By the Firelight

The bonfire had burned down to a soft red hush by the time the echoes of Sam’s toast finished curling into the sky. Herman waited for the last ripple of laughter to settle, then reached for the driftwood stacked at his feet. One piece at a time, he worked it into the fire—tipping the ends to find the perfect spot, watching the sparks catch before he so much as touched the next. It was careful work, oddly soothing. The others seemed to feel it too: the rhythm of quiet talk, the way the evening’s old muscle memory returned as soon as the formalities let go.

Van, glass in hand, leaned into the moment and topped off Felix’s soda without being asked. The bottle was nearly empty, but Felix hadn’t noticed, or if he had, he was committed to drinking it anyway. “Much appreciated,” Felix said. He took a sip, then turned his attention to the group with a grin that showed every tooth. “I move we petition the organizers for a full refund if next year’s party also includes a cave dimension with its own population of sentient ghosts. There’s only so many times I can be locked in the dark with Van before the romance wears off.”

The laugh that ran around the ring was quick, easy, brighter than the fire. Harper, stretched out across two chairs, threw her head back and let out a bark of pure approval. Nick, slouched on her left, raised his glass in solidarity and nudged Robert’s knee with his own. “I think the haunted cave’s what made this year worth the travel,” Nick said, half-mumbling the line, then choked it off as Robert elbowed him back, friendly and sharp.

At the edge of the group, Mildred yanked her chair closer to the fire and, in the same motion, nudged three other chairs an inch closer, silently correcting the ring. She didn’t say a word, but the change made everything feel a hair more intentional, as if the group had just been called to order. She looked across at Andy, who caught the eye contact and offered a wry smile. He’d been keeping to himself, mostly, but the smile was real, and Mildred nodded before breaking the gaze.

“Last pour,” Harper announced. She fished a flask from somewhere inside her coat, unscrewed the cap, and offered it to the circle with a waggle. “Finish your old world whiskey, gentlemen, and then we’re on to the local stuff.” Adrien took it, sniffed the opening, filled his glass and passed it on. He took a sip. “Tastes like coconut and rage,” he said, solemnly.

Herman made a soft sound of appreciation as the new log caught. “Not bad, right?” he said to nobody. “Better than city bonfires, at least. Less glass in the sand.”

Sam nodded, her focus mostly on the glow at the center, though her attention tracked every motion around the group with the ease of long practice. “If you want glass, wait for the toast at the wedding. Pretty sure the plan is to break at least three cases’ worth before sunrise,” she said. She raised her own glass, empty, and Harper, with a magician’s grace, refilled it without spilling a drop.

It was Harper, in the end, who noticed first: she turned her head a fraction, eyes narrowing, and said, “Company.” The conversation snapped to the side, every head turning as one. There was nothing at first—just the soft white edge of the fire’s light, the darkness beyond it—but then, on the far side of the clearing, a knot of voices, low but growing. A string of small, wavering lights moved along the shoreline, making their way up from the lagoon.

“Bachelorette party’s back,” Harper said, and this time the whole group heard it.

For a second, nobody moved. Then, as the line of lights neared, Felix stood and dusted off his hands. “We should—” he started, but didn’t need to finish. Van was already rearranging the chairs, widening the ring by two, then by four. Herman got up and checked the driftwood pile, just in case. Nick started gathering the empties into a loose pile near his feet, but then gave up as more glasses began to show up on every available surface.

The first of the returning group was Liesa, unmistakable even in the half-light, the walk and posture so perfectly hers that Andy felt the recognition land before she’d even come into focus. She led them in with a torch held high, her bare feet flashing in the sand, hair undone, cheeks flushed. Behind her, the rest of the lagoon crowd followed, their torches bobbing and weaving as the circle grew closer.

There was no official greeting, no handshake or speech or slow-motion hug. The two rings simply met and, after a moment’s shuffling, merged. Liesa was the first through, and Sam—already on her feet—closed the gap in three steps and pulled her straight into a hug. “Who won?” Sam demanded, still hugging her, and Liesa, half-laughing, replied with a run of rapid-fire Flemish that left Sam grinning, even though she understood none of it. Sam let her go, then said, “Fine, you win for style, but I’m reserving judgment until I see who’s still standing at the end of the night.”

Liesa stuck her tongue out, delighted, and dropped into the nearest empty chair. She looked so perfectly at home it was as if she’d never been anywhere else.

Erin reached Sam next. They hugged, briefer but tighter, Erin’s hands gripping Sam’s shoulder with a possessive, friendly strength. “You look good,” Erin said, her voice low. “Did you miss us?” Sam snorted. “You have no idea,” she said, and squeezed back before letting go.

