Musings and Dares

By the time Chloe reached the terrace, the sun had burned away the dew from the pavers and the world looked so clear it almost stung. She had to blink against the white glare on the glass table, even with her sunglasses on. Dawn was beside her, carrying two iced coffees and walking in her usual double-time, her black bunny ears swiveling with every sound. “You know it’s going to be ninety again today,” Dawn said, holding out a cup. “I don’t know how anyone drinks hot coffee outside at noon. It’s like setting your mouth on fire.”

“Emi drinks hot coffee,” Chloe said, taking her cup. She meant it as a joke, but there was something about the way the words came out—a little too quick, a little too high-pitched. Dawn caught it, but didn’t say anything.

On the far side of the terrace, Emi was already seated, a mug in each of her upper hands, her other arms folded in a self-hug. She wore a loose cotton sleeveless romper, sky-blue, and had her hair tied up in a messy knot, which made her look both younger and more serious. Next to her, Erin was sprawled across two lounge chairs, sneakers propped on the railing, her mint-green skin radiant in the sunlight. Erin didn’t appear to be drinking anything, but she watched the ice cubes in Chloe’s cup like a cat watches a bird—hungry, but unwilling to make the first move.

Chloe led the way, ignoring the squeak of her own sandals on the tile. “Good afternoon,” she called, waving with her free hand.

“Afternoon!” Emi called back, every word a smile. She gestured at the empty chairs. “Come sit. We saved you spots.”

Erin nodded at them, her expression somewhere between a scowl and a grin. “Nice shirt, Dawnie,” she said, eyeing the cartoon bunnies leaping over watermelons. “Did the gift shop run out of normal?”

Dawn looked down, shrugged, and sat anyway. “I like it. At least I don’t get sunburned.” She set down her coffee, but kept her hands wrapped around it, as if afraid it might try to escape.

Chloe sat opposite Emi, who immediately poured her a mug of the hot coffee. Chloe tried to balance both the iced and hot cups, realized she was doing it wrong, and just set them side by side. She glanced over at Erin’s breasts.

Erin caught her looking, raised one eyebrow, and said, “If you want to touch them, you can ask.”

Chloe felt herself flush. “No, I was just—I mean, I—” She stopped, then snorted. “You’re such a bully.”

Erin shrugged. “Not denying it.”

Dawn sipped her coffee, then set it down with a soft thunk. “What’s on the agenda today?” she asked, eyes wide and bright. “Anything besides sweating to ****?”

Emi tilted her head, hair sliding from her bun. “I wanted to ask Chloe how she’s feeling,” she said, the words light but pointed. “You look… I don’t know, extra happy today.”

The way Emi said it made Chloe’s hands go cold. For a second, she considered lying, or just putting it off for one more day. But the way Dawn was already looking at her, and the way Emi’s eyes went soft at the edges, made it impossible. She’d planned to tell them at dinner, or maybe later, after she’d had time to practice the words alone. But now that she was here, and they were all looking at her with the kind of gentleness only old friends could muster, she realized she didn’t want to wait.

She set both mugs down, folded her hands, and said, “I have news. Big news.” She looked at Dawn first, then at Emi, then, for solidarity, at Erin. “I’m pregnant,” she said. “With a boy.”

There was a beat of silence, so heavy that even the birds stopped. Then Dawn shrieked—a sound so high and wild that Emi nearly dropped her mug. Dawn leapt out of her chair, rounded the table, and hugged Chloe so hard that her sunglasses fell off. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Dawn said, the words running together like water. “You’re really—? This is so—? Oh my god, Chloe!”

Emi, not to be outdone, clapped all six of her hands at once, then launched herself into a half-stand, half-crouch and reached across the table, wrapping her upper arms around Chloe’s shoulders. “That’s incredible,” she said, voice shaking. “That’s—wow. Are you—? Is it okay? How do you feel? You look amazing. You’re glowing.”

