their meal elsewhere. And of course, Katherine had never joined so far.

The meal began in a kind of organized chaos. Chloe and Dawn made a game of trying to balance every item from the buffet onto a single, overburdened plate; Myra and Marissa debated the merits of almond vs. oat milk, their voices low but their laughter loud, Myra growing steadily more flushed as Marissa spoke; Riley and Erin sniped at each other with affectionate, barbed insults, while Liesa and Emi sketched caricatures of everyone at the table, passing the notepad around for giggles and self-roast.

Claire, silent as always, sat with her notebook open and a glass of apple juice at her elbow, her cat ears twitching in rhythm to the conversation. She seemed content to observe, but whenever Andy caught her eye, she gave a tiny, conspiratorial smile, like they were sharing the secret of how to enjoy a party without ever having to speak.

Laura’s two bodies sat at the end of the table, intentionally away from Andy so others could share his time, always, always listening. She traded jokes with Sam and Liesa, listened as Marissa explained the psychology of “group belonging” to Riley, who took in every word with the skeptical expression of someone who wasn’t about to be analyzed for free.

At the head of the table, Katherine stood in her frame, responding to every quip with a performance: hands to heart, eyes wide, face contorting in exaggerated glee or mock despair. If anyone ever needed a silent “applause” at the end of a good story, she was ready, offering standing ovations and weepy ovations with equal gusto.

Andy watched the interplay, his heart doing a funny, stuttering thing every time a new connection was made. He saw Dawn sneak a pastelito onto Katherine’s plate, then giggle when Katherine pretended to eat it with invisible cutlery. He saw Chloe relax into the group, shoulders loosening as Liesa mimed blowing her a kiss from the other end of the table. He saw Marissa catch herself being too quiet, then gently insert herself into the conversation, her voice careful but steady.

He saw, too, the moments of adjustment—the way Myra sometimes sat silent for a stretch, then rejoined with an observation so sharp it cut through the noise; the way Riley’s jokes could sometimes land just a touch too hard, but were always followed by a quick apology or a softening glance. The harem wasn’t perfect, but it was real, and that made every moment more precious.

Halfway through the meal, Andy realized something else: nobody was talking about tonight’s challenge, or the rules, or what came next. There was no fear of elimination, this time. For the first time, the future wasn’t hanging over their heads like a storm. It was just lunch, just now, just a baker’s dozen of women (and a painting) making the most of a moment they’d been told they couldn’t have.

Andy knew the feeling wouldn’t last—the game always found a way to intrude—but for now, he let himself believe in it. He joined the conversation where he could, teasing Emi about her “suspiciously detailed” sketches, or letting Riley rope him into a debate about the best eighties power ballad. He let himself be part of the mess, instead of just observing it.

At one point, as the laughter hit a lull, Emily reached over and squeezed Andy’s hand, hard enough that he looked up in surprise. “Thank you,” she said, voice low. “For inviting her.”

Andy squeezed back. “She was already part of us,” he said. “Just needed everyone else to see it.”

Emily nodded, her hair falling forward to hide her face, but Andy could see the pleased flush on her cheeks.

At the far end of the table, Katherine watched it all unfold. Andy caught her looking at him, a softness in her expression that he hadn’t seen before. She made a heart with her hands, then broke it into two and “tossed” one half to him. The gesture was pure cheese, and Andy grinned, unable to help himself.

The banquet hall kept its own pace, refusing to let the occasion dissolve into routine. After the first nervous hour, the meal settled into a rhythm of shared plates, careless cross-talk, and the easy touch of knees and hands under the table. It was the first time Andy could remember the entire harem together, not as contestants or categories but as themselves—brilliant, messy, irreducible.

He watched them as they ate: Erin and Riley jousting, Chloe and Dawn trading bites, Marissa sneaking Claire extra cookies on the sly, Liesa and Emi swapping snark in a language of their own invention. Laura’s two bodies drifted in and out of every conversation.

The painting of Katherine had become an extension of the group, not a silent witness but a kind of kinetic mascot, responding to every story with wild applause, or mimed swoons, or the “cancan” she performed (albeit a stationary one) whenever things got too heavy. More than once, Andy caught the entire table watching her in delight, then turning the pose into a running joke: the “Katherine Reaction,” they called it.

At some point, as the plates cleared and the conversation drifted to futures—real futures, not just the theoretical ones that always got interrupted by the next round or the next crisis—Andy felt a sudden gravity. He’d seen these women at their lowest: humiliated, scared, bent to the will of a game that never played fair. Now, in the glassy hush of the hall, he realized he was watching them at their best.

It took him a second to realize this was the moment. The moment to say the thing that had been building in his chest for weeks, the thing he’d always deferred because it sounded like closure, or a goodbye.

