Last-Minute Planning

After the rush, the group settled. The appointment room seemed smaller, closer, but warmer. Chloe and Riley sat on the edge of the dais, dangling their legs. Dawn, now in her actual dress, spun slowly in front of a mirror, watching the way the skirt caught the light. Liesa returned to the clipboard, but kept one eye on Katherine, as if not quite able to believe she’d pulled it off.

Marissa, noticing, slipped next to Liesa and murmured, “You did good.”

Liesa shrugged. “She deserved it. Besides, I couldn’t picture any of us up there without her. It would’ve felt like something was missing.”

“Still,” said Marissa. “Not everyone would have thought to ask.”

Liesa looked away, mouth twisted. “Maybe. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see another woman go unseen.”

Marissa squeezed her arm. “You made her visible. That matters.” She let go and wandered toward the tea service Mildreds had set up in the corner.

Near the big mirrors, Emi and Claire conferred, heads together. Claire scribbled in her book, passed it over, and Emi snorted, then giggled, then whispered back. Katherine, still processing, watched them for a long moment—six hands moving in intricate, private choreography, the blond ears alert for every nuance. She felt the tingle of memory: a time, lifetimes ago, when being part of a group had meant endless vigilance, a careful parsing of who might say what or betray whom. Here, it was different. The caution was gone, replaced by something simple and buoyant.

She sat down next to Myra on the floor, the way sisters might, and Myra’s tail drifted over to curl around her ankle, anchoring her there. They didn’t speak, but the contact was enough.

Erin, Riley, and Norah migrated toward the shoe display, where Mildreds had laid out other options for the ceremony. Riley picked up a pair of pumps, eyed them, and said, “You think we can get matching shoes for the whole front row, or would that be too much?”

Norah said, “Depends. Is too much the goal?”

Chloe, eavesdropping, pointed her toes, showing off the simple white flats she’d chosen. “I’m opting for comfort over style,” she announced, “but only because my feet are carrying a lot more lately.” She gave her chest an affectionate pat, and the group cracked up.

Marissa, watching the table from a distance, sipped her tea. She liked being in the background sometimes—liked the way it gave her the vantage to watch, to remember, to plan the next way she could offer a shoulder or a word when it mattered. She caught Liesa’s eye again, across the room, and gave a tiny, satisfied nod.

Dawn, now finished with her spinning, settled beside Chloe and Riley. She whispered something, and they all looked at JJ, then at the rest of the group. The three of them seemed, for a moment, like the world’s oddest parenting triad: the teacher, the poet, and the sunshine incarnate.

Katherine watched the swirl, the way everyone fit together, the edges blurred by comfort or by the thousand tiny acts of care that had built up over the months. For a moment, she wished she could say it out loud. Then she realized: here, she didn’t have to. They’d heard her anyway.

---

The Inner Gardens, nearly lunchtime. The sun had burned the dew off the grass, and the air was bright and sharp, the kind of weather that made every color overdo itself. Myra sat cross-legged on the lawn beneath the unfinished wedding arbor, the frame half-wrapped with white ribbons and paper roses, the rest left raw and waiting. From here she could smell the glue, the wood, the real roses hiding behind the fake ones. She liked it. It meant the world wasn’t finished pretending.

She could feel the echo of the last hour still ringing in her skin. Her dress fitting hadn’t been a disaster, exactly, but the sleeves were a battle and Melisande a ruthless opponent. In the end they’d reached a truce: the dress would have sleeves, but they’d be illusion net. Myra didn’t care. The dress was for other people, not for her. She was happy to let them have their way if it made the day easier.

She’d ducked out after the group hug around Katherine, needing a minute to reset. It was quieter here: birds argued overhead, the leaves flickered with wind, and the sounds of Mildreds setting up tables for lunch drifted from a clearing down the path. It was peace by subtraction, not by silence.

She was already aware of Marie before the footfalls landed. The emotional signature was as distinctive as a voice: a complex swirl of hope and wariness, with a note of nervous energy so strong it almost buzzed. Myra could read the whole shape of the feeling before Marie even got close.

Marie walked with her usual economy, all straight lines and deliberate steps, stopping three paces from Myra’s seat on the grass. She wore a simple shirt and pants, her sneakers already stained from the lawns. There was no handshake or hello; Marie just sat, mirroring Myra’s posture, and said, “You okay?”

Myra nodded. “Needed a breather.”

Marie smiled softly. “They crowd you, don’t they.” Not a question.