Chloe laughed, the sound weak and teary at the edges. “I’m good. I’m—” She tried to finish the sentence, but the words dissolved. Instead, she hugged both of her friends, Emi’s arms all over her and Dawn’s cheek pressed against her hair.

Erin stayed seated, just watching the chaos with a crooked smile. Chloe noticed, even in the middle of being strangled by Dawn’s hug. When Dawn finally let go, Emi looked at Erin, a question in her eyes. “Aren’t you surprised?” she said.

Erin rolled her eyes. “I already knew.”

Dawn gaped. “How? Did Andy tell you?”

Erin shrugged. “Sort of. He’s not good at secrets. Plus, the two of us and Claire went for an OB/GYN appointment together.” She stretched, back arching, which did fascinating things to her chest. “Speaking of.” Erin grinned. “Twins. One boy, one girl.”

This time, Emi actually screamed. She hugged herself, hands fluttering, then jumped up and did a little dance. “That’s so amazing,” she said, voice quivering.

They all sat for a minute, the news settling in around them like a new weather pattern. Emi finally sat again, her hands twitching with energy. “What are you going to name him?” she asked Chloe, eyes huge.

Chloe shrugged. “I have no idea. I’m still trying to process the part where he’s real.”

There was a long pause, not sad or awkward, just full. Dawn, never good with quiet, was the first to break it. “Have you thought about what they’ll be like? When they’re older?”

Chloe blinked. “Like, what do you mean?”

Dawn grinned. “Like when they’re seven. Or ten. Or… you know, grown up. What if they have transformations? What if they have their own harem?”

Erin’s lips twitched. “Dawnie, they’ll barely be able to walk before you try to set them up with a playdate.”

Dawn laughed. “I’m just saying—it’s going to be wild. A whole new generation of weirdos.”

Emi’s face lit up. “Can I be the weird Auntie? Please?”

Chloe looked at her, and the sudden certainty of the future—Emi holding a tiny baby, teaching him how to draw, telling him stories in three languages—made her laugh until she cried. “You’re already the weird Auntie,” she said, tears running down her cheeks.

Emi grinned, proud.

Erin rolled her eyes, but she looked pleased. “We should make a chart,” she said. “Who gets which kid on which holidays, which transformations they’ll inherit, whether they’ll fight for power or form alliances.”

Chloe giggled. “Are you already planning a daycare coup?”

“Daycare nothing,” Erin said. “By the time they’re in preschool, they’ll have split into rival gangs.”

Emi got out her phone and started a new note. “We should assign them mentors now. Erin’s boy goes to Sam. Erin’s girl goes to Norah, because Norah will give her spreadsheets and teach her to be a boss.” She paused, thinking. “Chloe’s boy goes to Dawn, because he’ll need her to counterbalance the chaos Riley introduces.”

They all cracked up, the laughter rolling out over the terrace. The sound was bright and alive, and for the first time in weeks, Chloe felt the tension in her chest begin to break up. She sipped her iced coffee, wiped her eyes, and said, “What about the rest? Are we doing Liesa’s kid, Sam’s kid, Riley’s kid?”

Emi nodded, already taking notes. “Liesa’s kid will have strong opinions about furniture by age three. She’ll refuse to sit in anything not designer. Sam’s kid will be competent from birth and unremarkable about it, which is a superpower in itself.”

Chloe grinned. “Norah’s kid will have a corner office before she can talk.”

“Probably,” Erin said. “And Riley’s will be fierce and possibly feral.”

Dawn made a face. “I’m not sure those are different qualities.”

Emi added, “Claire’s child will be silent and observant from birth. She’ll haunt the family like a little ghost, taking notes on everyone.”

Chloe shivered. “That’s the most alarming one. The others would at least announce themselves.”

Dawn nodded. “She’ll be the mastermind.”

