Bridges in Flour and Water, Part 1

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 95 VP - 5100 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 95 VP - 7700 BP - 2 Achievs
Claire - 87 VP - 8900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 86 VP - 6050 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 77 VP - 5000 BP - 2 Achievs
Liesa - 75 VP - 5700 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 74 VP - 4350 BP - 3 Achievs
Emily - 62 VP - 5600 BP - 2 Achievs (2 used)
Dawn - 60 VP - 8300 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 45 VP - 7775 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 23 VP - 7100 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 15 VP - 6800 BP
Laura - 13 VP - 6950 BP

Andy woke before sunrise, uncertain whether it was the warmth of Claire pressed against his chest or the feeling of someone’s eyes on him that did it. He stayed still, drifting in and out of half-sleep, the steady rhythm of Claire’s breathing in his arms. She’d claimed his chest as a pillow sometime after midnight, her hand splayed over his heart as if to steady both their pulses. Her ears twitched when he moved—she was always alert, even in dreams.

He watched the soft, blue light slide up the far wall, illuminating the chaos left from their night together. Her notebook rested open on the side table, pen poised for another round of interrogation. At some point, she’d kicked the sheets to the end of the bed, so his legs were tangled with hers, her tail draped limply across his hip. He didn’t mind it. He liked how the tail—so perfectly, utterly hers by now—seemed to claim space in the world as fearlessly as she did.

He wondered if he should get up. He didn’t want to disturb her.

She must have felt the change in his breathing. Claire’s eyes opened, slow, blinking twice to calibrate to the light, then she looked up at him. Her face was softer than he’d ever seen it, no hint of calculation, just the blurry ease of someone waking to safety. She blinked again, then reached for the notebook without removing her head from his chest. She wrote a single word, big and clumsy as a child’s:

Hi

He chuckled. “Hi,” he whispered back.

She tapped the pen on her lip, then wrote, smaller:

I think I’m still asleep. I had a dream you were wearing a lab coat.

He read it, grinned, and said, “I have a tuxedo somewhere, if you want to upgrade.”

Claire rolled her eyes, then wrote:

I think I prefer you this way.

He tried to send her affection through the bond—the sense-memory of her weight in his arms, the gentle press of her tail—and watched as her lips curled, just barely, in answer. He’d always assumed the bond would be a burden for her, like a constant open channel she couldn’t turn off, but Claire seemed to thrive on it. It was a relief, for both of them, not to have to guess at the other’s mood.

She nestled back into his chest, her hair tickling his jaw. They lay like that for a while, content. Eventually, the blue light gave way to rose and then to gold, streaking across the unmade bed in a slow, deliberate reveal. Andy could feel the warmth of Claire’s skin, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the subtle way she always tried to synchronize her breathing with his, as if even asleep she was cataloguing every input for later analysis.

After a long time, she lifted her head and looked at him. He could feel the question rising in her before she reached for the pen. He could feel the question rising in her before she reached for the pen. She wrote:

Do you miss it? My voice?

Andy didn’t have to think. And his sense told him the answer she hoped for was the one he would give. “No,” he said, and let the truth of it flow through their bond: the ease of her presence, the way her touch and her eyes and even her silence seemed to tell him more than words ever could. “I like you this way.” He winced at his own choice of words and wondered if it would hurt her feelings, but instead she nodded, the little sun of her happiness burning brighter.

She wrote, I agree. Then, smaller: I like that no one minds, here. I like that I have to think about what I’m writing. She paused, and looked at him, huge blue eyes behind her glasses. In tiny script, she added, And I like feeling you, all the time. You make me feel safe, even when I’m scared.

He laughed and gave her a squeeze. She pushed herself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slip to her waist. He traced the curve of her back, the delicate ripple of muscle under skin. He wanted her again—he always wanted her, but especially now, when the morning light made her look as fragile and rare as a storybook creature.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, even though he didn’t need to.

She nodded, just once, and he pulled her in.

The sex was slower this time. Unrushed. Not an urgency, but a luxury. Claire climbed on top, careful to balance her weight, her hair falling in a silk curtain over his face. She moved with deliberation, adjusting her angle, finding what worked for her and for him, never once pretending not to care about her own pleasure. Her tail draped across his hip, and every time he touched its base, she shivered.

