Intermission: Fan Mail (IV), Part 4

After the Banquet Hall emptied, the air in the Sunroom held a different quality—a hush that made every breath and shoe-tap seem monumental. Norah drifted in on autopilot, the envelope in her hand already bent at the corners from being palmed and repalmed as she crossed the garden paths. She had intended to find a quiet place, maybe take stock of her mood, maybe just get the damn letters read and done so she could file them mentally as evidence of her progress. She hadn’t intended to find Emily already occupying one of the wicker chairs, legs folded up, hair forming a shimmering waterfall around her shoulders and down between her knees.

Emily looked up when Norah entered, and for a split second Norah saw her startle—the involuntary tremor of someone surprised in a place she thought was hers alone. Emily’s long hair was, as always, arced around her chest in such a way that, even in repose, it offered just enough modesty to keep the eye on the question rather than the answer. Norah found herself thinking about the phrase “like Eve in the garden,” then grimaced internally at the cliché. Emily gave a sheepish half-smile, then tucked her arms tighter around her knees and said, “Oh—sorry, I didn’t mean to hog the place. I can move if you want privacy.”

Norah hesitated. She’d never talked much to Emily, outside the odd comment in group settings or the one time they both reached for the same pastry at breakfast. She realized, with a twist of embarrassment, that she couldn’t even remember what Emily’s laugh sounded like when it wasn’t getting drowned out by someone louder.

“You don’t have to leave,” Norah said, dropping into the next chair over. She tried to make it sound casual, but it came out with the briskness of a legal deposition.

Emily nodded, but made as if to gather her things anyway, a nervous tick that Norah recognized from years of social bootcamps—sometimes people just couldn’t stand to sit still if they thought they were imposing.

“Sit. Really.” Norah said it without thinking, and it came out sharp. Emily froze in the act of standing up, then dropped back into her seat with a tiny, involuntary yelp.

Norah, already opening her letter, almost missed it. She glanced up. “Are you all right?”

Emily nodded vigorously, but her face had gone an improbable shade of pink. “Sorry,” she said, and actually giggled—a sound that was at once fragile and oddly electric. “It’s just—um, sometimes if someone tells me to do something, I, uh—” She paused, fanning her face with one hand. “It’s a leftover from my first season. There was a transformation, and… you know what, never mind.”

Now Norah was intrigued, if only because it was better than thinking about the envelope in her hand. She set it on the table, angled toward the sunlight, and said, “You can’t just start a confession and not finish it. Is it the kind of thing I’m allowed to ask about?”

Emily nodded again, ponytail bobbing, and for a second she looked almost grateful. “It’s called Eager to Please. If someone makes a suggestion, even a gentle one, I feel—” She squirmed, then settled for, “It’s like a whole-body jolt, but pleasant. Only it stacks quickly, and it’s also really embarrassing if you’re not ready for it.”

Norah processed this, then raised an eyebrow. “So, if I told you to… stand on one foot, or eat a sandwich, or run three laps around the Sunroom, you’d feel a… what, jolt?”

Emily’s smile was halfway between shame and mischief. “If I did it, yes. Especially if I wanted to say no, but couldn’t. Part of the transformation made me very suggestible, so I would probably do it before I could stop myself.”

That brought Norah up short. She thought back to Emily’s breakdowns during the last two transformation rounds. At the time, she had not understood why the girl would react like that to transformations that were fairly benign, given the harem. But she hadn’t considered what the Free Use path or similar transformations would do to someone already wired like that. She softened, not visibly—she wasn’t about to go squishy in public—but inside, she filed it as a new data point in the ongoing problem that was living with twelve other women all of whom were exponentially more complicated than they appeared.

“Sorry,” Norah said, the word feeling unfamiliar in her mouth. “Didn’t mean to trigger you. I’ll be careful with what I say next time.”

Emily shrugged. “It’s okay. It happens.”