He stood. The scrape of his chair drew every eye.

He waited until the voices stilled, until only the sea and the distant wind filled the silence.

“I’ve never been good at these speeches,” he began, surprised at how much his voice shook. “But I want to say something.”

He looked at the faces around the table, then let his eyes land on Laura, then Katherine, then Dawn, and so on, circling the whole group.

“I’ve spent most of my life trying not to be seen. Trying to disappear behind work, or rules, or someone else’s story. After Laura’s ****, I thought I didn’t deserve a happy ending.” One of Laura’s bodies squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. “I thought there was nothing I could offer anyone.” He looked at Erin, fondly, and she smiled back. “When I got here, I wanted to help, but I still felt nothing would matter, in the end. I would disappear again, harem or no harem. But you didn’t let me. None of you did. You **** me to show up, even when I didn’t want to, even when it was easier to hide. You didn’t just change me. You made me better. You made me into a man I didn’t think I could be.”

He took a breath.

“None of you asked to be here, and I’m sure you probably wish you could go home sometimes. But you’ve made something incredible out of this mess, and I’m grateful for every day that you chose to stay.” He smiled. “I don’t know what happens when we leave here. But I know it will be something worth seeing, because we’ll all be together. And I want you to know that I’d do this again. All of it. Even the bad parts. Just for the chance to be here, now, with you.”

He smiled, and the air softened, and he was suddenly aware of how many of the women were either beaming or quietly wiping their eyes.

“So,” he finished, “thank you. For saving me from myself. And for making this place—this weird, impossible, sometimes terrible place—feel like home.”

He sat, and the silence broke all at once: Chloe sobbing into a napkin, Sam laughing and throwing a piece of bread at him (“You sap!”), Liesa clapping with both hands, Emi reaching across the table to squeeze his fingers, Marissa nodding with a pride she’d never show in words.

Laura caught his gaze, both bodies turning in perfect sync. She grinned, then cocked her head in that way she always had when she was about to break the spell. Andy knew what she was planning, so he nodded, and watched as both Lauras rose to their feet.

She didn’t say anything at first. She just looked around the table, as if making sure every person was present and accounted for. She drew in a breath—both bodies, at the same time, the effect so uncanny that everyone in the room went still.

Then, with one voice, she said: “There is one more thing. We have a plan.”

There was a ripple of surprise, but Laura didn’t hesitate. She launched into it, her words quick but steady, both bodies moving in perfect unison.

“We talked about it. Andy and I. And we think there’s a way to finish this together. Arabella said there are three more rounds left, but if we all reach one hundred victory points, the game ends early. We can go home—together—and avoid other transformations, after one last challenge.”

The words landed heavy. For a second, nobody spoke. Then Dawn, always the first to break a silence, piped up: “We can do that?”

Andy nodded. “Arabella said so. If everyone crosses the threshold, the contest ends—no more game.” He hesitated, then pressed on. “She made it sound like we’d be better off wrapping this up next round. If Arabella thinks it’s in our interest to finish early, that’s incentive enough.”

The table erupted—not a single shout but a tangled chorus of questions, jokes, protests—the noise you get when hope and fear collide.

Dawn was first. Her voice trembled with excitement. “That’s…that’s incredible. I want that—I want to see my family again. I want to go home.” The **** of her longing even stilled Riley’s half-roll of the eyes.

Emi gave a firm nod. “Me too. I’m ready.” She caught Liesa’s gaze; Liesa nodded back, relief shining in her eyes.

Norah tilted her head, as if solving an equation. “So if we all do it, there’s no elimination next round—no one left behind.” She flashed a grin, all teeth but genuine. “Finally, someone’s cracked how to beat this place.”

Riley surprised them by not pushing back. She studied the linked hands and eager faces, then said, “Count me in.” She grinned. “If Arabella thinks finishing early is smart, that’s enough reason for me—and I’m not even into democracy.”

Marissa’s voice was a whisper, barely more than breath. “I want to finish what we started. I want to see how it ends…but I’m scared. I don’t want to lose any of you.” She looked at Katherine, then Andy. “If this way spares us from losing anyone, let’s do it.”

Andy met her eyes. “We won’t.”

Chloe blinked back tears and let out a shaky breath. “Let’s do it,” she said. Her smile lit up the room.

Myra surprised everyone by offering no caveat. “Let’s,” she said, her tail flicking with excitement.

Emily’s face was radiant. “It feels right,” she whispered. “I’ve waited two years to finish.”

Erin reached across the table and squeezed Andy’s hand. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad we ended up here.” Her eyes were fierce. “Now let’s finish it together.” Claire, next to her, nodded defiantly.

Sam, who’d been silent, finally spoke up. “So why wait? Let’s start now.”

