Inner Battles

VP and BP Standings
Claire - 141 VP - 3100 BP - 2 Achievs
Erin - 134 VP - 8100 BP - 3 Achievs
Emi - 125 VP - 9250 BP - 3 Achievs
Sam - 125 VP - 5900 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 121 VP - 4000 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 106 VP - 7550 BP - 2 Achievs
Emily - 106 VP - 7600 BP - 3 Achievs (2 used)
Liesa - 104 VP - 4400 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 103 VP - 0 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 90 VP - 7000 BP - 3 Achievs
Dawn - 78 VP - 9000 BP - 3 Achievs
Riley - 77 VP - 8800 BP - 3 Achievs
Laura - 7950 BP - 2 Achievs

Andy woke to the sound of his own heartbeat, a gentle but insistent knocking behind his eyes. The air in the suite was pre-dawn gray, the kind of diffuse light that didn’t seem to have a source. He was on his back, flat, with at least two separate weights pinning him down: Laura, or rather both of her, to his right, and Emi to his left, the combined effect so complete that if the bed were on fire he wasn’t confident he’d make it out.

He did a silent inventory. Laura was pressed against his right side, the closer of her bodies tucked under his jaw with her hand on his chest, fingers splayed like she was measuring the size of his heart. The farther Laura had her arm thrown across him, hand gripping his wrist with the same easy pressure as the other, her head tilted up so that if Andy looked down, he’d meet her gaze. He was careful not to do this yet. Laura, especially lately, had a way of looking at him in the morning that made it physically impossible to leave the bed without negotiating terms.

On his left, Emi was less a person and more a concept: she’d managed, through some ancient geometry, to distribute four of her six arms across Andy’s torso, the pillow, and the ankle of Laura’s farther body. The fifth and sixth arms were folded underneath her, probably to allow her to look, when awake, as if she were always already giving up a hug.

Andy waited. He was, he thought, the only person in the room actually awake. He felt certain that, if he tried to move, he’d trigger a chain reaction—a domino effect of hands and arms and legs—and whatever followed would be twice as complicated as necessary.

He counted to ten.

At eleven, he tried to lift Emi’s uppermost arm from his chest. He gripped her wrist gently, raised it, and set it on the pillow beside her. It settled back with a slow, determined gravity, sliding to rest in the exact same spot it had started.

He tried again, this time going slower. The arm resisted a little, as if it had a memory of where it belonged, then resettled at the same angle as before.

He turned his head to look at Emi. One of her eyes was half-open, but she made no move to help, or to indicate she cared about the project at all.

Andy placed her arm a third time, deliberate and ceremonial, like he was putting down a sacred object in a church. Emi, perhaps out of politeness, closed her eye and let him have the win.

He began to slide his right hand out from under Laura’s grip, finger by finger. The nearer Laura made a small sound in her throat but otherwise stayed still. Andy managed to free himself, swung his legs off the mattress, and—

—both Lauras came awake at once, both faces registering identical annoyance, the farther body catching his wrist before he had fully stood.

Andy looked at her. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered.

Laura’s two heads shook in perfect sync, a double negative. The closer one squeezed his hand tighter.

“I really have to pee,” Andy said, a little louder.

The farther Laura’s grip relaxed, but only marginally. Andy gave a gentle, twisting pull, and both Lauras sat up, each getting a set of hands into his shirt. He kept walking. Laura dug in and pulled back.

Emi, eyes still shut, hooked two hands around his hip from the left.

He was being pincered by the two greatest loves of his childhood, and for once, the math felt elegant. Andy pried Emi’s fingers off one by one, and she let him, but every time he peeled one hand off him, another one grabbed him, the grip kept finding new purchase. Laura, now seated and fully awake in both bodies, wrapped both sets of arms around his waist from behind. He reached back, lifted her by the waist, and set her on the bed.

“You always do this,” Laura said, both voices overlapping in a tone that was more accusation than complaint.

Andy said, “Do what?”

“Leave before breakfast,” Laura said. “I don’t like it.”

“Just going to the bathroom,” Andy promised. He made for the door.

A pillow hit him in the back of the head. He turned. Both Lauras were upright, each holding a pillow, both watching him. Emi had both eyes open now and was grinning, though her head was still face-down on the bed.

Andy picked up the last available pillow. “You want to talk about odds?” he said.

Emi said, sleepily, “I think your chances are slightly above zero but not by much,” without lifting her head.

Laura’s right body said, “That’s what you said about swimming the river.”

Andy said, “This is easier.”