The conversation rolled on, with Emi drawing up an elaborate mental family tree, assigning each hypothetical child to an Auntie and building in succession rules for who got custody after major holidays. It was ridiculous, and Chloe couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard.

But then Dawn, who always had a knack for finding the heart of a thing, went quiet for a second. “What about Laura?” she said, softly. “I mean, is there a plan for…?”

The table went quiet. Even Emi’s hands stilled.

Chloe looked down at her lap. “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t want to ask.”

Erin said, “She’s not going to do anything she doesn’t want to. But if she does…” She trailed off.

Emi, thinking it over, tapped her cheek with her pencil. “Well, one TF says that if one body gets pregnant, the other does too, but the real problem is the upgrade that allows her to merge. Is the baby one or two? There are four options,” she said, her tone suddenly clinical. “One: If she merges both bodies during pregnancy, the child is born as a single baby, with no weirdness. Or, two, possibly twins, if the two babies don't merge. Three: she can't merge while pregnant, or she chooses not to, and has two children. And four: If she can merge, but she doesn't, both bodies carry the baby at the same time. The baby’s in both wombs.”

Dawn stared. “Wait—how does that work?”

Chloe shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Emi shrugged. “It’s magic. If she delivers without merging, one body will go through labor and deliver the baby, and the other will… also go through labor, but nothing comes out.”

The others blinked at her.

Dawn set her coffee down. “Say that again?”

Emi did, slower this time. “One body gives birth. The other body does all the work, but delivers nothing.”

Chloe’s mouth fell open. “That’s terrible.”

Erin started laughing, but it was the kind of laugh that said, at least it’s not me. “I hope that's not the theory that pans out.”

Dawn said, “Someone needs to warn her.”

Chloe shook her head. “Or Andy.”

Emi looked around the table, then down at her phone. “I should draw a diagram,” she said, already reaching for a napkin and a pen.

They watched as Emi sketched a two-body Laura, each with a pregnant belly, and then a diagram of a baby being delivered on one side, the other side just looking confused and angry.

Chloe snorted. “She’s going to **** you for that.”

Emi shrugged, unfazed. “Science.”

They all peered at the napkin, then started giggling again, the sound loud enough to echo down the terrace. It was a perfect moment—ridiculous, a little dark, but exactly the kind of joy Chloe needed.

When the laughter finally died down, Dawn looked at the sketch, then up at Chloe. “Are you scared?” she said, her voice gentle.

Chloe thought about it for a long time. “Yeah,” she said. “But not as much as before.” She looked around the table, at Erin’s strong arms and Emi’s gentle hands and Dawn’s ridiculous shirt and bright eyes, and felt, for once, like maybe she could handle this. “I think we’re going to be okay,” she said, and she meant it.

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the terrace, Emi’s napkin diagram growing ever more elaborate as they brainstormed baby names and debated whether Erin’s twins would have leaves instead of hair. By the time they left, the table was sticky with spilled coffee, Dawn had started a pool on who would give birth first, and Chloe had laughed more than she had in a month.

By mid-afternoon, the Banquet Hall had passed through its main event and was deep into the slow drift period: late risers straggling in for cake, Mildred staff resetting the buffet with cruise-ship efficiency, and anyone with an actual agenda hunched over caffeine at the long refectory tables. Today, that meant Sam. She sat alone, a coffee cooling at her elbow, an open notepad in front of her with absolutely nothing written on the page. She had brought the notepad because that’s what you did when you needed to solve a problem, but so far, all it had done was taunt her with its blankness.

Sam stared at the notepad, then at the coffee, and then out at the garden through the wall of windows. The view was, as always, slightly too good: lush green, sun at the perfect angle, koi in the pond below looking as if they had signed a modeling contract and were being paid in high-grade fish food. It was impossible, is what it was. A world where every detail had been selected and dialed up by a committee with a sense of humor.

She took a long pull from the coffee and tried again to think about the bachelor party.