There was laughter, a burst of joyful chaos, then silence as all eyes turned to Andy. He nodded, lifted his glass of grape juice—because he wanted to remember this moment—and said, “To breaking the pattern.”

The toast was a chorus, a rising tide that drowned out the wind and the distant ocean. “To breaking the pattern,” they said, some loud, some soft, all of them together.

Katherine, at the end of the table, mimed raising a glass, then smashed it on an invisible hearthstone, her face aglow with triumph.

The mood that followed was electric, a current that made it impossible to sit still. Plates were cleared, chairs pushed back, small knots of women forming in every corner of the room. Some strategized, others schemed, a few just basked in the afterglow of the decision.

Andy stood apart for a second, letting himself watch. The room was different now: no longer just a stage for the next round, but a real place, alive with possibility.

He felt a hand at his elbow, turned to find Laura there—both bodies, though one was already being swarmed by Dawn and Emi. He smiled, then leaned in close. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.” They held each other’s gaze for a long, quiet moment.

They all lingered, then, not wanting to let the moment go. Andy watched them, trying to memorize every second, every gesture, every laugh.

When it was clear people were starting to think about the next thing, Andy cleared his throat.

“Before you all go,” he said, “I want to remind everyone—if you want to try a temporary upgrade, or have a tweak you want, let me know. Coauthor and Contribute can both help. Contribute’s transformation upgrade lasts twenty-four hours, no risk. If you want to test something, just tell me. We have time until the transformation ceremony, after which, the countdowns for both Gifts reset, so if you want to try two upgrades, or two changes, give me the first one before the ceremony.”

There was a beat of silence, then Norah said, “You mean, like, a demo?”

Andy nodded. “Exactly.”

A few people looked at each other, surprised. Riley smirked. “So we can beta-test our own upgrades. That’s… actually pretty cool.” She glanced at Myra. “You want to try a new tail?”

Myra grinned. “Andy showed me the upgrade to Emotion’s Map. I bought it as soon as I could, after.”

Dawn flushed. “I upgraded Bunny’s Favorite Spot myself. I missed sitting normally.”

• Bunny’s Favorite Spot [Upgrade] That’s Okay, Too: Now Dawn can sit wherever she pleases. Sitting on anything that is not someone else’s lap will no longer feel itchy and uncomfortable, but it will never feel as comfortable as a lap, either.

Dawn 5500 BP - 1000 BP = 4500 BP

There was more laughter, the energy lighter, more excited. Even the painting seemed to relax, as if relieved by the simplicity of the offer. He saw a few women exchanging glances: Chloe blushing and biting her lip, as if thinking of something but not ready to say it out loud; Marissa, thoughtful, running her tongue over her teeth as if weighing the pros and cons; Dawn, bouncing on her toes, looking like she had fifty requests but was too polite to voice any.

The group started to disperse, chairs scraping back from the table as people drifted to new conversations. That’s when Mildred appeared, wheeling a battered wooden cart piled with letters.

She did not wear a uniform today, just a crisp white shirt and black skirt, and her hair was up in a severe twist that made her eyes seem even bigger. She gave the table a once-over and, with a practiced flick, began distributing mail.

Andy watched as Mildred moved around the table, her smile fixed but her eyes never quite meeting anyone’s. She lingered at the painting, and Andy thought he saw her hand move, just a little, as if afraid to touch it.

When the last envelope was delivered, she turned to go, her posture already fading into invisibility.

“Wait!” said Laura—both bodies, in perfect stereo.

Mildred paused, almost startled.

Laura stood and walked up to Mildred, who still held several envelopes in her hands. “I wanted to thank you. Publicly.” The words were soft but carried to every corner of the hall. “You helped me with all the pranks I left in the Suite for Andy and his dates this round. I couldn’t have done it alone. So—thank you. You made it fun for everyone.”

There was a ripple of laughter, but then something odd happened. Mildred just stood there, perfectly still, as if she’d run out of programming.

Andy stepped in. “It’s true,” he said. “Mildred, I don’t know what your situation is, or what Arabella has you doing here. But I know this is Arabella’s last season, so I don’t know what happens to you, afterwards. You’ve done a lot for us, and I know it wasn’t always your choice. If, for any reason, you ever want to leave—or just be with us, not as staff or harem, but as yourself—you’re welcome. No strings. No expectations.”

Mildred stared at him. For a moment, the room felt colder, as if the world was holding its breath. The women at the table went utterly silent—a thing that never happened, not even in the most charged moments of the game. Even Katherine froze, arms suspended mid-gesture, her painted eyes tracking Mildred’s every move.

Andy didn’t flinch from the silence. He’d seen this look on Mildred before: the instant where her synthetic, customer-service smile slipped and the face beneath—the real Mildred, whatever she was, the one who lived there by compulsion, not choice—peeked out. He recognized, in the widening of her eyes, something like fear. Or hope.