“Sometimes,” Myra said, and she smiled so Marie would know it wasn’t a complaint. “It was good, though. We asked Katherine to be a bridesmaid.”

Marie’s head tilted, and for a second, her face softened around the eyes. “That’s good,” she said. “She’s one of you, even if nobody saw it before.”

“She said yes,” Myra said. “Emi hugged her so hard I thought she’d break in half.”

Marie’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t put it past her.” She looked up at the arbor, at the scattered jumble of fake flowers and spools of ribbon. “They’re going all out. For the wedding.”

“Arabella’s funding it,” said Myra. “She said it’s supposed to be a show, but she doesn’t care if we make it our own.”

Marie nodded, chewing on the words. “I’m glad. You deserve the whole thing.” She let the words sit, then added, “Did you get yours sorted?”

Myra grinned, feeling the netting bite at her forearm even now. “Mostly. Melisande and I agreed to disagree about the sleeves.” She shrugged. “Compromise is sleeves you can see through.”

Marie’s voice softened. She tilted her head at Myra’s expression. “What’s up, sweetie?”

Myra turned the question over, then answered. “I need to ask you something.” She set her hands in her lap, careful. “With the bridesmaids set, the last thing is the processional. Who comes in, with who. I want you to walk me down the aisle.”

Marie went still. She didn’t look shocked, or sad. She just closed her eyes for a heartbeat and let out a long breath, the kind you use when you’re trying not to make a sound.

Myra felt the hesitation—sharp, blue, almost metallic, edged with guilt and longing and a note of fear she couldn’t name. She waited, letting Marie decide if she’d say it.

Marie said, “I don’t know if I can.”

“Why?” Myra kept her voice light, but the tremor in her hands told Marie she already knew.

Marie said, “Because your aunt is going to be miles below us, in a chair, and she will never see her girl walk anywhere again. Because your cousin is getting married, and her mother should be the one walking next to her, and she isn’t. It’s me instead, for you, but not for her.” She paused, then said, “I want to. I want it so bad I can’t even stand to look at it straight. But it feels wrong to do it while Sarah can’t.”

“I already thought about that,” she said. “I didn't want you to feel like you were taking something from her. Or from Laura.” She picked a blade of grass and twisted it between her fingers. “But I don't want anyone else. I want you. If it makes you sick, or breaks your heart, we don't do it.” She looked up. “But if it's just Sarah, maybe we talk to Laura. Not as a substitute. Just family.”

Marie didn’t speak, but her hands started to tremble. Not much, just a quiver at the edge, as if she were holding a weight too delicate to grip.

Myra said, “If you think she’d mind, we can ask her.”

Marie shook her head. “You’re not a stand-in. You’re my daughter. If I walk you down the aisle, it’s because you want it. Not because I’m replacing anything. But you’re right. If it feels like we’re taking something from them, then it’s wrong. If it doesn’t, then it’s right.”

Myra put her hand over Marie’s and waited until the shaking stopped.

They sat a while like that, neither pushing the moment forward. The wind made the netting on the arbor flutter, and in the distance, a Mildred sang quietly to herself as she set forks and plates at the lunch tables.

Marie finally said, “I always thought the closest I’d get to giving you anything was just being alive long enough to meet you again.”

Myra laid her head on Marie’s shoulder, let her tails curl around their legs, and breathed in the smell of her mother’s hair, the same as it was when she was five, only grayer. “I want it, Mom,” she said. “But not if it hurts too much.”

Marie looked straight ahead, her jaw set. “You’re not a piece of someone else’s story, Myra. You’re my story, too.”

“I know.” Myra squeezed Marie’s hand. “But this time, we let it be both. For once.”

Marie made a sound, not quite a laugh and not quite a cry, and leaned her head down to rest against Myra’s. They stayed like that for a long time, letting the air and the quiet and the not-quite-silence fill them up.

After a while, Marie said, “Do I need to wear a dress?”

Myra giggled. “You don’t have to match. Melisande probably has options.”

Marie made a face. “Maybe something blue.”

Myra squeezed her arm. “Whatever you want.”

They sat together until the lunch bells sounded and the harem’s voices carried down the path, calling for food and each other and for the kind of belonging that didn’t have to be perfect to be real.

For the first time since she’d woken up on the island, Myra felt the future as something open, a door not already closed. She looked up at the arbor, half-built and a little crooked, and liked the way it looked unfinished.

Marie must have known what she was thinking, because she said, “We’ll help them finish it.”

“We will,” said Myra, and leaned in harder, letting herself stay held for another minute before standing up to go back inside.