He loved how she never performed, never made a spectacle of her arousal. When she came, her body trembled, her ears flattened, her eyes shut, but she let it happen without drama. He held her as she rode it out, letting the waves roll through her. He followed soon after, his own climax quieter but no less profound. And in both cases, they sensed each other’s pleasure, magnifying their own.

After, she collapsed onto his chest and wrote, in the notebook on the pillow: That was really good. Then, in tiny print: I don’t think I ever want to go back to the other way.

He grinned, out of breath. “What, the talking way?”

She nodded, then added: Or the alone way.

They stayed in bed until the light threatened to reach noon. Eventually, hunger sent them to the kitchen, where Claire made tea and toast. She found a pair of his pajama pants and wore them, cuffs rolled twice, drawstring cinched tight at her waist. She struggled a bit with the tail until Andy gently used his Gift-given strength to tear the seam of the pants a little, creating a hole she could slip her tail through. He couldn’t stop staring at her, and she didn’t seem to mind.

They ate at the counter. Claire made a show of counting out exactly seventeen blueberries onto her plate, then eating them in prime-numbered batches. When she caught him watching, she wrote: It’s a system. Don’t mock it.

“Never,” he said, and meant it.

After a while, Claire flipped to a new page. What did you think of the Sky Archive? Tell the truth.

He took a moment to consider. “It’s beautiful. And a little terrifying. I’ve never seen anything like it. It feels like… the inside of your head, but made out of glass.”

She read it, nodded (her ears flicking with happiness), then wrote: It was supposed to feel safe. Like a place where you could always find the answer, even if you didn’t know the question.

He nodded. “It worked.”

She reached across the counter, took his hand, and laced her fingers through his. He felt a jolt of happiness, so bright and sudden he almost flinched. He squeezed her hand, and asked, “What are you thinking about?”

She wrote: I think things are changing. I think Laura’s return was just the beginning. I don’t know what Arabella wants, anymore.

“Did you ever know?”

Claire tapped her pen, then: I used to think it was about the wish. About seeing who could outsmart the game. But now, I think it’s about something else. About fixing something that broke a long time ago. She paused, then wrote: Did you notice how Arabella painted Laura’s resurrection? Like it was a personal matter.

Andy nodded, thinking of the way the Host’s face had looked like, the way she seemed almost **** for a second when she had explained to Laura how and why she had been brought back. He said, “What do you think she’s trying to fix?”

Claire shrugged. Maybe herself? Maybe us? Or maybe… the place itself.

Andy considered that, then asked, “Is that even possible? To fix a place?”

She wrote: I don’t know. But I don’t think we know what Arabella really is. Not yet. She could be the hotel, or the island, or the whole story. For all we know, Arabella and the HH are the same thing.

He thought about the other islands they’d seen from the Sky Archive. “What about the other places? The ones out on the horizon?”

Claire’s ears twitched. She wrote: I think they’re empty. Or, if they’re not, maybe they’re old sets. Or places where the game didn’t end well.

He felt a shiver run up his spine. “Like… boneyards?”

She wrote: Or gardens. Sometimes, when a library decommissions old books, they are recycled. Composted and given back to the wild.

He looked at her, marveled at the way she saw patterns in everything. “You’re a genius,” he said.

She smiled, just a little. I know, she wrote, but the words were gentle, not bragging. Then, in smaller script: Thank you for understanding me. Even after the diagnosis. Even when I was hard to read.

He swallowed, a lump in his throat. “I couldn’t not understand you. Not if I tried.”

She held his gaze. There was nothing needy in her expression—just the simple, unguarded trust of someone who finally, finally believed she was wanted.

He said, “Emi told me something last night. She said… after Laura, she thought nobody would ever really notice her. That she’d always be a background character in someone else’s story. But last night, she felt real.”

Claire wrote: I know the feeling.

He reached for her, pulled her into a hug. “I think maybe that’s what this place is for. For people who need to be real again. Who need to be seen, and heard, and loved.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He could feel her gratitude in the bond, warm and full and sweet as a sunrise.

Eventually, she pulled back, and wrote: I have to go. The others are expecting me. But I’ll see you around?

He nodded, not wanting to let her go but knowing he had to. She rose on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, and wrote: Thank you for choosing me.