Norah nodded, then made a show of opening her letter. It was one of two, both from names she barely recognized. “Can I read this aloud?” she asked, more as a warning than a request.

Emily nodded, face still glowing.

Norah unfolded the page and read:

Norah,

I’m going to keep this short, because you don’t need advice from a goblin that’s on everyone’s shit list. I’ll just say I understand what it’s like to be under immense, never-ending pressure to succeed from your wider family. Not as much as you, and you responded better to that pressure than I ever did, but… don’t try to please your parents, or let that define who you are. The punishments on that path can include losing your name, your very humanity, and being the plaything of a violent oni.

Sincerely,
Nox

She stared at the letter for a beat, then said, “Of course I get a letter from a goblin. Some people here get fanmail from angels, or queens, or pop stars, and I get the only person in the world whose mom named them ‘Nox’. It tracks.”

Emily smiled. “Better a goblin than a demon?”

Norah snorted. “I bet you get letters from, like, fairies, or angels with twelve wings. Or former supermodels.”

Emily tilted her head. “I actually got one from a drow elf, I think? She remembered me from the party at Andy’s, even though we only talked for, like, two minutes.”

Norah grinned. “Figures. You do have the look for it. All that hair.” She made a vague, circular gesture around Emily’s head, as if summoning the ghost of her own forgotten bangs.

Emily smiled again, a little easier this time, and Norah caught the ripple of relief. Maybe it was the sun, or maybe it was just not being alone, but she felt her own mood slacken a notch. She set the letter aside, angled the second envelope so it caught the light, and said, “You want to do the next one together, or should I just keep monologuing?”

Emily hugged her knees tighter. “I like listening. It makes me feel like I’m back in school, or maybe a book club.”

Norah considered this. “We could do a book club, you know. After. When we’re all out of here.” She hadn’t realized until she said it that she’d just admitted, in public, that she planned on a future that included more than just herself. It was a small thing, but it startled her.

Emily said, “I’d like that.” She didn’t giggle this time. She just said it, as if the idea was the most obvious thing in the world.

For a long moment, the Sunroom just was: the sun streaming through glass, the world outside quiet except for the faint rattle of bamboo leaves in the wind. Norah didn’t rush to fill the silence. She let it exist, a rare and precious thing, and realized she didn’t mind sharing the space after all.

She tore open the second envelope and prepared to read, but before she could, Emily asked, “Do you ever wish you could turn it off? The part of your brain that’s always keeping score, or trying to win?”

Norah thought about it, then shook her head. “I don’t think it works like that. Not for me, anyway. If I wasn’t fighting, I’d just—” She gestured, open-palmed, at the room, the world, the implication that if she didn’t keep pushing, she’d collapse in on herself like a dead star.

Emily nodded, as if she understood. “I get it. I used to think surrender was the only safe choice, but I was vanishing under it.”

Norah smiled, for real this time. “Well, I am glad you didn’t. I’m sure you have a lot more to offer.”

Emily blushed again, but this time she held Norah’s gaze, steady and almost challenging. “I’d like to think so,” she said, and the words were heavier than they seemed.

Norah glanced down at the second letter, then up at Emily. “Want to hear what a vampire thinks of me?”

Emily giggled, and Norah realized she’d gotten her answer already.

Norah smoothed out the heavy linen of the second envelope, then broke the seal with a quick flick of her nail. She read aloud:

Dear sweet Norah.

Despite what you may think, I am very glad to see you come so far. You have a new family that sees you for who you are, past the armor you still insist on putting forth. It is okay to rely on them when you are in need.

I would never want to bank the fires of passion that burn in your heart though, they have served you and your sisters well. It would also not hurt to show Andy the portrait of yourself gifted in the mail on your next date. I can only imagine the time between you it could inspire, you do still need to get over one hundred points after all. As always, it warms my heart that you did not fall to despair and give up early on. You’d have made a terrible coffee table.

P.S. If you are looking for eliminated contestants, try the coffee mugs. Poor thing.