He was wrong, and they proved it almost immediately. Both Lauras threw in sync, a double volley with enough **** behind it that Andy, who could have caught both without moving, let them connect—one to the chest, one to the jaw—and staggered back a theatrical step. Emi, with a reach that should have been illegal, snatched a decorative pillow from the floor and swung it at close range, catching him behind the knee. He folded, rolled, came up with his own pillow raised. He swung it at Emi with maybe a tenth of what he had, which still knocked her sideways and made her dissolve into laughter. He turned to Laura.

Laura’s right body wound up and threw with everything she had. The pillow detonated against Andy’s forearm in a white explosion, seams splitting, feathers erupting outward in a slow, drifting cloud. Andy and both Lauras stared at the carnage for a half-second, realizing then that the enhanced strength from being the Consort wasn't a small thing. Then the left body swung her other pillow like a bat. That one went off against his shoulder, another burst, more feathers.

He ducked, dodged, and wove—almost graceful with it, if you ignored the feathers sticking to his hair and the fact that his only weapon was a pillow slowly losing structural integrity. Laura’s left body circled him, flanking like a predator, while the right kept up a steady barrage of overhand throws. Emi, now fully awake and operating with the coordination of a pit crew, caught each pillow Andy lobbed her way, then used all six arms to reload and return fire at a rate that felt unfair if not physically impossible.

Andy laughed, loud and unfiltered, and at the sound, both Lauras redoubled their efforts, working in perfect, eerie unison. He remembered these moments: the wars in living rooms and sleepovers, the way Laura always took things two steps past the rules, and how Emi, even back then, would somehow find a way to support both sides, just to keep the peace. He let himself get hit, let Emi and Laura both jump him, just for the nostalgia of it.

He tried to say “Mercy,” but Emi had him in a chokehold and one of Laura's bodies was now on his legs, so it came out “Merhhhrgghhh.” He went down, buried under arms and pillows and a net of black hair. The three of them were laughing so hard it made Andy’s head pound, but he didn’t care—he hadn’t laughed like this, not in years, not without the aftertaste of guilt or distance. Emi’s breath was in his ear and he could barely move, but God, she was laughing so hard her nose whistled. One of Laura's bodies had both hands clamped around his ankle, the other body pinning his shoulders, her voice a gleeful, echoing double. Andy would have let them finish him off, but then Emi, trying to get a better grip, lost hold of the last unburst pillow and clocked herself in the face.

All three of them collapsed in a heap, Emi snorting, Laura shrieking, Andy gasping for air and feeling happy, in a way he remembered from childhood, when the three of them had been inseparable. He sat up, feathers drifting from his hair and shoulders. Emi was still on her back, arms flailing slightly like a turtle. Laura, both bodies, lay sprawled on the floor, hands splayed, breathing hard.

He said, “Remind me never to cross either of you,” and Emi, finally regaining some composure, propped herself up and said, “You say that every time,” with her face still red and one eye watering.

By the time the feathers settled, the battlefield was a ruin. Every pillow had ruptured or been thrown to the far corner of the room. Laura’s left body was on the floor, laughing hard enough that she had to cross both arms over her stomach, rolling onto her back to breathe. The right sat, legs folded under, shaking her head and picking feathers from her hair. Emi perched on the edge of the bed, all six arms raised like a champion, and for a second, Andy saw her as she’d been—tiny, awkward, **** to belong—and he felt a tightness in his chest that he didn’t know what to do with.

He used the distraction to sprint for the bathroom.

He closed the door behind him, leaned against the cool tile, and let himself catch up to the moment. Through the muffled wood, he could still hear Emi giggling, and Laura talking to herself (“That’s it, you’re dead next round, Andy”).

The Master’s Suite shower was engineered for orgies, or at least for the kind of parties Andy would have once described, over beers with Sam, as “high-end hotel shenanigans.” Three rainfall heads. A bench ledge running the full length of the far wall. Enough room for a rugby scrum, with marble tile that would have been the envy of any boutique spa.

Andy turned the water on, letting it run long enough to warm up. He was still half-asleep and thinking about how, statistically, most accidents in the home happened in the bathroom, when he turned to grab a towel and found the doorway blocked by both Lauras and Emi, arms crossed, and very, very naked.

The formation was perfect: Emi at the center, standing easy, four hands folded in pairs, the other two clasped at her lower back; Laura flanked her in stereo, both bodies with crossed arms, heads cocked at the exact same angle, blue eyes fixed on him with a level of intent usually reserved for hostage negotiations.