---

The terrace was half shade, half full glare, the sunlight so clean and sharp that even the air looked like it had been newly ironed. Lunch prep was already underway: Mildreds in pale linen skirts hovered near the long table, arranging baskets of bread and tiered stands of fruit and cheese. The scent was part floral, part ocean, and underneath it all the subtle savor of fresh olives and the steel tang of a hotel that had seen thousands of meals and never once run out of salt.

Andy came up the path from the beach, a distant expression on his face as he considered all that he had discussed with Arabella. He felt the extra eyes on him from the Mildreds, but ignored it. A swim after his conversation had cleared his head. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, which was saying something for a man who had technically died once already, according to Arabella.

He was three steps from the table when Sam intercepted him, appearing from around the banister with her signature bounce. She wore cutoff shorts and a black tank, and her hair was pulled up in a short ponytail so messy it was practically a warning sign.

“Hey,” she said, hugging him and matching stride with him. “Can you spare five before you stuff your face?”

Andy nodded. “Sure. Everything okay?”

Sam smiled, but her eyes were flat and steady, the way they got when she was thinking about something that mattered. “Yeah, nothing urgent. I just need to ask you a favor. And I’d rather do it away from the peanut gallery.”

Andy followed her to the edge of the terrace, where the glass railing overlooked the sea and the islands beyond. Sam leaned on the rail, arms folded, and waited for Andy to get comfortable before speaking.

“It’s about Thrustworthy,” she said, not quite looking at him. “And, uh, about what happens next. With Nergal.”

Andy wasn’t surprised. “You want me to upgrade it, or you? Or both?”

Sam smirked, then shook her head. “Not the sword. Me.” She turned to face him, her expression open. “You had that vision, remember? The one with me and the sword, standing over Nergal. Claire said you believed it could go that way. But I don’t want it to just be a possibility. I want to make it real.”

Andy absorbed that. “So you want me to use Coauthor. Make you actually good with the sword.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

“Yeah. Not just good. I want to be dangerous.” Sam’s voice was even, but there was a knot of anxiety underneath, visible only if you knew where to look. “I know how these things go, Andy. It’s never enough to just want something. The universe doesn’t care. I don’t have time to train with it. I want to walk into whatever’s coming with my eyes open and my hands steady.”

Andy considered this, rolling the logic over in his head. “Are you sure?” He meant it. “If I do this, you won’t just be a person with a sword. You’ll be a person who could use it. For real. That changes who you are.”

Sam nodded. “That’s the point. Look, I’ve spent my whole life being the support, the backup, the emotional anchor. That’s great. But there’s going to come a day—soon—when it’s my job to be the one who swings. I’d rather not choke when it matters.”

Andy smiled, slow. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve thought about it a lot.” She met his eyes, not blinking.

Andy didn’t argue. He respected it.

“Okay,” he said. “Do you want it to be… reversible? Like, if you ever want to go back?”

Sam chewed on that. “I don’t think I’ll want to. But if it’s on the table, yeah. Give me the option.”

“Alright.” Andy closed his eyes, not for effect, but because it was easier to visualize the change if he shut out the world. He concentrated, focusing on Sam as he knew her: the confidence, the warmth, the stubborn streak. Then he imagined her holding Thrustworthy, not just as a prop, but as an extension of her body. He pictured the practice, the muscle memory, the tactical knowledge—everything needed to wield the weapon, and wield it well.

He reached for the Coauthor Gift, the strange place in his head where things became true. He wrote it in, careful and precise:

Sam is a master with the sword Thrustworthy. She knows how to use it effectively.

He let it settle, then opened his eyes.

Sam blinked, waiting. “Is that it?”

Andy grinned. “That’s it. Nothing will feel different until it matters. But when you pick up the sword, it’ll be like you’ve been training all your life.”

Sam flexed her hands, looking at her palms as if expecting a new scar or tattoo. “Nothing feels different. No rush of memory, no instant bad-ass.” She looked at Andy, half worried. “Did it take?”

Andy nodded. “You won’t notice until you’re in the situation. Coauthor doesn’t fill your head with stuff you don’t need. It just makes it true, when it’s needed.”

Sam whistled, impressed. “Weird. But also kind of cool.”

Andy said, “If you want a test drive, I’ll ask Herman to run you through it. Private, before the bachelor party. That way, you’re not learning it in front of a crowd.”

Sam laughed, genuine relief in the sound. “Perfect. And thanks, Andy. For real.”

Andy shrugged, but he was touched. “You’d do the same for me.”

