Intermission: Fan Mail (IV), Part 5

Emi had always been a bit of a magpie, drawn to anything shiny, delicate, or odd in its architecture. But nothing in her catalog of remembered things had prepared her for Dawn’s Chapel of Small Kindnesses.

It was less a building than an act of careful restraint. There were no walls—just the suggestion of enclosure, with sunlight behaving like a benevolent stalker, always finding a way in. Columns of woven birch rose from bare earth in a lopsided circle, each one banded with ribbons and feathers. The center of the chapel was nothing but an arch of living branches, its leaves stippling the ground in motes of gold and green. Under the arch, a semi-circle of benches faced inward, their weathered planks marked by generations of nicks, initials, and the accidental art of chewing insects.

Emi stopped just inside the boundary, her six arms twitching with indecision. She wanted to take it all in, but didn’t want to trespass, either. She reached for Dawn’s hand, thought better of it, then let one of her lower arms drift to her side and just... hover.

Dawn, two steps ahead, turned around and saw the halt. She smiled—a little sheepish, a little proud—and waved Emi forward. “Come on,” she said, the brightness in her voice an awkward but genuine welcome. “You haven’t seen it before, right?”

Emi shook her head, marveling. “I didn’t even know it existed,” she said, and then, realizing the sentence sounded like a life summary, added: “It’s beautiful. Really. It’s like a secret a church would keep from itself.”

Dawn giggled, her bunny ears standing at full attention. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, then led Emi to a bench right at the heart of the arch.

For a minute, they didn’t talk. They just sat, letting the sunlight and the hush settle around them. From time to time, a faint breeze would rearrange the dust motes or set the arch’s leaves into a slow, lazy dance. It was hard to know if the world was holding its breath or if this place simply lived outside of time.

Emi looked at the sunlight, then at Dawn, then back at the sunlight, her mind full of impossible questions. “Do you come here a lot?” she asked finally.

Dawn considered. “I built it,” she said, her voice low. “Or, not all of it. The bones were here when I arrived. But I kept adding pieces—ribbons, benches, the arch. I wanted a place that didn’t feel like it was trying too hard to be sacred.” She shrugged, her ears drooping a little. “Mostly, I wanted a place where I could be quiet. Not happy, or sad, or even useful. Just quiet.”

“That sounds… nice,” Emi said, a little awed. She let the word hang in the air, feeling its weight.

Dawn blushed. “It’s not, really. I was just tired of the chapels back at home. Too much marble. Too many rules about where to stand and what to say.” She nudged Emi with her elbow, then, almost as an afterthought, added, “I haven’t had many people here yet. Andy, Erin and Chloe, really. Other than Claire, but she came to check my work for symmetry. She said it was structurally sound, and then she made a list of ‘best improvements’ in her notebook.”

Emi’s lips parted in wonder. “You’re serious? I’m one of the first?”

Dawn nodded. She looked at Emi, her gaze as direct as sunlight, and Emi felt her cheeks grow warm in response. “I wanted you to see it because you’re my best friend,” Dawn said, and the word “friend” landed so hard in the clearing that a nearby bird startled from its perch and exploded into the sky.

Emi blinked, her six arms freezing mid-gesture. “I—” She tried to swallow, but her throat was suddenly small and dry. She’d never had a best friend, not really, not since elementary school when such things were negotiated with pinky promises and shared snacks. It was a thing other girls got in middle school, or at summer camp, or maybe in the effortless DNA of popular people. Laura could have been it, but they argued. “I don’t know what to say to that,” Emi managed.

“You don’t have to say anything,” said Dawn. “Just… let’s sit, okay?” She patted Emi’s upper forearm, then, in a move so **** it might have been instinct, reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind Emi’s ear. “I’m glad you’re here,” Dawn said, and the words were soft enough that Emi had to look away.

They let the silence return, filling it with small things: the creak of the wood, the scratch of fabric on skin, the music of distant birds. From time to time, Dawn’s knee would bump Emi’s, or Emi’s lower hand would stray to Dawn’s thigh and then freeze there, unsure whether to stay or withdraw.