Andy blinked. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Emi didn’t answer, just raised one eyebrow and tilted her chin toward the shower. Laura’s nearer body said, “We talked it over,” while the farther added, “and we agreed it was for your own good.”

Andy felt himself smile, involuntarily. “Should I be worried?”

“Not yet,” said Laura, in stereo.

Andy made a token effort to cover himself with the towel. Emi’s six hands fanned out in a gentle, shooing gesture, and Andy realized, with a mix of awe and warmth, that he was physically incapable of out-maneuvering this duo.

Emi stepped forward, took the towel, and hung it neatly on the wall. “Shower,” she said, her voice soft but absolute.

Andy surrendered. He walked backward into the steam, hands up, aware that he was being watched not just by six eyes but by the kind of vigilance only children’s best friends could develop over a decade of sleepovers and collective disasters.

Laura and Emi followed him in. One of Laura’s bodies led the way, the other one just behind, Emi trailing in with a sort of predatory elegance, all six hands at the ready.

Andy stood under the first rainfall head, water slicking down his back. He glanced at Laura, who had joined him under the spray with one body, and then at Emi, wet and intent, who was studying the tile like an architect mapping the load-bearing beams in a cathedral.

“So what’s the plan?” Andy asked, trying to sound casual.

“We get you clean,” said Laura’s other body, appearing at his side.

“We get you very clean,” said Emi.

Andy was about to say something clever when Laura snatched the shampoo bottle, popped the cap, and dispensed a heavy glop into her palm. Emi intercepted it with two hands, but a third reached around both and grabbed the soap instead. It was, Andy realized, a full-scale coordination drill.

“Just relax,” Laura’s right body said, and Andy heard both kindness and threat in the words.

He tried to relax. He really did.

To his side, the nearer Laura went for his hair, working in the shampoo with strong, even fingers, her arms drawing slow, deliberate circles over his scalp. Behind him, the other Laura’s hands started at his shoulders and worked their way down his back, using careful, overlapping motions. Andy stood stock still, eyes closed, as the sensation of four hands (six, if you counted Emi’s advance team) moved in synchrony over his skin.

Before him, Emi’s second pair of hands started at his chest. The third and fourth moved to his hips, each finding a spot that Andy hadn’t realized was sensitive. The fifth hand was on his thigh, and the sixth—a true opportunist—slipped directly between his legs, cupping his balls in a hold that was gentle but proprietary.

Andy’s voice came out a bit hoarse. “Is this—this seems less about cleaning, and more about—”

“Cleaning can be fun,” said Laura, her right body working the shampoo deeper. “You said so yourself. On our last date.” Both faces managed to look innocent and smug, a feat of emotional engineering Andy had never figured out.

“It’s a bonding exercise,” said Emi, not looking up from what she was doing.

Andy risked opening his eyes. He found himself nose-to-nose with the farther Laura, her fingers tracing lines down his sternum, the other Laura’s hands still tangled in his hair. Emi had shifted behind, and was running her hands in patterns that would normally have taken years to practice. Andy tried to turn, but two hands (Laura’s left and Emi’s upper right) pinned his shoulders. The closer Laura, still at his hair, rinsed him with water from her own hands.

They took turns, seamlessly, in ways that made it impossible to predict who would touch him next or where. Emi’s hands traded places with Laura’s, sometimes helping, sometimes wrestling for control, always careful never to hurt but never less than determined. Once, when Andy tried to shift away from a particularly ticklish spot, Emi’s fifth and sixth hands locked around his waist and held him still.

Andy said, “I’m outnumbered,” and both Lauras grinned.

“That’s not a bug,” said Laura, both bodies in chorus.

The second phase was more deliberate. Laura’s nearer body took a step back, wiping the water from her eyes. The farther Laura crouched, hands finding his calves, then his feet, washing them with a surgeon’s precision. Emi, upper hands now free, turned Andy to face the wall, two hands at his hips, two at his chest, two guiding his left arm up and over.

“Don’t move,” Emi said, and Andy could only comply.

He felt Laura’s hands moving up his spine, each vertebra given its own moment, while Emi’s lower hands kneaded his shoulders with the expertise of a professional masseuse. Someone—he had lost track who—scrubbed his inner thigh, and Andy’s knees almost buckled. The water was hot and heavy, but Andy was so aroused he thought he’d melt through the floor.

“Guys,” he said, but it was more a suggestion than a protest.

Both Lauras ignored him. Emi said, “Almost done,” and then her upper right hand slid down his front, fingers curling around his cock, stroking with the slow certainty of someone who had mapped his body in their sleep.