Warmest wishes,
Shar

She folded the letter, snorted, and said, “Shar is incapable of writing a letter that doesn’t sound like she’s both complimenting you and making fun of you at the same time.” She shook her head. “Can’t believe she’s still on this kick about Daphne’s ‘portrait’ of me. I’m not showing him that thing unless it’s for ****.”

Emily grinned, a little less shy than before. “I think she really likes you. It’s her way of being sweet.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but there was less venom in it than usual. “You should’ve seen her first letter to me. It was basically a three-paragraph essay on how I should accept my fate and get ready to be furniture for the rest of the season.”

Emily blinked, then burst out laughing. “Wait, really?”

Norah mimed an exaggerated pout. “She said, and I quote: ‘There is no easy way to say this, only that I am sorry for your loss to come.’ That’s what I started with.”

Emily laughed again, but her eyes held a touch of real sympathy. “That’s so mean.”

Norah shrugged. “Honestly? I kind of needed it. At least I knew the stakes up front.” She glanced at the letter again. “She’s right, though. I did get a new family. Even if half of them are insane.”

Emily nodded, and for a second, there was nothing awkward between them. Norah felt a strange bubble of warmth—maybe it was the sunlight, or maybe it was just the novelty of being able to say things like this out loud. “What about you?” she asked, waving a hand at Emily’s still-unopened envelope. “You ever get letters from someone who wants to turn you into a lamp?”

Emily giggled, then shook her head. “No. Usually I just get fan mail from people who want to know what it’s like, being… you know. Naked all the time. Or they want to offer advice on how to keep your hair from getting tangled in awkward places.”

Norah actually laughed at that. “I bet that’s a real concern.”

Emily smiled, a little more confident. “I had to learn a lot about conditioner.”

Norah leaned back, resting her arms along the sides of the chair. She let the moment stretch, comfortable in a way she hadn’t been since arriving here. “Do you want to open yours?” she asked, gesturing at the envelope in Emily’s hand.

Emily hesitated, then nodded, setting her knees aside so she could hold the envelope in both hands. Her hair cascaded down over her chest, and for the first time Norah noticed how perfectly it shielded her. “It’s like you have a built-in cloak,” she said, unable to help herself.

Emily glanced up, surprised, then smiled. “It’s nice. Sometimes I feel like I’m a wizard or something, hiding behind a spell.”

Norah grinned. “You could do worse than wizard.”

Emily handled her envelope as if it were made of blown glass, turning it in her fingers a few times before opening it. “Here goes nothing,” she said, and cracked the seal.

She read, eyebrows climbing as she went:

Emily,

I remember you vaguely from the party, but it took watching the episodes of your season at home with my lady love to truly appreciate you. The decency of your nudity (minus, of course, the degeneracy of shoes in situations where they are not needed for safety concerns), with the modesty provided by your hair strikes me so much of The Lady of the Dance.

Have you considered giving Her the worship you owe for the divine? She is a patroness of all sorts of arts: the blade, the dance, music, painting, and so much more. She blesses those that devote themselves to perfecting a craft, whatever it would be. I am sure that, with her divine favor, you could be an expert bassist, painter, bartender, lover, or whatever combination of those things that you wish.

If you wish, she is but a song away. I gave Emi a copy of this prayer book I am sending you. Perhaps you could sing the words together?

May the Lady of the Dance bless and keep you,

Skye
Royal Steward
Queendom of Nimlith Grove,
First wife of Queen Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne

Emily trailed off, then held up the thin, hand-stitched book that had come with the letter. Its cover was a bright blue silk, decorated with a moon and a sword and a few musical notes. “This is the same one Skye sent to Emi, like, months ago. Emi showed it to me. I thought it was a joke at the time.”

Norah tilted her head, then smirked. “Wait, is that from that drow elf? The one at Andy’s birthday party? She wasn’t wearing anything and fought-danced with a sword.”