What do you do, Sam wondered, when the groom is the only man in the mystical dimension you’re stuck in, the usual suspects for this sort of thing are all brides who will be at their own party, and the Master’s own idea of a wild night was reorganizing his inbox with a drink in hand? What even counted as “male bonding” when there were no other men? Poker? Axe throwing? Would Andy even want a party? And who would attend—his own harem? That seemed like cheating, or at least beside the point, even not considering that Liesa was probably planning an epic bachelorette party and had plenty of brides and bridesmaids to bring in.

Sam flipped the page over and drew a single, heavily underlined word: GUESTS.

As if on cue, the door from the Inner Gardens slid open and two voices entered, neither one lowered to what Sam would call a normal volume. She knew the voices, of course: one belonged to Laura, doubled as ever, the cadence of her sentences landing like a declaration of war on the laws of physics; the other belonged to Riley, who was in the mood, apparently, for grand pronouncements and the hard “r” at the start of her name.

“—so it’s not enough,” Riley was saying, “that the Hollow Garden is filled with ex-contestants and a working microclimate, but now it’s also got Myra’s mother?”

“She’s an ex-contestant,” Laura said, both bodies moving in perfect sync, even their hair swinging identically. “At least this way, Myra finally got to see her again.”

Riley snorted. “The way she was watching me, I thought she was going to reveal something dark and terrible about my own parentage.”

Sam waited until they were closer, then called out, “You two want to keep it down? I’m trying to plan a party over here.” She paused. “Actually, you know what? Laura, I need your help.”

Riley, instead of lowering her voice, let loose with a fake laugh so loud it made several heads turn. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she said, but immediately peeled off toward the kitchen, leaving Laura to approach alone. For all their differences, both Riley and Laura were masters at feigned nonchalance.

Laura slid into the seats across from Sam, her two bodies settling next to each other as if it were just a normal day at the office. “Bachelor party?” she said, arching both left eyebrows. “Who’s the lucky man?”

Sam’s smile was tight. “Ha ha. I got tapped to organize it for Andy. Arabella’s idea, which means it has to happen, but I have no idea what I’m doing.” She gestured at the blank notebook, as if to offer evidence.

Laura shrugged. “Do what everyone else does: buy a cake, get him drunk, watch him regret it for the next year.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “That works if you have any friends who aren’t already the bridal party. Or if you’re not on an island where he’s the only man in sight.”

Laura considered this. “Harper,” she said after a moment. “That’s one. She and Andy are close friends.”

“Harper is already on my list,” Sam said. “But she’s the only one.” Nonetheless, she scribbled Harper’s name under the GUESTS heading.

Laura folded her hands, then looked around the room as if seeing who else might qualify. “What about the others from the birthday party? Laura Black? You said she was here last week, when there was that snafu with contestants. I haven’t met her, but it sounds like she could hold her own.”

Sam made a face. “That one’s complicated, but—yeah, I’ll try her.” She scribbled the name onto the page, in all caps.

“Are there rules?” Laura asked. “Does Andy know he’s getting a party?”

Sam shook her head. “No rules, but it’s got to be the night after Erin’s date. I don’t want to tip Andy off unless I have to, so it needs to be subtle. Also, I want it to be actually fun, not just a check-box for tradition.”

Laura seemed to like this. “You need the element of surprise,” she said, both bodies grinning at once. “What about a theme?”

Sam sipped her coffee. “Every idea I’ve come up with either sounds like a funeral or a frat party. Andy would rather die than do either.”

Laura laughed, then leaned in. “What about the Masters Support Association? You could invite them. Andy signed his fan mail as a founding member last time. He’d love to see the crew, I’m sure.”

Sam paused. “Huh. Are you serious? That was just—”

“There was Nick Reynolds. He wrote Andy when he found out I was back. Andy also spoke of a Mark Garret. I think Laura Black and Harper are both members, too. There was some sort of congressman who was invited, but I don’t know if he ever joined. But that’ll be a full quorum.”