The other hands didn’t pause. Laura’s right body wrapped her arms around Andy from behind, pinning him, while the left kept up a steady rhythm at his chest and stomach. Emi’s hands, all six, found their own dance—one squeezing, one stroking, one at his lower back, one at his thigh, the rest guiding his body as if he were being prepared for display.

Andy lost it.

He came with a shudder that echoed up his spine, through his chest, down his legs. Both Lauras pressed in, holding him steady, Emi’s grip never wavering until he had finished, every muscle in his body going slack at once.

For a second, there was only the sound of the water and his own ragged breathing.

Emi released him. Both Lauras stepped back, each wearing an expression that could only be described as pride.

“We win,” said Laura, her hair plastered wet to her forehead.

Andy found the wall and leaned on it. “Was this a contest?” he asked, trying to get his brain back online.

Emi nodded, deadpan. “We wanted to see how fast we could do it, if we worked together.” She glanced at the clock over the sink. “That’s a good start.”

Andy laughed, dizzy. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you could probably shave a few seconds off if you didn’t go for style points.”

Laura’s left body shot him a look. “Style matters.”

“Style matters,” Emi agreed.

They didn’t let him rest. The next ten minutes were a series of increasingly efficient rinse-and-repeat moves: Laura would take his hands and wash them, each finger rolled between her palms. Emi did his hair again, this time with all six hands at once, inventing new techniques as she went. Andy tried to be helpful, but every time he made a move to assist, one or more hands would redirect him.

At one point, Laura’s farther body didn’t so much as knelt as settled onto the shower bench, knees parting just enough to make room, but then she mixed it up. Her hands found his hips first, guiding him closer, then lower—one palm warm against his thigh, the other wrapping around the base of him with slow, deliberate pressure. Her mouth followed, lips parting to take him in, tongue tracing the underside in a way that made his breath catch.

Behind him, Laura’s other body pressed close, hands sliding up his chest, thumbs circling his nipples before trailing down his spine, fingers splaying wide as if memorizing the shape of him. Emi, meanwhile, had abandoned any pretense of washing—her six hands moving in a blur, one cupping his balls, another stroking his inner thigh, a third teasing the small of his back, while the remaining three tangled in his hair, traced his collarbones, or simply pressed flat against his skin like she was mapping every inch of him.

The water sluiced over them all, hot and heavy, and Andy’s knees nearly gave out when the Laura before him hollowed her cheeks, the suction sudden and perfect. He came with a choked sound, his fingers digging into the shoulders of the Laura behind him, Emi’s hands never stilling, never letting him pull away until he was spent, trembling, and only then did Laura’s farther body pull back, lips glistening, her other body’s arms still wrapped tight around him like she wasn’t ready to let go.

Gasping, he said, “I don’t think anyone in the world has ever gotten as clean as I am right now.”

Both of Laura’s bodies beamed.

“We’re very thorough,” said Emi.

Finally, when the water was cooling off, they stepped out. Laura’s right body handed Andy a towel, then both Lauras used their own to wrap him like a mummy. Emi took her time drying off, her hands moving in a ripple up and down her body, flicking droplets at Andy whenever he tried to put on a brave face.

Back in the bedroom, Andy went for his clothes. Both Lauras watched him from the bed, elbows on knees, faces blank and unreadable.

“You realize,” she said, “that we could do this every morning now. I can invite Emi up.”

“I’m not sure I’d survive,” Andy admitted.

Laura said, “You will,” and the left hand of both her bodies reached, almost unconsciously, for a pillow. She palmed two, slow and subtle, as if waiting for a cue.

Emi, already mostly dry, sat on the edge of the mattress and started to braid her hair, four hands working in perfect tandem. The other two hands picked up a pillow and turned it over, testing its heft.

Andy got his shirt on in record time. He eyed the door. Both of Laura were still on the bed, but the way the hands flexed around the pillows made it clear that any step closer would trigger a rematch.

He made for the exit, one eye on Emi, who had just finished the braid and was now palming her pillow like a pro athlete. He was out the door before the pillow left her hand, and he heard it hit the doorframe as he rounded the corner. The kitchen, he hoped, would be less dangerous.

The kitchen island was a fortress. Andy manned the stove, eggs already hissing in the pan, coffee percolating in its glass carafe, and bread (good sourdough) lined up for a toasting ****. He felt grounded, in command, the way he always did with a spatula in hand and a morning plan rolling out in front of him.

Which was why, when Katherine materialized onto the island, perched cross-legged and already helping herself to the coffee, he nearly dropped the pan.