Sam looked out at the sea for a long moment, then back at Andy. “I got the gossip from Liesa. Do you want the short version of how things went this morning? Or do you want to hear it from Laura first?”

“Give me the short version now, and the rest later,” Andy said, grinning.

Sam summarized in three sentences: Katherine was now a bridesmaid, Chloe had picked a dress that could double as a parachute, and there was still no word on whether anyone’s family was coming to the wedding. Andy laughed at the mental image, then let Sam walk him over to the lunch table, where the others were already piling plates and fighting over the cheese platter.

They sat, side by side, and it felt like the moment before a big game: nerves, excitement, a sense of everything about to matter more than it ever had. Andy looked at the women gathered at the table, their faces all turned to him, and knew he’d made the right call.

When Sam caught his eye, she gave him a little salute with her fork, and he returned it with a toast.

Suddenly, a Mildred appeared at the table's edge, out of step with the others' easy rhythm — she carried a plain wooden box under one arm like it might bite her, and she was frowning at a tag tied to the lid with red string.

“This came for Master Cooper and Consort Cooper,” she announced, to no one in particular. “It was misplaced, and it was found only now. I do not think it was meant for lunch.”

“Everything's misplaced here,” Norah said, not looking up from her plate.

Andy set down his fork. “Who's it from?” The Mildred checked the underside of the box, then the string, then the box again, with the particular thoroughness of someone hoping the answer might change if she looked hard enough.

“There is no return address. Only a signature.” She held the tag out so he could read it himself: Shar, and beneath it, smaller, you'll know what to do with the claws when it matters.

“Shar,” Erin said around a mouthful of bread, entirely unbothered. “Of course it's Shar. Open it, I want to see what she thinks a bride needs two days before her own wedding.”

“The package was sent a while back, Harem Queen Erin,” Mildred pointed out, “You should ask what she thinks a bride needs two weeks before her own wedding.”

Andy pulled the lid free. Inside, nested in dark velvet, were three things that had no business sitting next to each other: a plain steak knife, the kind you'd find in any kitchen drawer, albeit of a craftsmanship far superior to any steak knife he had ever seen — and a pair of leather gauntlets, three long curved blades mounted along the back of each hand, wickedly sharpened, sized for someone smaller than him.

The table went quiet. “These claws are Laura-sized.”

Erin picked up the steak knife between two fingers, turning it in the light like she was pricing it. “This is... deeply anticlimactic. She sends Sam a battleaxe and a set of claws for Laura and you get a knife from a drawer?”

“Maybe that's the joke,” Norah said. “Maybe it's not about the knife.” She tapped the tag. “It's about what you do with it.”

Andy turned the knife over once, feeling the balance of it, ordinary and strange at once in his hand. There was no note beyond the words on the tag, no explanation, no warning like the ones Norah or Claire had once described getting. Just the tools themselves, and the confidence, apparently, that he'd understand them when the moment came. He set the knife back in the box, beside the claws.

“I'll give Laura hers,” he said finally. “Later. Erin and I have to go soon.” Mildred, satisfied her delivery was complete, bowed once and drifted off toward the kitchen, already forgetting to be unsettled by what she'd carried. The rest of the table drifted back into its own noise — Emi asking Dawn something about the cake, Riley trying to get JJ to grip her finger — and after a moment Andy closed the box and set it in his Inventory, where it would keep until he found the right time to put it in Laura's hands.

---

By the time Laura made it to the terrace, lunch was already thinning out. The skin of both her bodies still tingled with the afterimage of Melisande’s spotlight: silk everywhere, voices layered in laughter, Emi crying openly for the second time in a week, and Katherine actually smiling in public, like the world had let itself be surprised for once. The minute Laura stepped into the hard sun, the new dresses, the blue sky, even the bite of ozone above the sea, everything felt a shade too much. She held herself perfectly upright, twin spines aligned and head high, but inside she was already shrinking from the brightness, already bracing for the thing she didn’t want to say.

Andy and Erin were nowhere to be seen.

Sam sat at the end of the big glass lunch table, arms splayed like she was about to hold court. She was still in her kitchen uniform—bleach-spotted black tank, bare arms. Her face was set, not grim but not exactly light either, and when she caught sight of both of Laura’s bodies approaching, she didn’t flinch or look away. She just waved her over with a flick of two fingers.

Laura hesitated, and it was the weirdest thing: both of her paused at once, one foot up on the first step and the other still behind, as if the halves of herself were double-checking the math before they entered the same room as Sam. It was too silly to get hung up on, so she walked forward, both bodies now fully in sync, and stopped at the edge of the table.