He smiled, his heart too full for words.

He watched as she left the Suite, tail flicking behind her, steps light and certain. When the door clicked shut, he let himself sit in the quiet for a while, absorbing the sense of peace she always left behind.

He cleaned the kitchen, found a stray sticky note under the table (a relic of Laura’s prank), and laughed to himself.

By the time Andy arrived in the Banquet Hall, the morning bustle had already begun. The air was thick with the scent of browning butter and yeast and something faintly floral, a note Andy suspected had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way sunlight hit the windows at this hour.

In the kitchen, Dawn reigned—whisking, kneading, pausing every few seconds to lick a dab of batter from her wrist.

Dawn worked like she always did: sleeves rolled high, hair coiled up, shoulders set. There was something different about her this morning, though. She was—Andy wasn’t sure there was a word for it, but “buoyant” came close. Maybe it was the way her new proportions (still shocking, even now) made her move with the wary grace of someone learning to live in a new center of gravity. Or maybe it was the fact that she was singing as she measured out flour, voice sweet and clear, the kind of soft alto that made even bad news sound like a lullaby.

Andy hovered in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. He’d never seen anyone so at home in a kitchen, not even his mother. Dawn read the space like a conductor, hands flicking from bowl to whisk to oven, every motion stitched with purpose. She balanced a mixing bowl against her hip, stirring with her left and cracking eggs with her right. Every so often, she’d stop to wipe sweat from her brow with a clean towel, then start up again, not missing a beat.

At the far end of the counter, two more figures appeared—a doubled figure, really, because Laura was still getting the hang of running both bodies at once. She kept them together, moving in sync like mismatched twins. Both wore the same blue T-shirt, and a pair of jeans. Her hair was brushed and parted identically on both heads, and the effect was unsettling, like a magic-eye painting that you had to squint at just right to see the trick. There was an alertness to her this morning—not brittle, but coiled, like someone who’d slept after crying and woken up determined to be functional.

She approached the kitchen island, both sets of hands tucked behind her backs. She didn’t want to interrupt Dawn’s flow, but she clearly wanted to be noticed. Andy caught the flicker of mischief there, too—the familiar Laura spark, muted but intact.

Dawn spotted her, beamed, and waved her over. “Hey, Laura! You’re just in time. Can you help me shape these into rolls? Just, uh… I don’t know if you want to use both sets of hands, or what.”

Both of Laura’s faces brightened. “I can try,” she said, voices perfectly in sync. She reached for the tray, then hesitated, holding both sets of hands just above the dough. “Do I do both, or…?”

“Try both,” Dawn suggested. “If it feels weird, do one at a time. There’s no wrong answer.”

Laura nodded, then started shaping the dough with all four hands. It looked clumsy at first—one set went clockwise, the other counter—but after a few tries, she fell into a rhythm, passing the rolls back and forth, pinching and folding, working both bodies together without thinking. Her shoulders eased as the task claimed her attention—something concrete, warm, forgiving.

Dawn grinned. “See? Natural.”

Laura beamed, pride flickering across both faces. Like she’d won a small, necessary victory. They worked in tandem for a few minutes. The only sounds were the soft thump of dough on wood, Dawn’s humming, and the occasional scrape of a metal spoon. Andy hung back, letting them have the moment.

Finally, one of Laura’s heads turned to Dawn. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

Dawn wiped her hands on a towel. “Only if I can ask you a weird one back.”

Both Laura’s selves giggled, then she said: “I don’t mean this to be rude, but… how do you deal with the… with the changes?” She gestured vaguely at Dawn’s chest, which was both impossible and, in some weird way, completely normal on her. The curiosity was genuine, not self-conscious—Laura checking the edges of normal again.

Dawn looked down, then shrugged. “I don’t, really. I just… I wake up, and there they are. I guess it’s like when you move to a new apartment and the water pressure’s different? At first you notice, but after a while, it’s just the way things are. My grandmother used to say, ‘You can hate the weather, but the weather doesn’t care.’” She winked. “Besides, it’s not like I can give them back.”

Laura blinked, considering this. “But… aren’t they heavy? Or annoying?”