Emily blushed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s her. She cornered me at the food table and told me she admired how ‘unabashedly myself’ I was. I didn’t know if it was a pick-up line or a warning.”

Norah laughed. “Probably both.”

Emily looked at the prayer book again, running her thumb over the fabric. “I guess I could try it? Emi’s got a really nice voice. It might be fun to sing something together, just for the heck of it.”

Norah watched her for a second, then grinned. “You know what I like best about this place? No matter how weird things get, it always finds a way to get weirder.”

Emily grinned back, slipping the book into her lap. “It’s kind of nice, actually. I thought I’d hate being remembered for being, um, naked all the time, but it feels normal by now.”

Norah snorted. “If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure I’m remembered for being the harem’s resident cynic.” She stretched her arms overhead, then folded them behind her head, a gesture of comfort she didn’t know she could still make. “But at least it beats being a coffee table.”

Emily giggled, and the sound filled the Sunroom like the sunbeam crawling across the rug.

They sat in companionable silence for a bit, reading their letters again, until footsteps on the tile drew their attention. Myra paused at the door. She wore a loose, sky-blue dress, the color bringing out the green in her eyes, and her fox tail hovered behind her like a question mark.

Myra’s head tilted, ears perked forward. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting?”

Emily called, “Not at all! Want to join us?” She patted the empty chair next to her.

Myra made her way over and smiled before sitting. “Thanks,” she said, and angled herself toward the window, as if she could sense the exact spot where the sunlight fell through the glass.

Norah eyed the thick envelope in Myra’s lap. “You got a whole stack there. Want me to read any for you?”

Myra grinned, then tapped the edge of the envelope on her thigh. “Thanks, but I bought another upgrade. Emotion’s Map—‘Artful Perception.’ I can see colored patterns now, even printed or painted ones, even if they’re not in relief. It also lets me see through glass. Pretty cool, actually.”

• Emotion’s Map [UPGRADE] Artful Perception: Thanks to the ophthalmologists of Harem Hotel, we have improved on the original transformation. Now Myra’s emotional sight is sharp enough to be able to read or see images even if they are completely flat on a surface. Furthermore, she can see through glass (finally, windows again!). In addition, Myra’s emotional sight functions even if she is surrounded by negative feelings, as long as she had sex at least once within the last twenty-four hours.

Myra 4000 BP - 1000 BP = 3000 BP

Emily blinked. “Wait, really? You can see the letters?”

Myra nodded, eyes closed, smile a little sly. “Yep. Not printed in ink, they look more like they’re tiny burning flames, but I can read the words. And sense through glass, too. That’s how I knew Katherine was in the painting, earlier today, even though I didn't perceive her any of the other times I was in the Suite.”

Norah cackled. “So you’ve been keeping secrets?”

Myra shrugged, tail flicking. “Mostly just experimenting. Sometimes it’s too much—everyone’s feelings just blaze out, and I have to squint. I’m learning to control it. But when it’s quiet, like here, I can see details better than I could with my old sight. I like it.” She selected the thickest of the envelopes, working her thumb along the seam with the deliberation of someone opening a time capsule. She could see, even before her fingers found the slip of paper, that the ink inside burned bright as an electric violet—Shar’s emotional imprint, wild and broad-stroked as always. Myra smiled, a private little twitch that made her fox tail wag against the leg of her chair.

“First one’s from Shar,” she announced, and the name alone got a snort from Norah.

“Of course it is,” Norah said. “I bet it starts with an insult and ends with a veiled threat to turn you into a potted plant.”

Myra laughed, then started reading, her voice steady:

Dear Myra.

It warms my heart to see you find yourself in a better place. I must however lament that you are yet again letting your stubborn nature harm you. Your choosing to leave yourself maimed when you could seek a way to restore your sight is ironically shortsighted. Your new vision is wonderful but it is not worth giving up things like books or the sight of your firstborn child. And for all you know restoring your normal sight would not strip this new vision from you, you might very well keep this new ability when your eyes are closed or in the dark giving you the best of both. I beg of you, do not continue to suffer out of penance for what has been forgiven. Do not dig in your heels to shoulder a burden for no reason but the stubborn pride that you can.