The rest of the arrivals filtered in. Somewhere in the shuffle, Sam found herself taking a mental headcount. She got almost all the way around the ring, then stopped, frowning. “Wait,” she said, aloud, “isn’t Laura—”

“—coming,” Andy said, already half-rising from his seat, attention fixed on the path leading down from the water.

The last of the arrivals came up from the beach at a slower pace. Katherine and Sumiku, both still wet, walked side by side, talking in easy voices. Katherine’s hair, dark with water, trailed a thin line behind her, and she didn’t seem to notice or care. When they reached the fire, the circle of faces turned to them as one. A blanket appeared, passed hand to hand, and found its way around both their shoulders at the same time. Katherine grinned at the hands-offering-help, then wriggled herself deeper into the center, Sumiku following and settling cross-legged at her side.

The old sense of nervousness, of being watched too closely, was nowhere in the new group. Every face turned to the next with the ease of hours already spent together. The bachelorette and bachelor sides merged as if the split had never been real, voices rising, arms slung over shoulders, drinks poured and passed without a word. The stories—about the lagoon, about the haunted cave, about the things that didn’t make sense and would never make sense—circled the fire in a messy, overlapping spiral, interrupted only by laughter or the occasional, “No, let me tell it, you’re skipping the best part.”

Andy waited, though he wasn’t sure what for. He felt the moment coming before it arrived, the way you feel a hand about to touch your arm even before it’s there. The path from the water was empty, save for two final torches, held high and steady. Laura, walking alone with herself, took the steps up to the clearing slow, her eyes not on the fire but on him. She crossed the distance without stopping, without faltering, her expression unreadable except for the unmistakable fact that she was looking only at him.

He stood, not entirely sure he’d meant to, and they met at the edge of the fire. For a moment, there was nothing else in the world, not the noise of the crowd or the heat of the flames, only the two of them. They looked at each other, not moving, not speaking, and Andy felt every conversation he’d ever wanted to have with her pass between them in a single, silent breath.

Then Laura smiled, tiny at first, then wide enough to reach her eyes. Someone—maybe Chloe, maybe Sam—hooked an arm around her shoulders, pulling her the rest of the way into the circle of chairs and drinks and tangled stories. Andy watched her go, and the fire felt bright enough to warm everything around it.

The two halves of the group were one now. The chairs closed tighter, the gaps filled, the voices even louder.

---

Laura had barely made it past the orbit of the fire before Myra had an arm twined through hers, anchoring her with the kind of no-nonsense affection that said: this is your spot, sit here. She did, or tried to, but before she’d even managed to find the seats of the twin folding chairs, Riley appeared out of nowhere and all but sat on the armrest, wedging herself into the space between Laura and the drink cooler, her hair haloed in orange and her eyes already scanning the circle for someone to needle.

“Did you see it,” Myra was saying, “the absolute face-plant when Oudemia went under?” The words tripped over Riley’s, “I told you she’d do it, didn’t I? And then, boom—gone.” Both voices collided and then merged, bouncing off the rim of the fire and the rising wall of party noise. Myra gestured with her free hand, making a looping motion that nearly knocked the glass from Allie’s hand in the next seat over; Allie caught it and held it up in salute, grinning.

The rest of the lagoon party had unpacked around the main group, filling every gap with people, stories, and the smell of wet skin and coconut rum. Someone was running a competition to see who could do the best impression of the lagoon’s resident frog chorus, and the rest of the group seemed perfectly willing to serve as the judges. It was chaos, but the warm kind, the kind that didn’t care if you kept up or fell behind, only that you were there.

Myra and Riley kept up the double commentary for a few more volleys, trading stories about the swim, about who’d screamed loudest and who’d rescued who, both of them slowly tightening the boundary of their little pocket of the circle so that it became, briefly, just the three of them. Laura didn’t mind. She let herself get pulled into it, into the press of Myra’s hand at her elbow and the sound of Riley’s laugh, a sound that was so much brighter than she remembered it being, even a week ago. Every once in a while, one of them would reach for a drink and the arc of their arms would tangle, leaving them laughing at the mess they’d made, and at themselves.

It was maybe ten minutes into the new configuration before Laura managed to look up and register the shape of the rest of the fire. She found Andy a few chairs down, half in shadow, the side of his face lit up by the flames and the other lost to the night. He wasn’t talking. He just watched, the way he always used to: quietly, fully, like he could see the whole picture without needing to be the center of it. His hands were folded in his lap, and though he didn’t move, there was something about the way he was sitting that felt as if he were leaning toward her, even from a distance.