Dawn laughed. “A little. Arabella did something to my back muscles, I think. Like, reinforced them. I don’t get sore, even after running. So that helps.” She looked down at her cleavage, then at Laura. “Honestly? It’s more weird when people don’t say anything about it.”

Laura blushed, both faces going crimson. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Dawn waved her off. “No, I get it. If it helps, I think being split in two is a way bigger deal than my boobs. Yours is next-level.”

One of Laura’s faces made a “ha!” noise; the other just smiled, a little shy. “I guess so,” she admitted. “It’s easier to keep them together. The more different the actions I make them do, the harder it is to do anything.”

Dawn nodded, her own face thoughtful. “That makes sense. If you ever want, I can help you practice. Or we can glue you together for fun.”

Both Lauras snorted, this time identical. “Thank you.”

Dawn and Laura lapsed back into the gentle routine of shaping dough. At one point, Laura lost herself in the motion and started humming along with Dawn, their voices tangling in the quiet morning. Andy remembered Laura teaching herself to sing two years before her ****: the voice she had now was richer, steadier, and he wondered if part of the strange quantum residue she carried had come with such an unexpected gift.

Dawn broke the silence, her tone gentle: “How are you doing today? I know yesterday was a lot.”

Both of Laura’s selves froze, then glanced at Dawn. She said, in stereo, “I’m… not sure. It still feels like I’m dreaming.” She rolled a lump of dough between her palms, then set it down, watching it swell in the warmth. “I’m still scared I wouldn’t fit in. Or that everyone would hate me.” The fear was quieter in her voice now—not a spiral, just a low hum. Andy could sense it, albeit barely, through their bond.

Dawn’s voice dropped to a hush. “I get that. When I got here, I thought I’d be voted out in the first week. But nobody did, and then… I just got used to being here.”

Laura looked up. “But you’re so—” She searched for the word. “You’re so warm. You make everyone feel welcome. I don’t know how you do that.”

Dawn looked embarrassed, brushing a crumb off her apron. “Practice, I guess? When my mom died, I had to be the grownup for my brothers. If I got sad, they got sad. So I learned to put on a good face, even when I didn’t feel it.” She looked up at Laura. “But you… you don’t have to be okay all the time. If you need to be sad, or mad, or weird, you can. Nobody’s going to take it away from you.”

Both Lauras blinked, visibly moved.

For a second, neither spoke. Then left Laura asked, “Can I ask another weird question?”

Dawn: “You’re on a roll. Go for it.”

Laura hesitated. “Do you ever think about going back? To the real world?”

Dawn smiled, but it was a little sad. “Every day. I think about my dad, and my brothers, and my cats. But I also know… if I hadn’t come here, I’d still be stuck. I’d never have met any of you. I think about what I’d miss if I left now, and it’s more than what I’d miss from before.” She shrugged. “Does that make sense?”

Laura nodded, her hair falling forward. “Yeah. It does.”

Dawn reached over and squeezed Laura’s hand, careful not to squeeze both at once. “You can want both, you know. That’s what my grandma said—‘You can have more than one home.’”

Laura inhaled sharply, then let it out slow. “I never really had that,” she said, quiet. “A home, I mean. Not like that.” She hesitated, then added, almost conversationally, “The closest I ever got was with Andy and his family. His mom used to let me stay late. Sometimes overnight. It felt… normal.” One of her hands stilled on the dough. “My dad made sure nowhere ever stayed safe for long.”

Dawn didn’t interrupt.

“I miss my mom,” Laura said after a beat. “I don’t even know what happened to her after everything. I keep thinking—if I’m back, does she know? Or does she still think I’m dead? I feel like… like I wish I could tell her I am here, you know?”

Dawn squeezed her hand again, firmer this time. “I understand,” she said gently. “Maybe there will be a way.”

Laura blinked hard, then nodded. “Thank you.”

They went back to work. It was easier now. The motion was muscle memory, and even the talk of heavy stuff felt lighter in Dawn’s kitchen. Laura started moving her bodies a little farther apart, testing the limit, and was delighted to find that she could coordinate them as long as they had a shared task. Dawn watched, grinning, as Laura’s right hand passed a roll to her left, then back again.

“I’m going to make you roll champ by the end of the week,” Dawn declared.

Laura grinned, mischievous. “Does the winner get a prize?”