Eventually, Dawn broke the stillness. “You know,” she said, “I never thought I’d end up like this. With Andy, with you, with anyone.”

Emi giggled, then clapped her top hands over her mouth to stifle the sound. “Sorry,” she said, but the laughter kept leaking out. “I know what you mean. If you’d asked me a year ago where I’d be in the spring, I’d have guessed: a coffee shop, maybe, or asleep under a table at my parent’s house. Not…” She swept her hands, all of them, to indicate the chapel and its impossible serenity. “Not this. Not married in two weeks. Not—” She trailed off, unsure what to call it.

“Not happy?” Dawn offered.

Emi nodded. “That, too.”

They looked at each other, and in that moment there was a sudden, giddy understanding: this was real. This wasn’t some borrowed fantasy or a trick of the game. They were here, together, in a place that was both more and less than the sum of its miracles.

Emi looked at her hands, all six of them, and flexed her fingers. “Do you ever miss how it was? Before… all this?” She gestured at her body, then at Dawn’s ears and tail, as if to say: the changes, the weirdness, the new normal.

Dawn considered. “Sometimes,” she said, and it was the truth. “But I like who I am now. The bunny stuff, the energy, even the ears—if I could choose to remove them, I don’t know that I would.” She smiled, and the smile was so easy, so complete, that Emi felt something inside her relax. “What about you?”

Emi smiled and shook her head. “I used to hate it,” she said. “When I couldn’t control them, I felt like a puppet.” She grinned, remembering her first night in the Harem, the soup incident, the flailing panic. “But now, I feel this is what I was meant to be, all along.” She blinked, surprised at the intensity of the feeling. “Is that weird?”

Dawn shook her head, ears flopping in concert. “Not even a little,” she said, and reached out to take one of Emi’s hands. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

Emi’s face went pink. “Stop.”

“I mean it,” Dawn insisted. “All the arms, all the shyness, the hair, everything. You’re beautiful.” She said it again, slower, as if the first time was a rehearsal and this was the real show. “You’re beautiful, Emi.”

Emi squeezed Dawn’s hand, then let go, because if she didn’t, she was going to start crying, and once she started crying she’d never stop.

They sat together a while longer, letting the sun shift and drift across the benches. Emi felt lighter, like something old and sticky had finally been rinsed away.

Dawn, sensing the mood, nudged the topic elsewhere. “Want to check the mail?” she asked. “You’ve been staring at the stack since we sat down.”

Emi grinned, her hands (all of them) moving with sudden purpose. “Yes, please.” She picked up the pile and started sorting. “I think I have three,” she said, scanning the names. “You have four. Popular.”

Dawn stuck out her tongue, but looked pleased.

Emi opened the first envelope, a thick one sealed with golden wax. As soon as she broke the seal, a tiny bottle of clear liquid dropped out, landing in her palm with a chime. She caught it without effort—her lower hand, of course—and inspected the label: Evermead, with a drawing of a moonlit glade.

Emi laughed, already guessing who it was from. She unfolded the letter, holding the bottle in two of her hands. Dawn leaned in, curious.

“It’s from Skye!” Emi said, her eyes shining as she scanned the page. “Remember the drow elf at the party? This is her.” She began to read aloud, tripping over the lines in her excitement:

Emi,

It’s been so long since we’ve had a chance to write! I miss you! So much has happened over the last 95 years. My sweet little twin babies are all grown up, having their adult naming ceremony just a few months ago. They are doing well, though they still are going by their Common child names in their day to day (much to the chagrin of my lady love Aelenetheria). Tina is approaching having her 900th baby girl. My vineyards are doing exceptionally. I have my first few bottles of century-aged Evermead ready to be given! Oh, and my lady love Tyalangan has started her season. She’s stressing about everything. I do what I can to help. And you have big news too! Congratulations on discovering that you are a divine descendant! That is quite exciting. I hope your divine progenitor is well and is good friends with The Lady of The Dance! I am sure they get along at least. One as sweet and good as you could not be from evil roots.

I wish you well. For you, I have one of my first bottles of Evermead. Save it for a special occasion (and check to see if you are pregnant first; **** is bad for baby!)