Laura tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help it. She just looked, and kept looking, and somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, she saw him see her. There was a second—less than that—where nothing moved, not the fire, not the voices, not even the breath in her chest. They just watched each other, and everything else dropped out.

The look that crossed her face then was too raw to be anything but the truth. It wasn’t something she meant to show, but there it was: the same untidy, wide-open want that had lived in her since before she could remember. She caught it, almost, tried to force it down, but the effort was useless; the feeling was too strong, the night too easy. It broke over her, and then, a moment later, it was gone, replaced with a crooked, self-mocking smile. Andy didn’t look away. He just took it in, the way he always had, and gave nothing back but a soft, searching calm.

The fire roared up, someone having chucked half a log onto it, and the sudden heat made the line of sight between them shimmer and ripple. Laura let it do what it wanted; she let the whole mess of longing and unsaid things hang in the air, and then she turned, at last, back to the people on either side of her.

Riley had caught the line of her gaze and was already grinning. “What’s got you so interested over there?” she said, nudging Laura with an elbow. “Did Felix finally set himself on fire?”

Laura laughed, the sound louder than she meant it to be, and shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, “just—nothing.” Myra picked up the story again without missing a beat, but she didn’t let go of Laura’s arm, and neither did Riley move, except to reach over and pour another drink, which she handed to Laura without even checking if she’d wanted it.

The rest of the hour passed like that: voices, stories, the soft press of two people who’d decided they weren’t letting go any time soon. The thing with Andy would have to wait for a quieter fire, a more private moment. For now, she let the noise and the laughter and the heat of the ring close in over her. She didn’t get up. She didn’t let herself. She just let them hold her, and let herself be a part of it, and for a while, that was enough.

---

By the time Andy peeled away from the crowd, the energy around the fire had evolved into its own living thing: not the single, focused noise of the old bachelor party, or the splashy chaos of the lagoon, but a hybrid, messy and alive and uncaring whether anyone was following along.

Nobody seemed to need him there. Sam was posted up at the fire with Van and Felix and a rotating handful of second-shift guests, her arm slung around the back of Van’s chair and her head tipped up as she talked. Laura Black was making a show of trying to keep her group in line but looked more at home here than Andy had ever seen her, even with the dragon wings splayed full behind her. The other guys from the bachelor side had scattered, folding into knots with the contest’s best and weirdest, and the mood kept the whole thing rolling without ever hitting a sharp edge.

Andy kept to the edge of the main fire for a good half hour, letting the conversation settle into a new, uncertain rhythm. The noise never died, exactly—someone always had a story to tell, a laugh to toss in the right place—but it stretched out, taking on the lazy, spiraling shape of a real party. Once, when Andy looked up, he found Sam already clocking his distraction from three seats down. She didn’t call him out, just caught his gaze and nodded, the message clear: you can go. He did.

He found them off to the side, the way people always ended up when they wanted to be part of things but not inside the centrifuge. The chairs were spaced a little further apart, the fire a few degrees cooler here. Erin was perched on the edge of her seat, legs folded up, the flicker of the main fire reflected in her eyes. Claire was beside her, notebook shut for once, hands folded over it like it was something precious. And Katherine—Katherine was closer still, knees tucked to her chest, hair damp from the lagoon and spilled over one shoulder in a heavy, perfect sweep. She had her eyes on the bigger circle, but it was obvious she didn’t need to be there, not tonight.

Andy paused, then lowered himself into the empty chair across from Katherine. He didn’t say anything, not right away. He just looked at her, and this time he let himself really look.

She wore herself different, now—looser, maybe, or more at ease than she’d ever been as a painting or a rumor. Her eyes drifted over him, then to Erin, then back, taking in everything. The angle of her arms, the set of her mouth, all of it said: this is enough. She was here, hours after the deadline, here with them, and nothing was waiting to snatch her back.

Andy felt something in him relax, so deep it bordered on vertigo. It was the first time all day he let himself believe it—really believe that the promise he’d made her, long ago, had held. He almost said something then, almost reached for her hand, but he caught himself and just sat, watching, until the shape of the silence started to feel familiar.

It was Erin who broke it, though gently. “You should have seen her earlier,” she said. “We were at the ribbon tree—” Erin broke off and laughed, then looked down, abashed. “Liesa had everyone write three ribbons earlier today — a wish, some advice, a promise — and tie them to the tree before dinner. Laura drew them at random tonight and read them out loud to the whole garden; nobody has to own up to which one’s theirs.” She glanced at Katherine, then back to Andy. “Katherine’s turn came up in the middle of it, same as anyone’s. She didn’t have to say a word.”