Dawn put a hand to her chin, pretending to consider. “Winner gets a hug, and also first pick of the pastries.”

“Deal,” said Laura.

They were almost done shaping the last batch when Laura, distracted by Dawn’s story about her brothers’ epic prank wars, cracked an egg too hard. It shattered in her palm, yolk and white slithering down her fingers. She winced, about to apologize, but as she lifted her hands, the egg shell fragments began to tremble. Slowly, with a faint wet sucking sound, the shell reknit itself in her grasp, the raw yolk sliding back inside as if rewinding in time. In less than a second, the egg was whole again—slightly shinier, but otherwise perfect. The motion wasn’t dramatic. Just… inevitable, like the world deciding to correct itself.

Both Lauras stared, mouths open. Dawn, who’d seen the whole thing, whispered, “Did you…? Was that…?”

Laura shook her head, both faces at once. “I don’t know what just happened.” Her voice wasn’t panicked, but it was stripped of certainty, like the floor had shifted half an inch under her feet.

They stood, frozen. The egg sat in Laura’s palm, wobbling slightly but otherwise intact.

“That’s not normal, right?” Dawn said, voice barely above a whisper.

Laura just shook her head again. She flexed her fingers unconsciously, like it expected the shell to shatter once more.

It was only then that Andy chose to make his presence known. He’d been there the whole time—leaning in the doorway, breathing in yeast and warmth, watching Laura’s shoulders ease, watching Dawn give without asking. He could have spoken earlier. He hadn’t wanted to break the spell.

“Hey,” he said now, deliberately casual. “I was going to pretend I just wandered in because the kitchen smells like heaven.” A beat. “But I figured I should probably stop lurking.”

Dawn jumped despite herself, then laughed weakly. “Okay, good, because—” She pointed at the egg, still in Laura’s hand. “Laura just broke an egg and it put itself back together.”

Andy nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t need it. He’d seen the moment the shell pulled inward, felt the air change like pressure equalizing.

Laura looked at him, searching his face. “I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t even know how to do that.”

“I know,” Andy said immediately. He stepped closer, eyes on the egg but attention on Laura. For a heartbeat, his mind jumped sideways—Erin in the garden, flowers forcing themselves into bloom under her touch; light brightening around Dawn when she was happy. Flare-ups, he thought, remembering how Erin had referred to the event. “Can I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Laura hesitated, then transferred the egg with exaggerated care, both bodies coordinating the pass as if it were fragile in a new way. Her fingers lingered on his skin half a second longer than necessary.

Andy turned the egg slowly in the light. It felt warm—no, not warm. Settled. Like something that had decided where it belonged. He thought of Laura herself: returned, and just as uncertain of how she was supposed to exist now.

“Well,” he said lightly, setting it on the counter, “I don’t think it’s radioactive.” Then, more thoughtful: “But I do think it’s important.”

Dawn let out a breath she’d been holding. “Important how?”

Andy shrugged. “Like… Erin’s plants.” He glanced at Laura. “It seems for her, it happens when she’s not trying. When she’s present.”

Laura swallowed. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

Andy nodded. “Yeah. Fair.”

Dawn reached over and gently wiped a smear of yolk off Laura’s wrist with a towel, grounding, practical. “You didn’t break anything,” she said. “You fixed it. Accidentally.”

Laura huffed. “That’s worse.”

Andy smiled faintly. “It’s… different.” Laura’s breathing hitched, both bodies syncing again as if one system had finally caught up to the other. Andy noticed the tremor then—not fear, not exactly. Release. He stepped closer and opened his arms. Laura moved into him immediately, both bodies folding in without coordination, foreheads pressing to his shoulders. Andy wrapped one arm around each of her, anchoring them, feeling the way the tension drained in stages rather than all at once. He didn’t shush her. Didn’t tell her it was okay. He just stayed.

After a second—only a second—Dawn joined them, arms wide, careful at first and then not at all, squeezing all three of them into a flour-dusted knot. “Group hug,” she murmured, unapologetic. Andy kissed her, gratefully.

Laura let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh against Andy’s chest. “I keep thinking I’m going to mess this up.”

Andy rested his chin lightly against one of her heads. “You already messed it up,” he said gently. “And somehow, it’s still working.”