She had positioned herself with her usual grace, hair draping forward just enough to shadow her eyes. She grabbed the mug, cradled it two-handed, and took a sip without so much as a glance at Andy.

“Premature,” Andy said, not looking up from the pan. “You’re supposed to let it rest for four minutes.”

Katherine shrugged one shoulder and kept the mug. Her expression said: I’m free, let me have my vices.

Laura entered next, both bodies in lockstep, wearing identical black t-shirts and little else, hair wild and sleep-creased. First thing she did was take the pillows she’d carried from the bedroom and set it on the nearest stools. She sat, cross-armed, staring at Andy as if daring him to mention the pillows.

He reached for them—just to see—and both bodies, without breaking eye contact, swept them into their laps, holding them there with both sets of hands. Andy let it go.

A minute later, Emi arrived. She paused at the kitchen threshold, two arms at her sides, two still bent at the elbow, last two arms trying to untangle her hair. She surveyed the stove, then the bread on the counter, then Andy. Two of her hands reached for the bread before Andy had even decided whether he was making toast.

He intercepted with his own hand. Emi’s third hand presented a slice from the other side, palm up like a magician revealing the next card in the deck.

“You know,” Andy said, “most people settle for a single vector of attack.”

Emi just smiled, took the bread, and sat down.

The eggs were almost done. Andy reached for the spatula and realized Laura was staring at him, the right body’s chin propped on a fist, the left one leaning forward, elbows on knees. “I’m supposed to make the eggs,” she said, “You owe me one.”

Emi, meanwhile, had picked up a napkin and was already sketching on it with her lower right hand, the other five occupied with coffee, the bread, and spinning her stool in slow revolutions.

Laura craned over from both sides at once to see the sketch. Emi covered it with her palm.

Laura’s right body tried to peel the hand away. Emi used a second hand to block, still sketching with her middle right, and Laura glared at her, both faces annoyed in perfect stereo.

“Show me,” said Laura.

“It’s not finished,” Emi replied, not missing a line.

Andy watched this, barely suppressing a smile, then checked the toast. It had gone from golden to brown to just short of carbon. He pulled the slices, looked at Emi, and said, “Burned toast?”

Emi looked at him from behind her two blocking hands. “I like it that way. It’s character.”

He slid her the toast, plate and all.

Katherine had already poured herself a second cup of coffee. She leaned back, making herself comfortable, watching the interplay like an anthropologist before an unknown culture.

Emi finished her napkin sketch with a last, deliberate line, then relented. She turned the napkin to Andy. Laura’s two heads leaned in from opposite sides, meeting exactly in the middle, hair brushing, both sets of eyes locked on the image.

It was the three of them, sitting at the kitchen island, exactly as they were now. Emi had rendered all six of her arms perfectly, each one doing something different; Laura’s two bodies leaned in toward each other, heads almost touching; Andy was behind the stove, face intent, spatula in hand, coffee mug just visible behind him.

The caption, written in the lower margin, said: “The Originals, 8 a.m.”

Andy stared at it. Laura did too. For a second, nobody spoke. Then Emi smiled, shy but proud. “I can do another one if you want,” she said.

Laura looked at her, then at Andy, then back at the sketch. “Don’t,” she said, in stereo. “It’s perfect.”

Andy put a plate of eggs and toast down in front of Emi. “You always were the best at mornings,” he said.

It was quiet after that, everyone eating, Katherine sipping coffee, Emi sketching little additions in the margin, Laura methodically tearing the crust off her toast and eating it in neat, alternating bites.

After breakfast, before the day split up into private errands and the world outside started making demands again, Andy asked Emi and Laura to stay at the table.

He didn’t make a production out of it. No throat-clearing, no obvious “everyone sit down, we need to talk” gesture. Just a change in the register of his voice, a slight lowering, the signal he used to use when the news was bad but not catastrophic, or when he’d figured out a puzzle and wasn’t sure the others would appreciate the answer.

Emi set down her coffee, all four lower hands folding at once in her lap. Her two upper arms went still, palms flat on the counter. It was a display of attention so immediate that Andy almost flinched from it. Laura, both bodies, copied the posture exactly—elbows on the table, hands folded, heads canted to the same angle, eyes fixed.

He waited until the hum of the other rooms faded and only the four of them—Andy, Emi, Laura, and Katherine on her usual spot—were left.

“I know this is a good morning, and I don’t want to ruin it, but we need to start sharing what we know. And I owe both of you a few things, especially you,” he said to Laura.

Emi’s eyes never left his. Laura’s right body nodded, just once. The left didn’t move.