Enclosed is a bouquet of roses that you can at least enjoy the scent of, though I do wish you could behold their glory with your eyes.

With warmest regards,
Shar

Myra had to stop there, because as she read the last line, she realized she could also see the roses: a wild arrangement that looked like a small explosion of chromatic flame. She pulled the bouquet from the envelope, and even Norah was impressed.

“Damn, that’s a lot of flowers for a letter,” Norah said.

Emily leaned over, hair spilling forward like a curtain, and inhaled deeply. “Oh wow. They smell like those garden stores in summer, but not gross.”

“Shar must have spent half her Host budget on the delivery,” Myra said, holding the bouquet at arm’s length. She looked down at the flowers—well, more accurately, at the emotional signature they radiated, a spectrum from soft blue to deep gold, limning each petal with flame—and said, “You want to know the truth? I like it this way. I really, really do.”

Norah’s eyebrow arched. “You don’t miss seeing?”

Myra shrugged. “I still did, at first. But it’s different now. It’s not just colors or shapes. It’s… intention. Feeling. I know what people feel before they even know it themselves. I know the moods of a room the second I walk in. And sometimes, I think I know what’s coming before it happens. That’s not a downgrade. It’s an upgrade.”

Emily fidgeted with the edge of her own envelope, then looked at Myra, blue eyes wide and curious. “Can you read us now? Like… what do you see?”

Myra let herself take in the view: Norah, all sharp green and honey-gold, with threads of nervousness spiking from her shoulders; Emily, soft pastels, her aura so bright and open it actually glowed, with ribbons of bashful pink looping through everything she said or did.

“It’s like… every person has a weather system,” Myra explained. “Norah is a thunderstorm. You get this pulse of confidence, then a roll of self-doubt, then a flash of humor right behind it. Emily, you’re basically the sunrise. Warm, a little shy, but impossible to ignore. The sunroom makes it even better—everyone glows brighter here.”

Norah leaned back in her seat, obviously pleased. “What about the roses?”

Myra inhaled, the scent sharp and sweet, and closed her eyes. “Shar is like if someone poured perfume into a bonfire. A lot of drama, but underneath she really cares. The bouquet is a guilt trip disguised as a gift. And it works. It really does.”

Emily giggled. “That’s so cool. I wish I could see it.”

Myra set the bouquet down next to her on the table. “It’ll make the room smell better. I bet the Mildred cleaning staff will be really confused.”

She thumbed the next envelope, then stopped to savor the moment: the warmth in the sunroom, the easy give-and-take between her and the others. She could remember a time—not so long ago—when a moment like this would have left her feeling like a ghost in her own life, always out of phase, never able to settle. Now, she felt rooted. Present.

Norah nudged her with a toe under the table. “Second one?”

“Yeah,” Myra said, tearing it open. This one was handwritten too, by someone with exceptional handwriting, the words crisp and even. She ran a finger along the lines, reading aloud:

Salutations.

We have not made each other’s acquaintance but I still felt compelled to speak with you today, Doctor Calder. I heard about your condition, and I wanted to express my condolences with you. For a doctor to lose their sight must be quite a painful thing. I do not know how you will be reading this letter, but I hope my words will reach you in some form. Be strong. As someone who has similarly suffered from a condition that rendered a lifelong dream of mine impossible, I know the burden you carry.

But I hope that you will be able to find happiness in a new form in the future.

Amelia Campbell

Myra finished, then looked up. “Anyone know an Amelia Campbell?”

Norah shook her head. “Not on any of the lists I’ve seen. Maybe she’s from an older season?”

Emily raised her hand. “I think I do! I mean, I don’t know her, but I remember the name from… um, never mind.”

“No, say it,” Norah prodded.