Dawn sniffed. “Rude. But accurate.”

They stayed like that longer than was strictly necessary—long enough for Laura’s hands to unclench, for Dawn’s shoulders to drop, for Andy’s heartbeat to slow back into something ordinary.

When they finally eased apart, Dawn wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, laughing at herself. “Sorry. I cry at commercials now.”

Andy smiled. “You cried at a magical egg. I think that’s allowed.”

Laura looked between them, eyes bright, steadying. “Thank you.”

Dawn clapped her hands once, decisively. “Okay. Rolls in the oven. Magic eggs on probation.”

Andy chuckled, and he squeezed Laura’s hand as he passed, grounding, familiar. “You’re doing great,” he said, with another kiss.

As he stepped back, he watched Laura and Dawn fall into rhythm again—shoulders brushing, movements easier now, the dough forgiving under their hands.

The wind on the upper balcony always brought with it a sense of clarity, as if the rest of the world could be blown off with a good enough gust. Andy stepped outside and was hit by a wall of early light and the smell of wet stone, salt, and—new today—acrylic paint.

The balcony itself had been transformed. Liesa and Norah had rearranged the furniture, pushing the teak loungers into a tight V around a table draped with a rainbow of paints, brushes, and blank canvas boards. Norah, already in paint-stained overalls, was sketching with quick, defensive pencil lines, her focus laser-tight. Liesa worked with long, confident gestures, hair back in a scarf, an old-fashioned French smock barely containing her curves. At the far end, Marissa sat with her own easel, her posture perfect, eyes flicking from canvas to horizon, then back again. She wore a sleeveless blouse and her usual tailored pants, but her arms and collarbone were already splattered with pigment.

None of them noticed him right away, which gave Andy a rare chance to just watch. There was something private about how the three worked—like an old family ritual, not performed for anyone but themselves.

He waited until the next lull, then cleared his throat. “You guys look like you’re about to launch a paintball attack on the garden.”

Norah startled first, almost dropping her pencil. She recovered with a quick, arched-brow glare that would have been deadly if she hadn’t been trying not to smile. “You’re lucky we’re in a good mood, Cooper. I could have painted you into a tree.”

Liesa grinned and waved him over. “Come, come! We are doing figure drawing. Marissa said you must be the model.” She winked, then patted the lounger next to her.

Marissa’s gaze lingered on her canvas, but her lips curved at the corners. “I’m just painting the view,” she said. “But you’re welcome to pose for the others. Only fair. Norah drew me last time.”

Andy shook his head, smiling. He let himself be directed by Liesa, who angled him toward the glass rail, then squinted, hand on chin, as if calibrating the composition. “Like this,” she said, pushing his shoulders until he was half-turned, one hand braced against the railing.

Norah snorted, “Didn’t realize we were running a life-drawing class. Should I get the naked Barbie doll from the rec room for reference?”

“I can take my shirt off,” Andy said, deadpan, and immediately regretted it as Liesa’s face lit up.

“Yes, please,” she said.

He shot a look at Marissa, who was now openly amused. “Peer pressure is a powerful thing,” she said.

Andy shrugged, peeled off his shirt, and tried not to shiver in the breeze. Liesa made a pleased, appreciative sound and set to work. Norah, for her part, rolled her eyes and drew with quick, scratchy strokes.

He stood like that for a few minutes, feeling vaguely ridiculous but also kind of honored. There was an intimacy to it—not the ****, performative kind, but a quiet trust. The three women worked in silence, the only sound the click of Norah’s pencil, the slide of Liesa’s brush, and the faint scrape of Marissa’s palette knife.

After a while, Liesa broke the quiet. “Andy, can you look at me a second?”

He glanced over, and she studied his face, then painted three quick lines before waving her brush in the air. “You have a good jaw. Strong, but not too much.” She looked pleased with herself.

Norah muttered, “Can’t believe I’m stuck drawing this nerd. Should have picked Chloe. At least she has more interesting… features.”

Andy grinned. “Is that your way of saying my boobs aren’t big enough?”

Norah burst out laughing, a genuine, unguarded sound. “Not exactly. But you know what I mean.”

Marissa, who hadn’t looked up from her work, chimed in: “Don’t sell yourself short, Andy. You’ve got a lot of nice features.” She didn’t elaborate, but Andy saw her mouth twitch as she dabbed at the canvas.