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

Dawn’s jaw dropped, then she started laughing. “Wait. Ninety-five years?” she said. “And she has wine older than my grandpa?”

“I guess time works differently in her world,” Emi said, giddy. She set the letter on the bench, cradling the bottle with three hands while she reread the postscript. “Check to see if you’re pregnant first?” Emi echoed, incredulous.

Dawn poked her gently in the ribs. “Are you?”

Emi turned bright pink. “I—no! No way! I mean, I don’t think so. Not unless you can get pregnant from making out with Andy and drinking half a bottle of cider.” She giggled, covering her mouth with a hand, then added, “I don’t think biology works that fast here.”

Dawn snorted. “You never know. We went from zero to three pregnancies in a week.”

Emi cackled. “If it happens, at least I’ll have someone to swap tips with. But I really don’t think so.” She glanced at Dawn, then down at her own arms, then up again. “Do you want kids? When this is all over?”

Dawn’s expression turned inward, her gaze drifting off to the edge of the clearing. She looked both thoughtful and a little scared, as if the question had unmoored her from the bench and left her drifting in the sunlight.

“I don’t know,” Dawn said honestly. “Sometimes I think it would be wonderful. But other times I worry about screwing it up, like my parents did.” She flicked one of her ears in irritation. “But I think if I ever did, I’d want them to have a life like this. With friends. A lot of siblings. And not just one, but a bunch. And maybe…” She trailed off, the sentence unfinished, then shook her head. “I think about it a lot, lately. Since the last round.”

Emi nodded, feeling a warmth that started somewhere in her stomach and spread up to her ears. “You’d be a good mom,” she said, her voice trembling just a bit. “You already are, in a way. To everyone here.”

Dawn blushed hard. “Stop,” she said, but she looked happy, and didn’t pull away when Emi squeezed her hand again.

They looked at the bottle of Evermead, the bench, the clearing. There was a feeling of sun-baked possibility, like the world was still soft and wet and waiting to be shaped.

“I’ll keep this,” Emi said, holding up the bottle. “I want to save it, like Skye said. For a special day.”

Dawn nodded. “We’ll share it together,” she said, “if we both make it out.”

Emi smiled, and the world felt a little bit brighter. She left the bottle of Evermead where the sun caught it best, making a small rainbow on the bench’s battered surface. She straightened the next envelope, running her thumb across the flap before opening it with a practiced swipe of a lower hand. The letter inside was written in a swirling, watery script, blue ink bleeding at the edges as if the words themselves were in danger of floating away.

She read it aloud, voice uncertain at first but gaining confidence as the tone of the letter revealed itself:

Emi,

I’m thrilled to see how you were able to adapt to having six arms. I bring it up because often it seems like everyone hates their transformations, and I usually feel like the odd one out because of loving the transformation I got right off the bat. Yours needed more upgrades than mine, but it’s great to see your new limbs becoming part of who you are, just like my status as a nereid became a fundamental part of who I am. Not everything with Harem Hotel has to end in tears, or be a curse. Embrace your transformation, and make it a part of who you are, because that path lies a lot more happiness than any other.

Sincerely,
Castelilise

Emi stared at the name, trying it on her tongue. “Castelilise,” she repeated, tasting the sea in the syllables.

Dawn looked impressed. “Do you know her?” she asked.

Emi shook her head. “Not really. I think she’s from one of the other seasons. I remember Andy mentioning a nereid once, but… I didn’t think she’d write.” Emi’s eyes went a little dreamy. “It’s nice, though. Knowing someone else out there didn’t hate what happened to them.” She flexed her uppermost hands, watching the bones and veins shift beneath the skin. “The second round, I kept feeling guilty about it. Like, if I didn’t complain, I’d be making it worse for the people who really struggled.”

Dawn put a hand on Emi’s knee, grounding her. “You don’t have to feel guilty for being happy,” she said.

Emi smiled, then reached across her own body and squeezed Dawn’s hand with two separate hands, a feat that made Dawn giggle. “Thanks,” Emi said. “I’m still figuring that out.”

There was a pause, then Emi’s eyes went sly. “But you know who really likes my six arms?” she whispered.