Sam blinked, pencil poised. “You know, that could work.” She made a note. “Assuming they can get here in time, but some of them might join for the wedding anyway. Maybe if I guilt them—” She nodded to herself. “Thanks, Laura. You’re a genius.”

Laura shrugged, as if solving complex social equations was just what she did in her spare time. “Happy to help.”

Sam stared at her for a moment, considering. “You want to come to the planning session? I need more brains on this.”

“I’ve got two,” Laura said, deadpan. “But sure.”

Before they could stand, the doors swung open again, and Emi entered, balancing a tray of tea cups in four hands, the other two arms folded across her chest in a way that made her look both serene and ready to brawl. Emi spotted Sam and Laura, beamed, and marched straight over.

“Hi!” Emi said, setting the tray down with a flourish. “Did you guys want tea? Or coffee? Or—” She broke off, seeing Sam’s notepad. “Oooh! Are we planning something?”

Sam gave up on ever having a private meeting. “Yes. Bachelor party for Andy. You want in?”

Emi’s face lit up, and she nodded vigorously, her six arms almost vibrating with the effort not to clap all at once. “I love parties! Especially when they’re for someone else!”

Laura’s two bodies exchanged a look with Sam, and then she scooted over to make space. Emi sat, perching on the edge of her chair, hands fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

Sam closed the notepad and stood. “Let’s not do it here. Let’s take this somewhere quieter. I don’t want to tip Andy off if he walks through. Library okay?”

Both women nodded and stood, so Sam led the way, coffee in one hand, notepad in the other. The three of them moved through the Inner Gardens, Emi chattering about the variety of possible party themes (“Pirates? Science lab? Something with cake, but not too much cake?”) while Laura deadpanned her own ideas (“You could stage a fake ****, take Andy to the volcano, and make him king for a night.”)

They entered the Hotel Library, which was deserted except for the faint sound of a page being turned somewhere in the stacks. Sam picked a reading table near the far wall, and all three sat, setting their drinks and notepads in a careful triangle.

Sam started, “Okay, ground rules. Arabella wants the party to be… memorable, but not a disaster. No one gets hurt. It’s supposed to be fun for Andy, not just for us. Wedding happens the next day, so we can’t be too devastated by the end. Ideas?”

Laura was the first to answer. “Private whiskey tasting. I’m sure Arabella can get a stash of bottles for VIPs.”

Sam considered. “Andy likes whiskey. But is that enough? Feels more like an appetizer than a main event.”

Emi raised her hand, then caught herself and lowered it. “A treasure hunt,” she said. “Through the Hotel. You could leave clues, and whoever finds the treasure first gets a prize.”

Sam wrote it down, then frowned. “Is the prize Andy, or something else?”

Emi blushed. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

Laura smiled, then said, “You could do a poker night. Andy always wanted to play but never had a group. If we get the MSA here, that’s a real game.”

There was a thump from the next aisle over. A brief rustling, then silence. Sam peered around the stacks and saw a shadow—a Mildred, oddly sitting on a chair and reading for once.

She returned her focus to the table. “What about something actually wild? Like, not just a dinner or a game, but… I don’t know, a real experience. This is the last night before Andy gets married. Shouldn’t we go big?”

Emi’s eyes went huge. “We could ask Arabella to make a new world for a night. Like, a temporary reality. Andy could be a superhero, or a rock star, or a—”

“A theme park,” Laura cut in, both voices bright at once. “Andy loved theme parks as a kid. You could have rides, games, all of it.”

Sam stared at her. “You want to build an actual theme park. Overnight. On a volcano.”

Laura nodded. “Why not?”

Emi immediately started brainstorming rides, hands flying as she gestured out Ferris wheels and roller coasters and impossible water slides.

Sam pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay, but is that… dignified? We’re adults. We’re getting married. Do we really want to spend the night eating funnel cake and losing at ring toss?”