Katherine’s mouth quirked at the edge, like she remembered the exact moment. She lifted her chin, unhurried, and let the memory play openly across her face — pride, a little defiance, nothing like an apology. It was theatrical, and a little smug, but mostly just true.

“She wished for the rest of us to be happy before herself,” Erin said, quieter now. “Wrote it—well, I wrote it, since she can’t—and made me put down every word before she’d let me near the tree. Then Laura read it out, and Katherine just stood there and pressed her hand right here—” Erin’s own palm flattened to her breastbone, mimicking the gesture exactly, then opened toward the sky. “Wasn’t even showy. She just did it. And the second everyone understood, the whole tree came apart — everybody who could reach her, all at once, holding on. She cried, Andy. All the way through. Like she was one of the girls, not—” Erin let the word paint itself, not a painting, and let it hang.

Andy went very still. “You did that?” he asked, and the question came out closer to awe than he meant. “You really walked out in front of everybody?”

Katherine blinked at him, slow and deliberate, then tipped her chin down and up again—small, certain, more answer than performance. She held his eyes, waiting for him to get it.

Erin seemed to realize, right then, that this next part — the how of it — was news to him. “Wait,” she said, eyebrows drawing together, “nobody told you how?”

Andy shook his head.

Claire didn’t write anything new. She flipped back through the notebook instead, a dozen pages, to a single leaf already written, torn at the edge and waiting. She tore it out and held it across the space between them. In Claire’s neat hand, under a time — 6:54 — it said: She’s still here.

Andy did the small, useless math anyway: right about then, he’d still been out on the scavenger hunt, laughing at something, no idea at all. He looked up, and his eyes went first to Katherine — not to check, he already knew, but to give the exact minute a face. The moment stretched, slower and softer than anything sharp, the kind of looking that didn’t need to end. He reached for her hand, moving slow, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. Their fingers laced, and he held on.

Katherine’s mouth went very small. She lifted her free hand, slow, and pressed it flat to her chest — the same gesture, exactly, that had moved through the whole crowd at the tree — then opened it, palm up, not to the sky this time, but to him. Then she smiled, and it was the kind of smile that said: I told you so, but I’m glad you didn’t believe me the first time.

For a while, nobody needed to fill the air with words. Claire closed the notebook and set it on her knee, hands folded on top, not quite hiding the way they trembled just a little at the edges. Erin leaned in, elbows on her knees, watching the fire, then Andy, then the others, and back again, as if checking that the world was still holding together under the weight of it all.

Andy just watched Katherine. He didn’t have a plan for what to do next, or how to mark the occasion. He just watched, and when he felt her thumb stroke the back of his hand, he squeezed once, pulled into a fierce hug, kissed her, then let her set the pace.

Erin cleared her throat. “If you want,” she said, softer now, “I can tell you the rest of it. There’s a lot you didn’t see today. I know it’s not the same, but—”

Andy nodded, still holding on. “Yeah,” he said, “I want to know.”

So she told him. The three of them took turns, Erin the main narrator, Claire chiming in with notebook pages and quick, sharp lines when the story drifted into her territory, and Katherine—Katherine mostly watched, but every so often she’d catch Andy’s eye and mime something from the story, a silent footnote or a memory. When she did, Andy always got it.

Time passed in a way that didn’t register, the fire growing lower, the party noise blurring into something abstract and warm. Every once in a while, someone would look their way—Sam, or Liesa, or Van, or someone else from the main circle—and see them there, the four of them, and leave them alone.

Andy didn’t know how long they sat like that. He only knew that for the first time in years, maybe ever, the world didn’t feel like it was about to tip over. Everything he loved was here, held together by a line no one could cut or unwind.

They didn’t rejoin the party right away. They just stayed in their little ring, the noise of the main fire close but not close enough to interrupt.

---

Sumiku, by long habit, kept to the perimeter. Even now, with the reunion’s last weird tensions washed out and the fire’s light drawing the old faces in close, she never lingered in the bright middle of things. Instead, she circled the edges, attending the table of drinks and the buffet with a precision that was almost invisible—never letting a glass or a plate go empty, anticipating the next need two steps before it happened. She could have been mistaken for hired help, if not for the wings folded flat along her spine, the horns at her hairline, and the faintly luminous eyes that gave her away whenever the torchlight caught them straight.

Dawn found her there, topping off a cup that belonged to neither of them, and paused with a private smile. Sumiku’s face, as always, was composed and soft, but the way her hands moved—fast, sure, two on the bottle and two on the rim of the tray—spoke of a nervousness she didn’t or couldn’t say aloud.