Andy’s hands went flat on the table, unconsciously mirroring the girls. “I need to bring you up to speed before we even try to figure out what comes next.” He took a deep breath. “Laura knows this already, but there are a few things Claire figured out, that I’d like to share too.”

He started with the Law. Not the resort’s rules, but the actual, capital-L Law of what had allowed Laura to be here at all—the thing Ereshkigal, goddess of the Underworld, had invoked, and what it would require. He said, “When Arabella brought Laura back, it came with a price. Because she couldn’t bring Laura back normally, the way Hosts normally do, she had to use Ereshkigal’s Edict. This brought Laura’s resurrection under Ereshkigal’s jurisdiction. There’s a rule, not just for here, but for everywhere: nothing comes out of the Underworld for free. Someone always pays. If you resurrect someone, you owe the underworld a **** in return.”

Emi nodded, very slightly. She’d always been good at picking up stories on the fly.

Laura didn’t interrupt.

Andy kept going. “The Law is specific. The debt has to be paid by blood or by bond. Family, by blood or marriage. If the person that was promised can’t be collected—if, say, Laura could no longer fulfill the requirements of the law, and no one eligible offered themselves in her stead—the debt defaults to the nearest relation. If nobody steps up, the Law picks for you, at random, from the people that fulfill the criteria.”

Both of Laura’s hands clenched. Emi’s jaw flexed, but she didn’t look away.

Andy said, “The latest Ereshkigal can come to collect is the day the show ends. Which is most likely the day of the wedding, or the day after. That’s the implication. That’s the deadline. She’ll come then, if not sooner.”

For a second, there was no sound at the table but the faint tick of the wall clock and the soft hum of the refrigerator, waiting for someone to say the next thing. Emi, two lower hands tightly clasped in her lap and upper arms pressed to the counter, waited with an expression that was somehow both reserved and bracing. Laura, both bodies bookending Andy now, had both sets of hands spread on the table—fingers long, flat, the posture of a person intent on controlling every word that followed. Katherine watched from her perch on the kitchen island, legs folded beneath her, eyes dark and steady over the rim of her mug.

Emi said, “So there’s no loophole? No way to cheat the contract?”

Andy shook his head. “Not that Claire found, so far. There’s supposed to be one, Arabella said so, but she also is not allowed to tell us what it is, and Claire is looking for it, but she has little time.” He exhaled, looked at Laura. “I know you don’t want this to ruin the wedding, but we’re running out of time to figure out a solution.”

Laura, both bodies, shook her heads. “I don’t want to die again,” she said, “but I also don’t want anyone else to give themselves up for me.” There was no tremor in her voice; it was the voice of someone stating a scientific fact.

Andy nodded, then risked a glance at Emi. She was staring at him, all six eyes unblinking. Her hands were still folded, but she didn’t look fragile or frightened. She just looked ready. “I didn’t want to tell anyone else, yet,” Andy said. “Not until we had something real to offer. But—” He hesitated. “Claire found a few things. I think you should both know.”

He started with the flareups.

“The last three weeks, things have been… off. I don’t just mean magic. I mean the rules are looser, more plastic. You’ve all seen it. Little things, things that don’t make sense, that shouldn’t be possible. Flowers blooming when Erin passes by. A sunglow surrounding Dawn. A broken egg, reconstituted in your hands.” He looked at Laura, whose eyes widened. “As for me, sometimes when I want something, or need something to happen, it just does, even if it shouldn’t be possible.” He looked at Emi. “During Norah’s real-world date, I wanted a shot glass for her, to make a point, and it appeared in my closed hand. It wasn’t sleight-of-hand, and it wasn’t magic as far as the HH is concerned. It was just there.”

Laura said, “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “Claire was there. She’s been keeping a list. It’s getting longer every day.”

He looked at Emi. “With Claire, we visited the Library of Alexandria. There was a scroll that I shouldn’t have been able to take with me. But it mattered to Claire. I brought it through the door. It started to disappear, like time itself realized it was a continuity error. But I wanted Claire to have it. I wanted her to be happy, to have this thing she had been wishing for, for fifteen years, and the next second, the scroll was solid again. As if I could **** reality to keep it.”

He let it sit a second.

Emi blinked, then said, “So what does it mean?”

“Arabella claims it’s me drawing from the HH’s ambient magic. Like the boundaries are thin here. But that doesn’t explain why it works outside the HH, or why you all can trigger it sometimes when I’m not even present. Claire thinks it’s something to do with my soul, and that the harem bond transmits some of it from me to you all.”

Laura’s nearer body sat back, arms crossed, the other one leaning forward. “What do you think?” she asked.