Dawn’s cheeks went full crimson. “Emi!” she said, but the protest was weak, and she didn’t move her hand away.

“It’s true,” Emi said, laughing. “I can do so much at once now. Andy barely knows what to do with himself when I…” She stopped, grinning at the look on Dawn’s face, then let herself giggle along. “Okay, your turn.”

Dawn recovered, her ears drooping from embarrassment, then straightened up. “What does the last one say?” she asked, **** for a change of topic.

Emi peeled open the third letter. The handwriting was round, bubbly, and so aggressively neat that she guessed its author even before she saw the name at the end.

She read:

Dear Emi.

You have done more than well to leave the shadows and be seen. I am delighted by your forest and believe you have built the best sanctuary of all, I am rooting for you to win the contest. I appreciate you learning to use your gifts to help others and hope you continue to do your grandmother proud.

Shar

Emi blinked. “I can’t believe she still writes to all of us,” she said. “She’s like the world’s most loyal fan club, but for people who are too awkward to have a fan club.”

“She’s written to me too,” Dawn said, producing her own envelope from the pile. “Wanna hear it?”

Emi nodded. “I already finished my letters. Your turn.”

Dawn grinned and opened the envelope, her ears quivering with excitement. She unfolded the creamy, perfumed paper, and read aloud:

Dearest Dawn,

As ever, you are the bright heart of the cult, I mean harem. You bring joy to the others in everything that you do; be not afraid to seek some joy of your own while you are at it though. An upgrade may help with your unfortunate seating problem. Your temple is quite lovely, and suits you. Remember to promise to be kind to yourself.

Shar

Dawn’s ears drooped at the “cult” line, then flopped in relief when it was immediately corrected to “harem.” She giggled, shaking her head. “She’s onto my running joke. If she ever got the chance, she’d probably have us all in matching robes, making vision boards.”

Emi laughed. “It would be better than the bathrobes Mildred peddles in the Spa. But…” she hesitated, looking at Dawn with a sudden, searching tenderness. “She’s right, you know. You do make everything better for everyone else.” Emi reached over and brushed the back of Dawn’s hand with a thumb, her touch feather-light. “You could let yourself want things, too. Not just… help.”

Dawn let the words settle, then nodded, cheeks coloring. “I will,” she promised, and meant it.

They let the laughter wind down, then Dawn shifted the rest of her envelopes into a neat stack. “I got three more,” she said, showing them to Emi. “Same return address. Should I be worried?”

“Maybe you’ve been pen-palled,” Emi suggested. “Open the first one.”

Dawn tore it open and read, squinting at the erratic scrawl:

u suk az a rum mate

-me

She stared at it, blinked, then started laughing so hard she had to clamp her hand over her mouth. “What even—?” she choked. “What is this?”

Emi leaned in, eyes wide. “Maybe it’s… a joke? Or a prank?”

Dawn considered, then shook her head. “I don’t think it’s from Emily. Even when she’s tipsy, her handwriting is way neater than this.”

“Maybe it’s from a future version of you, coming back to warn you not to get too many upgrades at once,” Emi said, only half joking.

Dawn snorted. “If I ever get that whiny, promise me you’ll shake some sense into me.”

Emi saluted with all six arms. “It’s a promise.”

Dawn opened the next letter, holding it at arm’s length just in case it bit her. This one was much more formal, the script tidy and elegant:

Please disregard the previous letter you received. It would be the letter with the egregious spelling mistakes. There was a confusion in terms of the addressee. Please pretend as though you did not receive the letter. My apologies for the misunderstanding.

Amelia Campbell

They stared at each other for a beat, then burst out laughing, unable to stop. The sound bounced around the clearing and probably spooked half the local wildlife.

“What is even happening?” Dawn said when she could finally breathe. “Is this, like, a chain letter from the Hotel’s alternate universe?”

“I think you just got trolled by two different realities at once,” Emi said, wiping her eyes. “Do you want to read the last one, or are you afraid it’ll be a cease-and-desist from the local flower arrangement guild?”