Emily blushed. “I used to binge-watch episodes in the Hollow Garden when I was bored. Amelia Campbell was the stepmom of Nick Reynolds, who visited Andy’s birthday party. She’s about ten years older than him, and she’s in his harem now.”

Norah whistled. “Damn. That’s some serious cross-season networking.”

Myra felt a strange pang—envy, maybe, or something even rawer. “What happened to her? Do you remember?”

Emily nodded. “She’s a teacher in a fancy school. I think she had a version of Chloe’s issue, that she wanted children but couldn’t have them. Then she got pulled into the Harem Hotel. I remember she had a hard time adjusting. Last I checked, she was basically adopting the harem.”

Myra smiled, genuinely touched. “That’s nice. I like that.” She re-read the letter, this time letting the words settle deeper. “I wish I could tell her it’s not as bad as it seems.”

Norah snorted. “You could write back. I bet Arabella would forward it.”

Myra rolled her eyes. “If I start writing back to every letter, I’ll spend more time on correspondence than on anything else.”

“You should,” Emily said, half-joking, half-serious. “I think pretty much everyone does it. If you ever want, I’ll help you draft them. Or just say what you want, and I’ll write it down.”

Myra thought about it, then nodded. “Maybe I will.”

She picked up the envelope again, and as she did, she felt something shift inside—a second piece of paper, thinner and barely folded. She fished it out, and saw that it was a tiny rectangle, written in the blocky, all-caps print of someone who hadn’t quite learned to write:

i wuz tuld 2 writ 2 u 2 get beter at it

-me

The sentence was unpunctuated, as if the writer had given up halfway through.

Myra read it aloud, then looked to the others, baffled and charmed at once. “Who is ‘me’?”

Norah laughed. “Probably someone in Amelia’s group, right? Maybe a little kid?”

Emily squinted, thinking. “That season didn’t have any children, but… oh!” She snapped her fingers. “It might be from the Augmented Synthetic Humanoid Assassin. She is a contestant. She’s… well, not actually a kid, but she acts like one. Kind of a brat, very literal, can’t speak, and she couldn’t read or write for the first half of the show.”

Norah barked a laugh. “So the mute assassin is sending you fanmail? That’s the weirdest flex I’ve ever heard.”

Emily giggled. “It was kind of sweet, actually. I think Amelia was teaching her how to write, so she could communicate with the others, and Nick, better.”

Myra ran her thumb over the note, a strange warmth rising in her chest. “I never thought I’d get a letter from a professional assassin. But I like it.” She tucked the note into the bouquet, as if it might keep better there.

“Can I see?” Emily asked.

Myra handed it over. Emily read it, then cradled it between her palms as if it were a treasure. “I love this,” she said.

Norah leaned in. “If you want to write back, you could send her a sticker or something. I bet she’d be thrilled.”

“I might do that,” Myra said, grinning.

For a while, they just sat, letting the sunlight and the smell of roses fill the air. Emily read the note again, then tucked it back into the bouquet. “It’s perfect,” she said.

Norah rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft. “You two are adorable.”

“Thanks,” said Myra, not bothering to hide her pride.

They drifted into companionable silence, each with their own thoughts. Myra found herself wanting to say something, but not sure what. She looked at Norah, then Emily, then back again.

“You know,” Myra said, “I used to think that being blind meant giving something up. Losing the world, or at least the part of it that mattered most to me. But now, I think I see things I never could have before. Not just with the emotional sight, but with…” She struggled for the word, then found it. “Perspective.”

Emily nodded, her hair catching the light in a way that made it look like spun gold. “I think you see a lot.”

Norah smirked. “I’ll take your word for it, doc.”

Myra laughed, the sound full and rich. She felt the moment settle around her, a balm against every ache she’d ever carried. For the first time in a long time, she felt whole.

They lingered in the Sunroom, the three of them, and for a while, there was nothing but the sun, and the roses, and the soft murmur of lives slowly repairing themselves.