The session drifted along, the morning unfolding in slow, deliberate layers. Liesa alternated between intense, analytical scrutiny of her subject and quick, almost reckless bursts of color on the board. Norah alternated between pretending not to care and glancing at the others’ work, a touch of competitiveness in every side-eye. Marissa painted in slow, methodical steps, building up the landscape behind Andy’s silhouette as if trying to ground him in something solid.

He didn’t mind being the subject. In fact, it felt good—ordinary, grounding. He let his gaze drift to the garden below, where Dawn and Laura were still moving around the kitchen, every now and then a blur of motion as Laura fetched something from the herb bed or Dawn gestured dramatically at a pan.

After a while, Marissa set down her brush and stretched, arms overhead, the motion casual but elegant. She wandered over to Andy, looking at his bare chest, then the canvas, then back at him. “You’re holding up okay?” she asked, voice low.

He nodded, then dropped his voice to match. “I’m good. Actually, I’m… really good. I needed this.”

She studied him, then smiled. “You seemed a little off yesterday. Just wanted to make sure.”

He shrugged. “I was. But I think things are starting to make sense again.” He looked at her hands—paint-spattered, but steady—and wondered if now was a good time.

He said, “Can I talk to you about something? Later, maybe?”

Marissa nodded, and patted his shoulder, her touch warm and professional. “You know where to find me.” She turned back to her station, then hesitated. “You can put your shirt back on, if you want,” she said, but there was a teasing edge to it.

He grinned, put it on, and then joined the circle properly, standing behind the easels to survey the works in progress.

Liesa’s painting was, as promised, a bold portrait—his features rendered in wild, expressive strokes, hair a little longer than real life, jawline sharper, but the eyes unmistakably his. Norah’s was a charcoal sketch, all shadows and edges, not very good if Andy had to be honest, but it captured something restless and uncertain, a nervous energy he recognized as his own. Marissa’s was different: it barely showed him at all, just the suggestion of a figure against a rising sky, but the colors were more vivid than he’d ever seen her use. There was hope in it, a kind of brightness that made the rest of the day seem possible.

He looked at the three, then said, “You’re all incredible.”

Liesa beamed. “It helps to have a good model. Next time, I do you in oils, yes?”

He laughed. “I don’t know if I can sit still that long.”

Norah shook her head, but she looked pleased. “Thanks, Andy. For… you know. Hanging out.”

Marissa just smiled, but there was a depth to it, a comfort that made the whole morning feel like something important.

They wrapped up after another hour, leaving the paintings to dry in the sun. Norah started tidying up, Liesa flopped onto a lounger and closed her eyes, and Marissa gathered her brushes and set them in a neat row on the railing.

Andy caught up with Marissa as she washed her hands in the little sink by the patio door. He hesitated, then said, “I’ve been thinking about something you said a while back. About your hands. About your family’s predisposition.”

Marissa stilled, her back to him. “Yes,” she said. “I remember.”

He said, “I think I can fix it. If you want.”

She turned, frowning. “How?”

“Coauthor,” he said. “The Gift. I can change things about the descriptions of each of you. I could remove that predisposition, if you’d like. I can change a detail, and it… ripples out, I guess.”

Marissa considered this, arms crossed. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I already checked. It’s not dangerous. Just… an edit.”

She looked at her hands, then at Andy. “Do it.”

He pulled up the interface on his smartwatch—still awkward, but easier now than before. He found Marissa’s description: “Marissa’s hands, while elegant and dexterous, are somewhat stiff-jointed, and genetically predisposed to arthritis,” and changed it to “Marissa’s hands, besides being elegant and dexterous, are highly skilled on the piano.” He closed the interface. The change was instant, but not dramatic. Marissa flexed her hands, then rolled her wrists, frowning in concentration.

At first, nothing felt different. She looked at him, mild skepticism, as if she expected some tingle or flash of heat. “That’s it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You just changed my destiny with a tap?”

Andy shrugged, suppressing the urge to make a joke. “That’s it. It won’t change anything except that you don’t have to be careful with your hands anymore.”