“Hey,” she said.

Sam jerked her chin at the patio’s shaded side, where the blue tiles were cool and the glare didn’t burn your retinas out. “Let’s go over there. Too many ears in the world.”

Laura wanted to say it was fine, she could just talk here, but the words didn’t line up. She followed Sam out of the sun and into the shadow by the railing, where a potted citrus and a pair of uncomfortable-looking chaise lounges gave them something like privacy.

Sam flopped into a chair and let her legs dangle. She didn’t give a damn about posture or dignity. Laura sat, folding into the chair with every part of herself tense, all knees and elbows and long, twitching fingers.

Sam stared out at the sea, not at Laura. “I want to finish what you started in the kitchen. You got halfway there, then bailed.”

Laura grimaced. “I had the dress fitting. It couldn’t wait.”

“Right,” said Sam. “But neither could this.” She swiveled in her seat, finally locking on Laura. “So: what’s the rest of it? The part you didn’t say.”

Laura took a second, one hand gripping the other’s wrist under the table. “I just wanted to say sorry for ducking out on you.”

Sam snorted. “That’s not it.”

Laura looked at her lap. “It’s stupid, Sam. I know it’s stupid.”

“I didn’t ask for the smart version,” said Sam, “I want the real one. You do the first half of a feeling, then hide the rest in a box. Why don’t you just do the whole thing?”

There was no point in fighting it. Laura met Sam’s eyes, both sets, and let the words come.

“It’s not about Andy,” she said. “It’s not about faith, or Riley, or even about the wedding. I love Andy more than anything. I trust him with my life. But that’s it. It’s that every version of the future I can picture, somebody ends up paying for me to stay alive. Maybe it’s my mom. Maybe it’s Marie. Maybe it’s Riley, or Myra, or a Williams family member I’ve never met. Maybe it’s me, in the end, but—” She broke off, fingers curled in a fist so tight the knuckles blanched. “There’s no universe where I get to walk out clean. There’s always a reckoning. I can’t make sense of it. I can’t—” She laughed, dry. “I can’t even imagine it working out for me. All the other girls, maybe. But not me. So I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do with it.”

Sam listened, really listened, without fidget or fake sympathy. When Laura stopped, Sam nodded once, like a judge recording a plea. “You think you’re supposed to pay it off yourself,” she said, flat as the sea. “Take the debt, make it add up.”

Laura wanted to argue, but she couldn’t. “That’s how it always was, Sam. I used to think it was because I was weak, or selfish, or just… less than. But it’s not that. It’s just how the world works. If I stay, it’s on someone else to pay.”

Sam was silent a long time, then: “You know that’s not how families work, right? It’s not how this works.” She gestured, vaguely, at the lunch table, the hotel, the entire apparatus of the Harem Hotel.

Laura didn’t answer.

Sam pressed on. “You don’t get to pick which ones of us step up, or when, or what happens at the end. That’s not just you—it’s all of us. The math is all of us, together. You try to carry it alone, and that’s how they win. That’s how you lose.”

Laura’s throats closed up. “What if I don’t want anyone else to carry it for me?”

Sam’s face softened. “You’re not asking anyone to. That’s not what’s happening. You think you’re a net loss, but you’re not. You’re the reason Andy is even still in this. You have been the force behind this show from the moment Andy woke up in that ridiculous bed in the Suite. You want the thing to make sense, but it never will. Not in this place.” She paused, looking at the sky for a second. “I know you want to make it easy on everybody else, but that’s not the world. You can’t make it painless, Laura. Not for any of us.”

Laura went quiet, then: “So you think I’m being selfish?”

Sam shook her head. “No. I think you’re being a dumbass. But I also think you’re braver than anyone else here, because you know exactly how bad it could get and you’re still here.”

Laura’s laugh was ugly and small. “I’m not brave, Sam. I’m just too stubborn to let go.”

Sam grinned, a flash of her old self. “That’s what bravery is. Stubbornness, but with stakes.”

Laura couldn’t help it. Both of her bodies doubled over, elbows on knees, hands in her hair, as if she could press the whole world into a smaller shape. “I can’t do the leap-of-faith thing, Sam. I’m not built for it. I don’t know how.”

Sam looked away, like the answer was somewhere on the far horizon. “You don’t need to have faith, Laura. Not in the way Riley does, or Andy does. You just need to trust Andy and the rest of us to keep you from going down, or anyone else for that matter.”