Laura grinned. “I think it’s perfect. It’s exactly the kind of stupid Andy would love, and no one would expect it. Plus, there are so many ways to make it… weird.”

There was a muffled cough from behind a bookcase. Sam turned, eyes narrowing. “Mildred, are you eavesdropping?”

There was a silence, but not the kind Sam had wanted. It was the silence of a Mildred deciding whether the shushing was worth the risk of direct interaction. Then, from behind a bookcase, the sound of a throat being cleared. Mildred’s voice, syrupy as always, wafted out: “This is a library, if you didn’t notice.”

Laura, who was in a mood, called back, “We noticed. The acoustics are great. You should come join us if you’re bored.”

There was a pause. Then, with the most withering “hmph” Sam had ever heard, the shadow of Mildred scuttled deeper into the stacks.

Sam dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “Okay, for real, if we can get a quorum from the Support Association, we might be able to pull off the best bachelor party in the history of The HH. Even with only a few days’ notice. Thoughts?”

Laura said, “You need an icebreaker activity. Not a drinking contest, but something to get people talking.”

Emi, who had been doodling party hats on her notepad, looked up. “What about a roast? Andy could be the guest of honor, and everyone gets to make jokes about him. He’d love that.”

Sam shook her head. “He hates attention.”

“But,” Emi said, “if we make it about his achievements, he’d get flustered but he’d appreciate it. We could do it sweet, not mean.”

Laura made a face. “A sweet roast? Isn’t that just a wedding toast with extra steps?”

Sam snorted, then wrote it down anyway. “We’ll keep it in the back pocket.”

Emi said, “Or a game night. But with weird games. Not just poker, but… improv games, or something like Truth or Dare.”

Sam considered. “Truth or Dare is a nightmare with this group. It would become weird within five minutes.”

There was a noise from the next aisle—a book being very pointedly shelved with a thud. Sam grinned, then said, “You know, Mildred is actually not a bad option for a party guest. She knows all the secrets. If we get stuck, we can ask for a story.”

Emi’s eyes sparkled. “Or make her the judge of Truth or Dare! She’d love that.”

Sam scribbled “Mildred = MC?” in her notes, then circled it a few times. “Actually, that’s kind of genius. If we need a master of ceremonies, Mildred would be perfect. She’s impartial, sarcastic, and can’t leave.”

Laura said, “The real question is, are you going to have strippers?” Her voice was carefully flat.

Sam groaned. “With this group, we don’t need strippers. If anything, Andy would be more embarrassed than excited.”

Laura said, “You should have a moment where Andy is alone. A space to think. He’ll appreciate it, even if he won’t say so.”

Emi said, “Maybe the treasure hunt ends with him alone in a room with a gift. Like something personal.”

Sam jotted down “treasure hunt finale = alone time,” then underlined it. “I like that.”

Laura asked, “Are you going to tell him? Or just drop him into the party blind?”

Sam thought. “Blind. That’s the only way it works.”

Another loud “SHHHHH!” echoed from the bookcases. Sam rolled her eyes, then stage-whispered, “If you want us to leave, you could just say so. Otherwise, I'm formally inviting you to this party. If you dare ”

No answer. But the sound of a chair scraping was very deliberate.

Sam said, “Okay. We’ve got ideas, we’ve got Mildred as MC, and I think we can do the guest list. Next: logistics. Where do I actually hold the thing? The Beach? The terrace? The Master’s Suite is off limits, and I think the Banquet Hall is too boring.”

Emi said, “We could use the Sunroom. It’s got space, and the light is nice at night. Also, the glass walls would be great for stargazing.”

Laura said, “Or the library. It’s dramatic, and you already have a Mildred here, apparently.”

Sam grinned. “If we do the library, we’ll need to bribe Mildred with something. Otherwise, she’ll just sabotage the whole thing.”