Marissa looked down, rotating her hands again. She tapped her knuckles against the stone of the sink, then pressed her palms together hard, then—impulsively—balled them into tight fists and released. Her eyes darted up, uncertain. “It feels…” she started, but trailed off.

Behind them, Norah sidled closer, curiosity thinly disguised as a need to clean up paint rags. “What’d you do, Andy? Turn her into Wolverine?”

Marissa ignored the comment. Instead, she found the closest object—a paintbrush, still slick with ultramarine—and wrapped her hand around it. She squeezed. The wooden shaft snapped, clean and sharp, blue paint beading on her thumb, but she didn’t wince. Instead, she stared at the paint on her skin, rubbing it between her fingers, then wiped her hands on her pants. She looked up at Andy, and for a second her composure failed, eyes going wet and wide before she quickly looked away.

“I could never do that before,” she said quietly. “I started struggling with gripping things tightly, sometime last year.”

Liesa, who had been pretending to clean her brushes with slow, deliberate sensuality, paused and tilted her head at Marissa, then at Andy. “Wait, is this… was this because of your family?” She motioned to her own hands, then to Marissa’s. “My aunt had this too. With the fingers.”

Marissa nodded, unable to speak. She wiped her hands again, then, almost shy, reached for Andy’s arm and squeezed—not hard, but with a certainty that was new.

Andy smiled, a little shy himself. “There’s more I could do, if you want. For all of you. I just… I didn’t want to mess with anything without permission.”

Norah snorted, arms crossed, but Andy could see her considering it, filing away the possibility for later. Liesa just smiled, slow and genuine, as if this was the outcome she’d hoped for.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Marissa said, voice still a little shaky. Then, as if she needed to reset the mood, she stepped away from the sink and toward the glass doors leading back into the building. “Anyone want to play?” She gestured toward the corridor leading to The 88 Club in the far corner of the lobby.

Andy followed, the others trailing. When they reached the Club, he watched as Marissa seated herself, arms loose at her sides. She stared at the keys, flexing her hands above them. The tension in her shoulders melted; she lifted her wrists, fingers hovering, then, with a decisiveness that seemed new, she pressed the first chord.

It rang out bright and true, filling the room with a clarity that sent a prickle down Andy’s spine. Marissa rolled through a sequence—an arpeggio, then a run—her hands moving faster, bolder, fingers striking hard when the music demanded it. She grinned, a flush in her cheeks, then played something intricate and fast, a snippet from Chopin that Andy remembered her calling “ambitious but out of reach” just two weeks ago.

Norah whistled. “Damn. Is it supposed to sound like that?”

Liesa was watching Marissa, eyes bright and a little wet. She squeezed Andy’s hand, hard, then let it go with a quick, embarrassed glance.

Marissa played to the end, letting the final chord hang. Then she turned to Andy, searching his face. “Thank you,” she said. She sounded like she might say more, but instead, she just reached up, pulled him close, and kissed him—soft and electric, a gratitude so intense it made his knees weak.

He kissed her back, briefly, and felt Liesa’s hand squeeze his shoulder from behind.

When Marissa let him go, she was smiling—really smiling, the tension gone from her face. “You don’t know what this means,” she said.

“I have an idea,” Andy said, voice rough.

Liesa laughed, a throaty sound, and hugged him from behind, her arms wrapping around his waist and holding on as if the sunlight could fuse them together. Norah, never one to miss a cue, rolled her eyes but stepped in, putting her arm around Andy’s shoulders and tugging him down so she could plant a deliberately loud, obnoxious kiss on his cheek.

“You’re such a sap,” Norah muttered, but her voice was softer than usual. “It’s disgusting.”

He grinned, gathering the three of them close—Marissa on his left, Norah on his right, Liesa’s arms locked around his midsection, her head on his shoulder. The piano bench barely held them all, and for a minute the whole scene teetered on the edge of slapstick. But then Marissa reached over and played a series of low, silly chords, and Andy found himself laughing, helplessly, the joy spreading through the four of them like a charge.

Sunlight poured in through the windows, igniting the motes of dust in the air, turning the mundane moment—paint-splattered smocks, hair tangled by the wind, Marissa’s hands still sticky with blue—into something rare and precious.

Bonus Art: Gretch the Collector!

Tomorrow: Cutter McCutterDaughter!