Laura took the last line like a shot. The version of her that didn’t need faith was the same one that had planned for every possible exit, rehearsed every permutation of loss until it felt like a solution instead of a death sentence. It was the version that had learned, at a young age, threat hope was dangerous, that happiness was for others, never for her. She tried to be angry at Sam for putting it so simply, but the anger wouldn’t stick. It was too busy being afraid.

“Sam,” she said, and this time both bodies leaned in, elbows on the glass, eyes locked. “I don’t think I ever believed in the happy ending. Not really. Not for me, anyway. I want it, I swear I want it, but…” She didn’t continue, and Sam understood. Nothing in her life, before her demise, had shown her that a happy ending even was in the cards. “I just wanted to keep everyone else moving forward. I want Andy to be happy. I want Myra to be okay. I want my mother, to not have to die. I just…” She trailed off, voice gone.

Sam didn’t fill the silence, didn’t offer a pat answer or a joke to patch over the rawness. She let it hang, long enough that Laura started to wonder if she’d gone too far.

Then Sam said, “You’re not selfish for wanting to live, Laura. You’re not a criminal for not wanting to be the one who pays. That’s not how this place works.” She sat up, feet flat, hands folded between her knees. “Listen. If you walk into that wedding tomorrow thinking the only way to balance the equation is by dying, you’re playing the Producers’ game. They love a tragic narrative. They love a self-sacrifice. But if you let the people who love you carry some of the weight, even if it feels wrong, even if it’s hard, you get to make your own ending.”

Laura’s voice was brittle. “What if the cost is still the same? What if someone dies, or—” She stopped, the edge too sharp. “What if it doesn’t change anything?”

Sam’s mouth went flat. “Then at least you didn’t have to bleed alone for it.” She let the words land, then added, “You know what I think? I think the reason Arabella kept stacking the deck with all these weirdos, all these women with the same streak of wanting to save each other, is because she wanted to see if it’s possible to make it through without feeding one more girl into the machine. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is. But if it isn’t, at least you’ll be there for the ones who come next.”

Laura swallowed, the back of her throat raw. “I want it to be true, Sam. I want there to be a version where nobody has to die for me. But I can’t see it. Not yet.”

Sam shrugged, but her eyes were kind. “Maybe you don’t have to see it. Maybe we all will. Maybe Andy will. Maybe it’s enough to want it. Sometimes that’s all you get.”

There was a lull, a not-quite-comfortable quiet, and then Laura surprised herself by saying, “Are you scared?”

Sam barked a laugh. “Of course I’m scared. I’m terrified. But I’m not scared for myself.” She looked away, out past the terrace and the line of fake-perfect blue where the sea met the sky. “You know that sword? Thrustworthy?” She smiled, just a bit. “I’ve been practicing with it. And Andy did his little Coauthor magic, so now I’m proficient with it. It’s heavy as hell, and I’m pretty sure I look ridiculous, but I’m going to be the one standing between you and whatever comes for you at the wedding. That’s my promise.”

Laura stared at her, both mouths open.

Sam kept talking, voice softer now, more private. “Norah’s doing her own version of this, too. She’s got a whole plan for what to do if Ereshkigal’s agent shows up, or if Arabella vanishes and leaves a mess. Riley’s probably got backup strategies. Andy will literally move Heaven and Earth if anything were to happen to you. Everyone is prepping for the endgame, Laura. It’s not just you.”

Laura tried to absorb it, to picture each of the women prepping for war, and found herself smiling for the first time since the kitchen. “I wish I could see it,” she said, “all of you lined up. It’s insane.”

Sam grinned. “You’re allowed to think it’s crazy. But it’s what we’re doing. We’re not letting the world chew you up just because you think it’s your job to take the hit. If a price has to be paid, we’re paying it together.”

The tears came, then. Not the big, cinematic kind, just a slow, stubborn leak from the corners of both sets of eyes. Laura swiped at them, embarrassed. “God, I hate crying. It makes my noses go weird.”

Sam laughed, and there was more affection in the sound than Laura could stand. “Get used to it. You’re in a family now.”

For a while they just sat, sharing the shade and the view, the silence full of everything they couldn’t say. Laura felt the weight in her chest lighten, just a gram or two. Not gone, but different: not only hers anymore, and maybe that was enough.

A call echoed up from the lunch tables—Chloe’s voice, bright and urgent, calling for Sam and Laura to come eat before the food vanished. It broke the mood, and Laura was grateful.