Emi said, “What does Mildred even want? I’ve never seen her eat or drink or do anything besides dust books and clean up the hotel.”

Laura pondered. “I think she wants chaos, but controlled. Like, the satisfaction of seeing people mess up, but with a happy ending.”

Sam said, “That’s pretty much how I feel about this whole place.”

Laura asked, “Are you happy? With all this?” Her tone was flat, but her eyes, both sets, were sharp.

Sam blinked. “You mean… the harem? The wedding?”

Laura nodded.

Sam thought. “Yeah. I think I am. But it’s weird, right? I never thought I’d end up here. I figured I’d be the support, not in the actual game.”

Emi said, “You’re really good at it. I don’t think Andy would have survived without you.”

Sam laughed. “He would have. He just would have been lonelier.”

A heavy sigh from the Mildred aisle. Then, very deliberately, a book being closed and a bookmark being slid into place.

Sam stage-whispered, “She’s mad we’re not interesting enough.”

Laura said, “Or we’re too interesting, and it’s making her miss her shift.”

Emi giggled, which set off both Laura and Sam.

After the laughter died down, Sam said, “So. Party plan: scavenger hunt, or maybe board gaming, possible theme park if Arabella is feeling generous, Mildred as MC, whiskey tasting as pre-game, and a very exclusive guest list. Sounds like a good time.”

Emi’s six hands started clapping, and she beamed.

Sam grinned. “Thanks, you two. This was way more productive than drinking alone.”

Emi said, “Anytime. I love making plans.”

Laura said, “Let’s not tell Andy, though. He’ll ruin it.”

Sam grinned. “Deal.”

They stood and gathered their things. As they left, Mildred drifted out from behind the stacks, glaring with all the dignity of a headmistress at the end of a bad day. The glare tracked them until the door shut.

On the other side, Sam said, “I think we just made her night.”

Laura said, “I think we made her decade.”

They went back out into the late afternoon sun, feeling a little lighter, and a little more ready for the chaos that would come next.

The kitchen was empty, which was why Riley went there in the first place. She stood at the end of the long prep counter, hands hovering over a bulb of garlic so large it looked like it might have been grown in a different dimension. It probably was, she decided. She picked it up, smacked it with the flat of her knife, and watched the cloves scatter.

She peeled and chopped with no plan, the blade moving fast and a little sloppy. It was satisfying, the way the skin sloughed off, the way the garlic released its smell and astringent oil. No one here would care if she made a mess, and that was the point. She worked through the whole bulb, then started on a second, her hands getting sticky, the scent taking over her mind until there was room for nothing else.

Ten minutes later, Norah breezed in, phone in one hand, eyes already scanning the coffee station at the far end of the kitchen. She did a double take at Riley’s end of the counter and paused, one eyebrow raised.

“Going to war with vampires?” Norah said.

Riley did not look up. “Just needed something to do.”

Norah set her phone down and moved toward the cabinet. “You’re bleeding all over the cutting board.”

Riley glanced down, saw a nick on her finger, and shrugged. She kept chopping, letting the garlic pile get higher and higher.

Norah reached for the tea, found it empty, then checked the fridge. “What are you making, exactly?”

“Don’t know yet,” Riley said. She tossed a finished clove into a bowl, then licked her finger, ignoring the sting. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be intense.”

Norah made a show of grimacing. “That’s not how cooking works. You’re supposed to have a plan, or at least a recipe.”

Riley snorted. “That’s only one way of doing things.”

Norah filled the kettle, then stood awkwardly by the sink, watching Riley for a moment. She could have left. She could have just gone with her tea and never gotten involved, but that was not how Norah worked.

“Are you okay?” Norah asked, her voice more curious than concerned.

Riley set her knife down. “Are you really going to make this a thing?”

Norah shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She measured out tea, precise as always, a quarter scoop per cup.