Before she could retreat, Laura said, in stereo, “You’re welcome to stay,” voice clear but gentle. The real message was: You don’t have to stay behind unless you want to. The left Laura looked at Andy and nodded, then looked at Mildred again, softer this time.

Mildred blinked. Her hands (those perfect, latex-smooth, always-a-little-too-cool hands) hung awkwardly at her sides, fingers flexing as if searching for a pocket. “Thank you, Miss,” she said, the phrase squeezed out like someone reciting a spell they didn’t believe in. Her gaze flicked to Andy, then to Laura, then down to the stack of mail she still held in her hands.

She moved to place the letters on the table, but her fingers shook. The top envelope, addressed in looping, unfamiliar script, trembled in her grip before she could set it down. Andy saw that it was addressed to “Emily Allen.” It made him want to reach for her, but he didn’t—she would only flinch.

Emily did, though. She stood up from her seat and approached Mildred. She plucked the envelope from Mildred’s hand, smiled at her, and said, “Thank you, Mildred. You’re the best.” She said it without irony.

Mildred froze. She looked at the space where Emily’s hand had been. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, her face softened, the lines smoothing from mask to something nearer human. Her lips twitched, as if unfamiliar with how to form a real smile, but the effort was unmistakable.

It was enough. Emily, sensing it, retreated to her seat, envelope clutched in both hands. She set it on her lap and just looked at it, almost afraid to open it.

Mildred circled the table, delivering the rest of the mail. Each time she paused behind a woman, the recipient looked up, thanked her, and (after what they had just seen) did so a little more kindly than they might have the day before. Dawn beamed and gave her a thumbs up; Marissa offered a warm “Thank you, Mildred,” as if the two of them had been old friends; Chloe, when Mildred passed by, whispered a shy “Thank you so much” and blushed as if she’d been caught doing something forbidden.

When the last letter was distributed, Mildred made to leave, but paused at the painting, her hand hovering over the edge of the canvas. Katherine, seeing the hesitation, reached out and mimed a handshake. Mildred stared at her for a long second, then, as if by accident, touched her palm to the frame. She withdrew instantly, like a child who had touched a hot stove, but she didn’t move away. She stood there for a full five breaths, looking at Katherine, before turning to go.

Andy saw her leave, and felt a sharp, insistent ache in his chest. He wondered if anyone else noticed, but didn’t want to break the spell by pointing it out. “I’m sure Arabella will summon us for the challenge in a few hours. Let’s take the time to check the fanmail.”

The group broke up then, the spell of the lunch replaced by the gentle chaos of people trying to figure out what to do with their hands, their plates, their lives. Some drifted out to the garden, others lingered to talk; a few, like Marissa and Myra, sat side by side in the hush of the hall, just being, not speaking.

Andy stayed until the last of the women had left, and only Laura was with him. He paused at the painting, where Katherine still stood, her smile a little sad but also brighter than he’d ever seen it.

He touched the edge of the frame and said, “Thank you. For being here.”

Katherine gave him a long, deliberate nod. Then she drew a heart in the air, as if it were a shield she meant to hang over the whole room. He understood.

He wandered to the window, looking out at the riot of color in the garden, the impossible blue of the sky. He heard laughter, and saw Emi and Dawn on the lawn, rolling down the hill like children. In the distance, Sam and Liesa were deep in conversation, heads bent together, arms linked. At the edge of the patio, Chloe and Norah were plotting something with the solemnity of international spies. In a shady corner, Claire and Erin and Marissa sat in a triangle, each with a book, but none of them reading; they just watched each other, content.

He let the noise of it fill him. The world felt less cold.

He thought of Mildred, and for the first time, wondered what she might do now, if she could choose.

He stood there a while, not thinking of the next challenge, or the past, or even the promises he’d made. He just watched. Letting the moment be what it was.

“Do you want to stay here?” Andy asked Katherine, but she shook her head and pointed upwards. She pointed to him and Laura, then made a heart with her hands. Andy understood, and smiled. Katherine felt the Suite was her home, with the two of them.

Outside, the sun drifted westward, and the laughter grew louder, and it felt like the world might be okay, just for a little while. Andy and Laura picked up their stacks of envelopes, Andy took up Katherine’s frame, and they made their way back to the Suite to see who had written them.

Somewhere deep in the service corridor, Mildred leaned against the wall. She stared at the spot where Emily had touched her, and didn’t move for a long time.

Eventually, she pressed her fingers to her lips, as if unsure what to do with the shape of a human smile. Then she straightened her spine, tucked her hands behind her back, and continued down the corridor, humming a discordant tune that no one in the world but her could ever name.