“You know you’re off the clock, right?” Dawn said, smiling. “No kitchen, no service tonight. You’re allowed to just… be.”

Sumiku’s response was, as always, formal but unhurried: “This one is aware. But a gathering is best when it is orderly, and it is easier to anticipate needs than to mend the consequences of neglect.” Her lower left hand tucked the bottle away, her right began stacking the empties, and for a moment it looked as if she’d keep orbiting, never quite letting the moment land.

But Dawn had played this game before. She had been in Sumiku’s shoes, and she could understand the struggle. She stepped closer, placed a hand on the rim of the table so their arms nearly touched, and lowered her voice. “You don’t need to worry about it. If a single one of these people goes dry tonight, it’s their own fault. You know that, right?”

Sumiku hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet Dawn’s, and Dawn felt a strange pulse of warmth—the look was so direct, so naked, it made her want to give the dragon-woman a real reason to blush. Instead, she smiled and kept her hand in place, blocking the next move. “What’s that one for?” she asked, nodding at the glass Sumiku had just filled, still warm from her fingers.

Sumiku looked at it as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. “This one… had not decided,” she said, voice lower now, “but it was a waste to discard the bottle with so little left.” She started to set it aside, but Dawn took it, cupped her own hand around Sumiku’s, and steered it gently back.

“Maybe it’s for you,” Dawn said, and left her fingers covering Sumiku’s for just a little longer than necessary. When she let go, Sumiku’s hand stayed exactly where it was, clutching the glass as if it were a live wire.

Emi arrived then, sliding in on a cloud of her own affection and laughter. She wrapped all six arms around Sumiku at once, squishing the smaller woman with a hug that should have been a wrestling hold. Sumiku went instantly rigid, the cup trapped between her chest and her own crossed arms, but when Emi pulled back, she was grinning.

“I bet you didn’t think you’d be the coolest person at a wedding, did you?” Emi said, eyes sparkling. “You’re the only one close to me in number of arms.” She made a show of flexing, then winked at Dawn.

Sumiku tried to answer, but Emi wouldn’t let her go, and the words came out a little muffled: “This one considers it an honor to be in your company, Emi-sama.” She sounded like she meant it.

Dawn took the moment to gently pry the glass from Sumiku’s grip. “You know, if you let someone do something for you, sometimes it feels even better.” She offered the drink up, and after a half second’s pause, Sumiku accepted it with both hands, almost reverently. The wings at her back fluttered once, then went still.

Emi, delighted, started in with all six arms again, teasing: “Wait, wait, do you have a hidden set somewhere else? Is it like a bonus round if you make it to midnight?” She was already laughing as she said it.

Sumiku shook her head, then, without a word, unfolded her lower pair from where they’d been tucked at her waist. She stacked a plate, the cup, and—somehow—a napkin and a blanket all at once, a perfect display of competence and coordination. Then she folded them away again, smooth and subtle, like she was embarrassed to be seen showing off.

Dawn grinned, and Emi just let out a sound that was more a squeal than a word. “I love it,” Emi said, and hugged Sumiku again, this time careful not to trap her hands.

They let the moment rest, standing together in the soft ring of lamplight. Dawn’s voice went gentle: “Are you always like this? Always the one making sure everyone else is okay?”

Sumiku tilted her head, thinking. “This one believes it is better to leave the world improved by one’s passage. If nobody else is looking, it is the least this one can do.”

Emi snorted, her voice a little sharp with fondness. “That’s why you get along so well with Dawn. You know, you’re allowed to have fun, too. You’re allowed to be a little messy. No one here will get mad if you spill something, or trip, or—” She hesitated, then finished, “—or just let yourself be happy.”

Sumiku considered this with such seriousness that Dawn had to look away, afraid of breaking the spell. “It is a kind and unusual world,” Sumiku said. “This one is grateful to have arrived in it.” The words were simple, but her eyes glowed noticeably brighter, as if the fire had found a home in them.

Emi caught the change at once and grinned. “Is that your version of blushing? Because it’s very cute.” She poked Sumiku in the shoulder, then looked to Dawn. “Do the wings do anything when she’s happy?”

Dawn shrugged, but kept her eyes on Sumiku’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe. Are you happy?”

Sumiku straightened, and for the first time that night, she let her wings open, just a few inches, casting a shadow on the table and the sand behind her. “This one is content,” she said, and Dawn believed it.

Dawn found herself wanting to keep the mood alive, so she nudged the drink forward again. “Try it,” she said, softly. “Tonight, it’s yours.”