Sam stood and offered a hand. Laura took it, let Sam pull her up, and when both bodies were standing, Sam did a thing Laura hadn’t expected. She pulled Laura in for a hug—quick, hard, absolutely real—and said, “Let’s go, Consort. I’m not missing cheese plate for anything.”

They walked back together, the sun at their backs, the promise of food and noise and the rest of the women waiting for them at the end of the terrace. Laura felt the future pressing in, loud and uncertain, but for once she didn’t feel like she had to walk into it alone.

---

The wedding site was almost too perfect to be real. At the center of a wide, shallow dell, the soft grass flattened into a green disc, ringed by a stream that was blue as glass and barely a hand deep. From the edges, seven white wooden bridges arched over the water, all meeting at a low, gentle hillock in the middle. There, the rosebush stood, smaller blue roses the color of Laura’s eyes still blooming. Someone—probably a Mildred, but he wouldn’t have put it past Sam or Chloe—had trimmed the grass to a carpet, leaving a crisp edge at the water’s rim. The white arbor at the far end was already draped in ribbons, the chairs set in neat arcs on both sides, facing the center.

Andy stood alone, his shoes silent on the stone path that led to the nearest bridge. He gripped the rail with one hand and watched the current pass beneath. The water was so clear that he could see every stone on the bottom, the ripples making it all shimmer and refract. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, but his hand was starting to ache from how tight he held the rail. It was the only thing in the world that felt steady.

In theory, he was waiting to meet Erin for their date, but he’d gotten here early, hoping to have a few minutes to himself. The morning had taken a lot out of him. The final story Arabella had narrated; Greg’s fate; and the sheer worry of the debt, incoming within two days or less.

He liked the chaos. It felt like a world that was working. But now, with the hollow empty and the wind running low over the grass, he felt every other sound, every echo. If he let go of the rail, he wasn’t sure if he would start moving, or if the whole set would just tip him straight into the water.

He thought of Arabella, what she’d said on the beach. There’s no such thing as fate. There are only the stories we finish, and the ones we let go on too long. He wondered which kind he was standing in.

He didn’t hear them at first, the air was so sharp. The only warning was from the bond, right before both of Laura’s bodies walked up to the edge of the green. She walked in perfect step, her long black hair catching on the wind, both faces set with the same flat resolve. Myra walked between Laura’s bodies, two paces behind, her hands in her pockets and her tails trailing like a pair of punctuation marks. If there was a way to make a line of three people look like a single organism, they’d found it.

Andy took his hand off the rail and straightened. He expected Myra to speak first, but when she reached the bridge, she stalled, shoulders rising. One of Laura’s hands settled on her arm—light, not pushing, but enough that Myra let the breath out and eased to a stop.

The three of them stood there for a few seconds. The only sound was the water and, far off, the faint laughter of the harem drifting from the garden where lunch still lingered.

It was Laura who spoke, both bodies’ voices perfectly matched. “We need to talk to you before the wedding. Together.”

Andy nodded, relief and dread tangling in his throat. “You want to do it here?”

Laura shrugged in stereo. “Here is good. We wanted to come find you before anyone else did.”

He looked at Myra, who still hadn’t found her voice. The tension in her face was clear, her usual energy gone taut, like she was braced for impact. Andy said, “Okay. What’s up?”

Laura didn’t look at Myra; she kept both sets of eyes on Andy. “We spent this morning and some time after lunch trying to work out what Sam said to me, and what Sam and Emi told Myra. We compared everything—every theory, every loophole, every possible outcome. We went over it until we couldn’t see straight.”

Andy wanted to ask what Sam had actually said, but didn’t. He could feel the answer waiting in the air.

Laura continued, voice even and unsentimental. “We don’t know what to do. About the Gate. About what comes after the wedding. We’ve tried to see every way through, but there isn’t one we can both live with. Not yet.”

“So this is what we’re telling you.” The words were hard and precise, like stones fitted into place. “If you see the way through—if you know what to do to save us, to save everyone—you go. Don’t wait for us to catch up. Don’t hold back just because we’re not there yet.”

Myra, still silent, nodded. Her tails curled around her ankles, a small self-hug.

Andy felt the rail digging into his palm. “Even if it means—”

“Yes,” Myra said, and this time there was a break in the voice, a tremor that she couldn't mask. “If it’s the only way through, take it.” She looked away, at the water, then back. “You’re the only one who can see the door. I trust you to pick the right one, even if I don’t understand it until it’s done.”