Andy shrugged. “I don’t know. But every time it happens, it feels like something’s changing inside me.”

He took another breath. “Arabella says the only thing that could explain it is the First Gate. The place where the first Hosts were made. Arabella told me that I’m not becoming a Host, but if I wanted to understand what was happening, I’d have to go there.”

He fumbled for the right words. “Claire found references in the Archive, but most of them were fragmentary. She thinks the First Gate wasn’t an actual gate, but some sort of threshold. The Gate is gone, in theory, but if you’ve ever been through it, you carry it with you forever. She thinks maybe Arabella carries it, somehow.”

Emi’s lower hands fidgeted, twisting the napkin from breakfast into a tight cord. She looked at the ceiling, then at Andy. “You think it could help with the Law? With Ereshkigal?”

“It’s possible,” he said. “Claire thinks if there’s a way to break the Law, it might be via the First Gate. She believes that’s where these Laws were made, possibly. Maybe not even intentionally—maybe as a side effect of whatever this is. But she hasn’t found a clean entry yet. She’s working on it.”

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Katherine refilled her mug, then set the pot down with a gentle thud.

Emi said, “We have to tell the others.”

Laura’s nearer body shook her head, instantly. “No. Not until we know how to fix it.”

“It’s not about fixing,” Emi said. “It’s about trust.” All four of her lower hands came up from her lap, fanned across the surface of the table, as if she needed extra limbs to hold her ground. “If something happens to you, or to Andy, or even to me—don’t you think they deserve to know why?”

Laura, both bodies, frowned. “If we tell them, they’ll spend the next week worrying instead of living. That’s not what I want for them. Not for the wedding. Not for—” She stopped, biting her lower lips.

Emi’s voice went even softer. “That’s not your call, though. You don’t get to decide for everyone. You taught me that.”

Andy felt the room shift. He looked at Laura, saw the fight in both faces, the urge to protect and the unwillingness to back down. He thought of all the times she’d kept her own pain private just to keep the rest of them happy. He thought of all the times he’d done the same. Sighing, he said, quietly, “Emi’s right. If it were me, I’d want to know. I don’t think they’ll waste the week. I think they’ll live harder, if anything.”

Laura glared at him, then at Emi, then dropped both sets of eyes to the table. “I just don’t want to carry the weight of their fear on top of my own,” she said. The admission was raw, but honest.

Emi nodded. “I don’t blame you. But it doesn’t go away if you hide it. It just festers.” She managed a small smile. “Besides, you know half of them would try to game the Law. Maybe we should give them a head start.”

Katherine gave a single, approving tap of her mug on the counter. Andy leaned forward, elbows on the table. “We can start today. One at a time, or together. However you want.”

Laura sighed, but nodded. Emi said, “We can leave out the part about the flareups, and the First Gate, for now. There isn’t much to say about either, and the important thing is the debt.”

Andy looked at Laura, then at Emi. “Agreed,” he said. “We keep it simple. The Law, the debt, the deadline. That’s it, unless something else changes.”

He looked at Katherine, who’d watched the whole scene with the patience of a thousand lifetimes. She nodded, just once. Laura drew both bodies up at once, straightened her spines, and said, “Then let’s do it.”

Emi smiled, picked up her coffee cup with her lower right hand, and raised it in a toast. “To impossible odds,” she said. “And to telling the truth.”

Andy laughed, for the first time all morning. He raised his cup, and so did both of Laura’s, the four mugs clinking in a perfect, unplanned harmony. Katherine, from her spot, clapped once, slow and deliberate, then joined the harmony. They sat for a while, drinking in silence.

Norah took her morning coffee on the terrace, alone but for the book open in front of her and a little bowl of what looked like Turkish delight cubes, dusted with real powdered sugar and a not-insignificant amount of pistachio. She wore a sleeveless navy blouse and slacks, the only harem member who dressed like a woman expecting a meeting at any moment, and worked in complete silence except for the occasional tap of her highlighter on the edge of the table. When Laura entered the terrace, Norah looked up and saw her two bodies coming, and something in her face changed: the lines of defense rearranged for a heavier ****.

“Is this a scheduled intervention, or am I just the next patient on the list?” Norah asked, not unkindly.

Laura smiled, but both faces were set at neutral. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Norah gestured at the opposite chair with the tip of her pen, never losing eye contact. “Please do. But if you’re about to tell me the wedding is off, you better bring a cake.”

Laura sat, right body first, the other following close behind. She laced both sets of hands in her lap, perfectly still.