Sumiku’s lips pressed together, a faint smile hiding in the line, and she sipped. Dawn watched the flutter of her throat as she swallowed, the way her lower hands fidgeted and then stilled. When she set the cup down, she glanced to Dawn as if seeking approval. Dawn only grinned.

Emi, always the irrepressible, said, “Can you fly with those? Have you ever just taken off and left the dishes for someone else?”

Sumiku looked mortified at the idea, but answered seriously: “This one has the capability. But it seemed unwise to depart without notice, given the importance of the event.”

Dawn laughed outright, and Emi joined her, delighted at the absolute earnestness. “You should do it. You should take off and let someone else carry the blanket, for once. We’d love it.”

Sumiku’s wings shivered, a small but unmistakable thrill. “Perhaps,” she said, softer than before, “when it is permitted.”

Dawn smiled, and her voice was gentle as ever. “You don’t need anyone’s permission, Sumiku. You’re not a guest at this fire. You’re one of us.”

Sumiku ducked her head, visibly moved, but countered, “If that is true, it is because this one has been shown more grace in one evening than in all the years before.” But her eyes were bright, and the wings gave that same shiver again.

Dawn let it be. She nodded at the empty chair beside her. “Will you sit with us, just for a little while?”

Sumiku hesitated, then lowered herself into the chair, both pairs of arms folded in her lap, her wings fanning out a little behind her. She stayed there, still and perfect, letting the warmth of the fire and the easy, messy laughter of the night hold her. For the first time, she let herself be part of it.

The three of them stayed like that, the world still and golden around them, until the flames had burned down and the rest of the party called them back.

---

They’d found a pocket at the edge of the party. A half-moon of driftwood logs and white-plastic chairs sat out of the direct noise but close enough to catch the spillover of all the main fire’s warmth and light. The twins had taken the only space on the upwind log, left side closest to the embers, Autumn’s right leg braced against the sand, Summer’s left pulled up so the knee made a tidy ledge for her elbow. Autumn was hunched inward, a little, hair shading her eyes, but Summer sat tall, chin up, scanning the next group for whatever trouble she could talk them into. Her mood tonight had tilted toward the outward—safe room, happy crowd, nobody paying them particular mind—and it had left her in the rarest state: optimistic.

They’d just gotten through their first s’more of the evening (Autumn torching the marshmallow with all the restraint of a furnace, Summer assembling the rest with surgical precision) when she noticed the drow girl moving toward them. She must have peeled off from the main circuit only seconds before, but the way she picked up speed—like she’d just realized a limited-time offer was about to vanish—left no doubt about her next destination. Summer recognized her immediately: Copse-Wood, Summer Copse-Wood, the one who, based on her activities during the party, had apparently decided, at this wedding, to make the concept of “life of the party” her entire personality.

Summer gave Autumn a quick sideways look: ready? Autumn gave the faintest, “what can you do” shrug, then smoothed their rumpled skirt down over the edge of the log and waited.

The drow girl didn’t hesitate. “Hi! Is this seat taken?” She was already sitting before she finished the line, perching right on the driftwood log, knees together, skirt arranged just so, the look both practiced and deliberately not what people expected from a drow. She beamed at both of them, head tilted, the perfect first-impression photo op.

Summer, of course, took the lead. “It’s yours if you can handle the smoke,” she said, gesturing at the log with a little flick of the hand. “I’m Summer. This is Autumn. We’re not as exciting as the main event, but our marshmallow-to-graham ratio is scientifically optimized.” She flashed a smile, big enough to invite a laugh, and was rewarded with one—the other Summer laughed with her whole face, lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling up, as if she’d spent her whole life doing this.

“Summer?” the drow echoed, and for a second her expression flickered, a real delight passing behind her eyes. “You’re kidding. We’re name twins.” She paused, just a half beat, then extended her left hand, the move so theatrical it would have seemed like a parody if not for the warmth behind it. “Summer Copse-Wood. Sixth in line for the Copse-Wood Throne. If you’ve ever seen anyone do a handstand on a twelve-foot ladder in heels, it was probably me.”

Summer took the hand, squeezing it once in a way that was more “we’re in this together” than “nice to meet you,” then released it with a matching flourish. “Summer Weaver. No titles, unless you count ‘Certified Cake Decorator.’ I can’t do a handstand in anything, but I did once eat a whole wedding cake with my sister in under thirty minutes. Does that count?”

“Absolutely,” the other Summer said. “I’m not here to gatekeep excellence.” Her eyes shifted from Summer to Autumn, who still hadn’t spoken, her attention divided between the drow and the s’more she was reconstructing. “And you’re Autumn, right? Sorry, you probably get that a lot—people talking to the louder one and just assuming you’re the silent partner.”