Andy didn’t say anything for a long time. The wind caught at the water and made a weird pattern of shadows on the stones below. He said, “Arabella told me once, about the difference between fate and story. She said fate is the thing that happens if you don’t write your own ending. Story is what you get if you do. I want to write it for us. I just don’t know how, yet.”

For a moment, none of them answered. The air was so thin and clear it felt like it could shatter. The bridge groaned faintly under their weight, the only real sound.

It was Myra who broke first. She opened her mouth, closed it, looked at Laura for help.

Laura stepped forward, both bodies moving in perfect sync. One hand—left in the left, right in the right—settled on Myra’s forearm, light as a guide line in a sketch. “You don’t have to know now,” Laura said, her voice split into stereo. “But we wanted to make it clear: if you see the door, take it. Even if we’re not ready, even if we’re not there to say it’s okay.”

Andy’s hand on the rail curled in, the knuckles blanching. “I need you to be sure.”

Laura nodded, both faces solemn. “I am sure,” she said, then, after a breath, “We are sure.” She looked at Myra, who nodded once, her ears tilting back in a show of honest fear. Laura glanced at the stream, then back at Andy. “If anyone could find the door, it would be you. You found four already.”

Myra’s voice, when it came, was softer than Andy had ever heard. “I couldn’t say it before, not out loud. Not even to Laura. But when I saw JJ today—” She paused, tails curling tighter. “If something like that can happen, then maybe there’s a fifth thing after all.”

Andy could only nod.

Laura inhaled, deep and steady, both bodies’ chests rising at once. “Do you remember what I told Riley, and Chloe, and Emily, last night?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “I told them I wanted to be a mother. More than anything. Even after everything that’s happened. I want it so bad I can barely say it without breaking.” She drew herself taller, both bodies. “I want this because I believe you can make it possible, Andy. If it comes to a choice, don’t hesitate. Take the door, even if I’m not standing there.”

She stepped forward, closing the last distance. For a moment Andy thought she would hesitate, but both of Lauras's bodies leaned in at once, the left head on his left shoulder, the right on the right, sandwiching him between the soft press of hair and bone and warmth.

“I love you,” said both voices, and it wasn’t for show.

Andy, suddenly incapable of speaking, wrapped his arms around both, one hand finding the curve of each back. They trembled, just a little, but neither let go. Andy kissed one Laura on the crown of her head, then the other, and felt her shudder through both bodies.

A moment passed, uncounted.

When they finally drew apart, Laura wiped her eyes with both sets of fingers, smiling even as she did. “I’m scared. But not as much as before.”

He squeezed her hands in both of his. “Me too.”

Myra, who had stood off to the side, stepped in. Her tails brushed once against Laura’s hip, then settled behind her. “For me, it’s still the same. I can’t—” she faltered, closed her eyes. “I can’t let go of Mom. I still can’t say yes to her being the one who pays. But… Laura is right. And JJ is alive today and he wasn’t yesterday, and that’s you. So… what Laura said goes for me, too. If you see that door, don’t wait for us. Cross it.” She hesitated, then added softly, “I asked Mom to be ready to walk me down the aisle tomorrow anyway, because if something does happen… I want her to have the moment.”

Andy nodded, wanting to say something profound, but only managing, “She’d be proud of you. I know I am.”

Myra smiled, wet at the edges. “I believe you.”

Then she leaned in, and Andy wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Laura reached out and grabbed Myra’s hand, so for a second the three of them were a single, awkward knot of fear and want and defiance.

None of them moved to let go.

The wind came up, cool and salty, and for the first time in a while Andy let himself feel the relief that came with sharing the weight.

After a long minute, Laura spoke again, voice lighter. “You should get ready for your date with Erin. She’ll kill you if you’re late.”

Andy laughed, the sound raw and unsteady, but real. “She’ll find me anyway.”

Laura stepped back, pulling Myra with her, but her hand lingered on Andy’s until the very last. When she let go, it was with a squeeze.

They started back across the bridge, not looking behind. Andy watched their backs, the way Laura’s two bodies fell into perfect alignment, Myra’s tails flickering behind. They looked, he thought, like a line of survivors moving toward the only future they could build for themselves.

He stood on the bridge a little longer, until the wind dried his eyes. Then he followed, feeling the beginning of a solution forming at the edge of his mind—a door he could almost see, if he just looked the right way.

He smiled, quiet and true, then went to find Erin.

---

Author's Note: This is the last chance to participate in the AMA! Don't forget to submit your questions for the cast by tonight: https://forms.gle/NjYJNLLQVdLfmW4y9