Norah closed the book, then folded her arms across her significant chest and waited. “Go ahead,” she said, when the silence got too long. “It’s just us.”

Laura took a breath, then started: “This isn’t easy, so I’m going to give you the short version. If you have questions, ask. Andy and I owe you that much.”

Norah raised her eyebrows. “Okay.”

Laura said, “When Arabella brought me back, it wasn’t just a magic trick. It came with a cost. Ereshkigal—the goddess of the underworld, or something like it—set the terms because her Edict was used. There’s a cosmic Law, if you pull someone back, you owe a **** in return. The forfeit is due by the day of the wedding at the latest.”

Norah nodded, slowly, as if confirming a suspicion.

“Anyone connected to… to me by blood or marriage bond can sacrifice themselves to save me. Otherwise, Ereshkigal takes me. And if I am not available, she picks someone at random, from the eligible pool.”

Norah’s eyes flicked to the window, then back. “How long have you known?”

Laura said, “A couple of days.”

Norah’s posture softened a touch, and she said, “So what’s the plan?”

“There isn’t one yet. Not a good one.” Laura’s right body leaned in, elbows on knees. “Claire’s researching, Andy’s trying everything. Arabella can’t tell us the answer.”

Norah listened without comment.

Laura exhaled, both bodies. “I wasn’t sure whether to tell everyone else. But it’s the right thing to do. And I don’t want the last week to be a game of chicken with the truth.”

Norah looked at her, then down at the little bowl of candy. She picked up a cube and turned it over in her fingers, then set it down. “Is that all?”

Laura’s right face twisted, as if she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. “No. I wanted to thank you, too. For not pushing, the day I lost it. For taking me to the arcade instead of making me talk.” She looked at Norah, then away. “It mattered.”

Norah’s voice was soft, just for a second: “I figured you’d say it when you were ready.”

Laura nodded. “That was the day I found out my mother is alive. In the Hollow Garden. Catatonic, but alive. I… I wasn’t ready.”

Norah’s grip tightened on the pen. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know it was real until Andy took me downstairs and we found out.” She paused. “Her name is Sarah. Sarah Williams.”

Norah froze, eyes wide, then covered it up with a blink. “Wait. I saw a letter. In the Hall of Curiosities. From a Sarah, asking Arabella to watch over her child.”

Laura looked down. “That was her. I was born in the Hotel. I’m the kid she asked Arabella to protect.”

There was a beat of silence. Norah let it stretch, then said, “That’s heavy.”

Laura shrugged, as if it was just another detail in a file. Norah finally cracked a smile. “So you’re telling me, after everything, you were the only actual legacy contestant.”

Both of Laura smiled, faintly. “The only one born on the show.” She was careful with her words. Riley’s and Myra’s parentages were not her secrets to tell. “I guess that makes me the original headache.”

Norah laughed, a short bark of sound that didn’t disturb the air. She relaxed, shoulders settling, and said, “You want me to help, or just stay out of the way?”

“Neither,” Laura said. “I need you to know, so if something goes bad, you can make sure the others don’t do anything stupid.”

Norah cocked her head. “You mean, like sacrificing themselves for you?”

“Exactly.” Laura’s right body was pure steel now. “I won’t allow it. Not for me. Not for Andy. Not for anyone.”

Norah raised a finger, like a professor catching a contradiction. “Do you get to make that call for everybody else?”

Laura shook her head. “Maybe not. But I’ll die trying.”

Norah respected it. She didn’t challenge, just let it settle. “Okay. They’re not blood relations, anyway. So what do you want from me?”

Laura’s left body leaned back, stretching her arms above her head, a gesture of total exposure. “I want you to help me keep things normal for the next eight days. I want us to live, not just mark time until the axe falls. But I also don’t want to lie. I’ll tell the others. But I’m not going to let it eat us alive. I’m going to need your help.”

Norah tapped the table with her finger, thinking. “You know they won’t take it quietly.”

“I know.”

Norah stood up, and smoothed her blouse. “Good. Because if I’m going to fight off a mob of heroics, I’ll need to carbo-load first.” She picked up the bowl, offered it to Laura. “Want one?”

Laura hesitated, then took a piece in each left hand. “Thank you.”

Norah’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “I’m glad you told me first.” She started to leave, then turned back and, without warning, flicked the pen at Laura’s left body. Laura caught it, both hands at once, without thinking.

“For luck,” Norah said, and left the room.

Both of Laura’s bodies sat there, hands wrapped around the pen, until the lounge was empty. The only sound was the faint scratch of sugar between her fingers, and the echo of Norah’s last words, soft and unbreakable, in the air.