Autumn smiled, small but genuine. “I don’t mind. Summer does most of the talking for both of us.” She glanced at Summer, then back to the drow, and added: “If she gets it wrong, I step in.”

“Noted,” the drow said, with a grin.

Before anyone could toss another line in, a shadow fell across the log, and Winter Copse-Wood landed on it, dropping down next to his sister with the kind of grace that only came from good genetics and a century of training. He was about as tall as his twin, a little broader, but wore the exact same dress. He didn’t say anything for a second, just watched the three women, then nodded once at the twins.

“Sorry to crash the party,” he said, voice pitched low, almost as if he was aiming for the opposite of his sister’s energy. “Just wanted to see if she was collecting more new friends, or flirting aggressively.”

Autumn made a sound like a suppressed laugh. “You’re welcome to the bench. Marshmallows are first come, first serve.”

Winter took his spot on the log with both feet planted in the sand, arms crossed. “So, two Summers at one fire,” he said, deadpan. “Technically three, if you count the one from Hazel’s season. You ladies may want to pick a backup name before this becomes a thing.”

The drow Summer made a face of pure delight. “You’re right! I didn’t even think of that.” She poked her brother’s arm. “We’re so outnumbered, Winter, we need to unionize.” Her eyes flicked between the twins, real curiosity surfacing now. “You ever had someone with your exact name before? I haven’t.”

Summer Weaver shook her head. “Never. The odds in Wyoming are pretty wild. I thought the only other Summer in the whole state was a bull terrier that flunked out of the local shelter.” Her smile widened, then she cut a sidelong look to Autumn. “I always figured I’d be the only one. You?”

Autumn just shook her head, more reserved but clearly not disapproving. “Autumn has even wilder odds.”

The drow Summer laced her hands together, elbows on knees. “Should we do a Name-Off, or… do you just want to claim dibs?” Her voice was light, but she was absolutely living for it.

The human Summer giggled and shot right back: “You want to fight for it, or just swap middle names?”

“Sounds like a sensible idea,” said Winter, “yours is—”

“Leonora,” the twins said in perfect unison, the moment clearly rehearsed but still funny. The drow Summer let out a whoop and clapped her hands.

“I don’t have one, but I suppose you can call me Urinlaire,” she said, pronouncing it with a perfect elven roll that made it sound like something you’d find inscribed on a really expensive tomb. She glanced at Winter, eyebrow raised, waiting for him to object. He didn’t disappoint.

“You hate that name,” he said. “You used to whine about it every week.”

“Exactly,” she fired back. “At least now it can be useful. If anyone gets confused, just call me Urinlaire.” She turned to the Weaver twins, her expression shifting to patient instruction. “It’s ‘Oo-rin-lair-eh’—roll the ‘r’ just a little, like you’re clearing your throat politely. Go on, try it.”

Summer Weaver attempted it first, stumbling over the syllables with a soft laugh. “Ur-in-lair?”

“Close! The ‘eh’ at the end—like you’re surprised.” Summer Copse-Wood demonstrated again, slower.

Autumn watched her sister’s mouth, then said, quiet but clear, “Urinlaire.” The pronunciation was nearly perfect, the ‘r’ light but present.

Summer Copse-Wood clapped her hands once. “Yes! You’ve got it!”

Winter watched them, arms still crossed, but his smile had softened into something fond and exasperated. “I can’t believe you’re giving elocution lessons at a wedding.”

“Few humans have ever managed to say it without choking,” she said, beaming at Autumn. “So I guarantee nobody will mix us up now.” She said it with such pride that Winter just gave up, shaking his head and smiling despite himself. She looked at Summer Weaver, eyes sparkling. “Can I just say this is the best thing to happen all night? I mean, no offense to the wedding, but…”

“I’m just relieved you weren’t going to challenge me to, like, a footrace or a drinking contest.” Summer Weaver said, grinning.

At that, the drow lit up like someone had flicked a switch. “Oh, you do not want to see her drink,” Winter said, glancing at the twins with a small, private smile. “It’s the only sport she trains for.”

This time, both Summers lost it, laughing together in a way that made the space feel just a little warmer. Even Autumn was smiling now, the lines at the corners of her mouth soft.

Human Summer marshaled herself first. “Honestly, the drink’s nothing to worry about. You ever seen a country wedding with an open bar? That’s how we got our cake championship—no sense of pacing.”