Dawn grinned, emboldened now. She tore open the final letter and read, surprised by its gentle tone:

As someone who has also worked so hard to support my family, I understand the strain you must have gone through. I’m glad everything seems to be working out for you. Keep doing your best. And hold onto your optimism, and your smile. It’s what always kept me going even at my worst moments.

Kim Lewis

Dawn’s voice grew soft as she finished the last line. She stared at the page, then looked at Emi, her eyes shiny.

“That’s really nice,” Emi said. “Do you know who she is?”

Dawn shook her head. “No clue. But… it makes me happy, anyway.” She hugged the letter to her chest, then set it beside the others in a little sunlit pile.

They sat in a quiet, comfortable hush, letting the warmth from the letters—and from each other—sink in.

“I think we’re going to be okay,” Dawn said, softly, after a while.

Emi nodded, and with a lower hand, reached over to squeeze her fingers.

In her apartment overlooking the Hollow Garden, Dinah poured the last of the hot water over her mug, the steam curling in lazy loops above the rim. She could smell the sharp citrus and honey of the tea before she even opened the letter; Scarlet’s handwriting was bold and black, the loops on each “l” like a hand curled into a fist, the rest of the words a careful march across unlined paper.

She read it in silence, the only sound the gentle chime of her spoon against ceramic.

Dinah,

I apologize for not spending enough time with you at the party and not writing back until now. At the time, I was furious with Tyalangan (Harper dropped using her Common name in most circumstances) for keeping her Host position secret and missed you in the shuffle. That wasn’t being a good friend.

We worked through the fight and the season just started. I don’t know if Arabella told you, but we are using the power of the show to try and save our old world from imminent destruction. If we truly fail and there are people back there you wish to talk to one last time, you should reach out. Let us know if we can help with that.

Tyalangan tells me you are doing a lot of good work down there in the Garden. In fact, you inspired her to do some similar work here as we have cleaned up a lot of the mess from our clusterfuck season’s original producer. The porn logic nature of our world means that a surprising number of eliminated contestants can integrate here with enough support.

Tyalangan has a fund set up for that and will personally help with more troublesome cases. That includes Jenny. She’s safe and sound here. We make her feel as much like a person as we can. Tina and her share the same taste in music.

It annoys me that, with all of the pregnancy worries going on over there, none of them sought you out. You think an actual OB/GYN would be preferable to magic whatever Arabella is for that sort of thing, but I guess I was wrong.

I hope you are taking care of yourself. Taking time to live and not just work. You have friends upstairs. You have friends over here. Don’t be a stranger.

Tyalangan misses you. The damage to her soul she suffered that night has healed as much as it is going to. You always have a little place in there. While Hosting duties are pulling her in several different directions, she wants you to know that. And that you are welcome here anytime.

Wishing you well from afar,

Scarlet
Matron of the Order of the Silvery Moth
Proprietor of The Glittering Moonfire Spa
Third Wife of Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne

Dinah read the letter twice, then a third time, before finally letting herself smile. She reached for the tea, holding the warmth in both hands, feeling the tightness in her shoulders ease just a little. It was always a surprise to her, the way kindness worked: a little went further than she ever expected.

She didn’t know what she’d say in reply, not exactly, but she knew she’d write back. She’d tell Scarlet about her work with Eden and the others, how some the women who came to the Hollow Garden weren’t just healed, at least in spirit, but sometimes became mentors to the newly arriving. She’d ask about Jenny, and about the “integration” process, and maybe even confess how much she missed the routine and the racket of the Sapphic Seaside… at least, before Indigo.

Most of all, she’d let them know she was still here. Still alive. Still figuring out how to belong.

She set the letter beside the steaming mug, then reached for a pen and a sheet of hotel stationery. Her handwriting was quick and plain, never quite managing the flourish she admired in others, but she liked that about herself. It was honest.

She started with:

“Dear Scarlet,

Thank you for writing…”

and let the rest spill out as it would.

The tea cooled slowly in the mug. She took it with her to the window, where the sun had just started to spill over the gardens, dappling the grass in bright puddles. She thought of Harper, and Eden, and all the others, and wondered if any of them were looking up at the same time, seeing the same sun, thinking about her, too.

Dinah sipped the tea, and smiled again.