“That’s a championship worth fighting for,” the drow girl said, reverent. “I am not kidding. You should see the disaster at our home set whenever a pie-eating contest happens. Drow are not built for carbs.” She poked her own waist, mock-tragic. “We burn everything too fast, it just goes straight to our thighs. Or, in my case, straight to my brother’s, because he always swoops in and steals half my plate.”

Winter held up both hands, placid. “Factually accurate. She leaves a trail of crumbs everywhere, like a lost toddler.”

Summer Weaver turned to Autumn. “Remind me never to let you and Winter hang out. You’d either kill each other or develop some new and terrifying dessert weapon.”

Autumn’s eyes stayed steady, but she reached for another marshmallow. “That’s fine. I prefer team-ups anyway.” And she speared the marshmallow with a stick, passing it wordlessly to her Summer.

Drow Summer watched this with something close to awe. “You two just—do that? Coordinate without talking?”

“Mostly,” said Autumn, with a soft note of pride. “It’s how we work best.”

“I respect that,” she said, and it sounded like she really meant it.

There was a lull. The fire snapped and popped, a little smoke swirling on the wind. Nobody seemed in a hurry to fill the silence; even Winter seemed happy to let it settle, gaze fixed on the flames.

It was Summer Weaver who eventually took the next step, gentle and real. “Can I ask you something?” she said, aiming it at the other Summer. “You ever get tired of being stared at? Not here, but—”

“—anywhere else?” the drow Summer finished for her. She didn’t even blink. “No, I just pretend everyone’s obsessed and get on with my life. Is it the same for you?”

Summer Weaver bit her lip, then shrugged. “Not really. I mean, yes, but it’s different. People stare, but not always at both of us. Sometimes it’s like they’re trying to decide who’s in charge.” She tapped the side of her head. “Joke’s on them. It’s neither of us.”

The drow Summer nodded, dead serious. “I get that. Half the time, people are looking for a leader. The other half, they’re just waiting to see if you’ll embarrass yourself. It’s exhausting, but also kind of fun.” She grinned. “I like you. Is that weird?”

“Not at all,” said Summer Weaver. “I like you, too.”

Autumn and Winter, for a moment, looked at each other, a silent negotiation of whether they should be policing the exuberance or letting it be. They chose the latter.

The conversation relaxed, drifted. They talked about the wedding, the food, the fire. About the games other people played, and the silly traditions from their own seasons. Winter asked Autumn about a book she’d noticed at lunch; Autumn described it in four words and then passed the summary to her sister, who told the rest with twice as many hand gestures. Summer Copse-Wood confessed she’d never actually been to a human wedding before, due to the lack of humans on their world. The Weaver twins pointed out this could hardly be considered “human” when the brides included a catgirl, a fox-girl, a plant-girl, a six-armed woman, a woman with two bodies, a bunny-girl, and the only human girl was unable to wear clothes.

Somewhere in there, the drow Summer paused, turned to Autumn, and said, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Autumn shook her head. “Not unless it helps.” She smiled, small but very real. “Summer’s good at talking. I’m better at watching.”

The drow’s face went wide with genuine respect. “I get that. My brother, he watches. He always knows before anyone else if a thing is going to turn out good or bad.” She nudged Winter, who ignored it with practiced indifference, but she didn’t mind. “You should teach me that trick.”

Autumn’s voice was steady, almost gentle. “I think you already know how. You just talk louder than you watch.”

This time, the drow Summer put her hand to her heart, almost as if the line had gone straight through her. She let out a slow, delighted, “Wow,” and then added, with no hint of irony: “You’re really cool.”

Autumn’s eyes crinkled at the corners, her version of a blush.

The conversation faded back into the easy noise of the fire, and the four of them sat together, two pairs not needing to perform for anyone but themselves. If anyone had looked over, they’d have seen the Weavers and the Copse-Woods folded up in a private warmth, a little island of contentment.

“Hey, Winter,” said the drow Summer, out of nowhere. “You want to get cake with me before it’s all gone?”

Winter looked at Autumn, who nodded her approval, then at Summer Weaver, who gave a thumb-up. “Sure,” he said, and the two of them stood, a matched set.

The drow Summer, before leaving, pointed at Autumn and Summer Weaver in turn: “You’re my favorites,” she said. “No offense, Winter.”

“None taken,” he replied.

The two walked off into the dark, their voices trailing behind, arguing already about frosting and whether it counted as a meal.

Autumn watched them go, then turned to her sister and said, “They’re good people.” Her voice was quiet, but certain.

Summer Weaver just smiled, and together they watched the fire for a long time, no need for more words, no need to move or be anywhere else. The warmth of the night, the comfort of the company, was enough.