Riley went back to the garlic, but the rhythm was gone now. She wiped her hands, then looked up. “Do you ever cook for other people? Or just yourself?”

Norah considered. “I know how to make three things. I do all of them well. But I don’t go beyond that.”

Riley laughed, the sound short. “Three things. That tracks.”

Norah’s eyes narrowed, just a hair. “I’ve never seen you cook. In fact, I’ve heard you burn rice. Which, according to Google, is hard to do.”

“Rice is a scam,” Riley said. “I’m better with soup. Or bread, if there’s time.”

Norah said, “Bread is a whole thing. You have to plan ahead, knead, rise, wait. I don’t see you as a ‘wait’ kind of person.”

Riley grinned. “You’d be surprised what I can wait for.”

They let the words settle. Then Norah asked, “Is that a dare?”

Riley eyed the mess of garlic, then shrugged. “Let’s make it interesting. A cook-off. Tonight, we see who wins.”

Norah didn’t hesitate. “Sure. What’s the category?”

Riley considered, then said, “Curry. I’ve never done it. You?”

Norah shook her head. “Nope. But I know how to read a recipe.”

Riley snorted. “Let’s do it.”

They divided the kitchen. Riley took the left side, Norah the right. Riley started tossing onions in a pan, not caring if the pieces were the same size, adding oil, garlic, and a chunk of ginger she found at the bottom of the fridge. The sound of onions sizzling filled the air, the smell overtaking even the garlic.

Norah found a recipe in a recipe book, scanned it, then read the steps out loud, one by one, measuring each ingredient to the gram. Her workspace was as clean as Riley’s was wild. Every vegetable was cut to exact cubes, every spice measured, every step annotated with a pencil. She set up bowls for each prepped item, lined up like an army awaiting orders.

Riley, by contrast, worked purely by feel. She added two handfuls of garlic, a ton of onion, then spices—turmeric, cumin, cayenne, some unknown brown powder from the hotel’s “global” spice drawer. She opened a can of coconut milk, sniffed it, shrugged, and dumped it in. She threw in random vegetables, then tasted, frowned, and dumped in more garlic.

Norah started her curry by browning the onions, then adding the exact amount of garlic, letting it go for precisely two minutes. She added the spices, stirring gently, then the tomatoes, then the chicken, which she had diced perfectly and patted dry. She simmered, covered, exactly as the recipe said. She checked the color, then adjusted the heat. She tasted at intervals, but only tiny spoonfuls.

An hour passed. The kitchen got hot, the air thick with spice and the clash of two entirely different philosophies.

Riley’s curry looked like molten gold and smelled so strong it made her eyes water. She tried a spoonful, then added salt, then more cayenne, then grinned in triumph.

Norah’s curry looked like the recipe picture: orange-red, glossy, with neat cubes of chicken and vegetables suspended in a sauce the exact consistency of cream. She tasted it, adjusted with a dash of salt, then set the pot to low.

They each plated a bowl for the other.

Riley tried Norah’s first. She took a big spoonful, chewed, then sat back. “It’s good. Maybe too good. I can taste everything. It’s almost… precise?”

Norah tried Riley’s, bracing herself. The curry was searing, complex, and almost overwhelming, but it had a balance she didn’t expect. She ate another bite, then looked at Riley. “Yours is better than it has any right to be. I also can't taste the blood, so, good job there. I’d never make it myself, but it works.”

Riley smiled, triumphant. “Want to let the harem decide tonight?”

Norah nodded, lips pressed tight. “Winner gets bragging rights for a week.”

“Deal,” Riley said.

They transferred their curries into matching serving bowls. Norah labeled hers with “Classic Chicken Curry, by Norah” in perfect script. Riley labeled hers with “Volcano Curry, by Riley” in a slanted scrawl that barely fit on the label.

They carried the bowls to the Banquet Hall, the scent following them like a banner.

——

By the time dinner rolled around, the Banquet Hall was full of the kind of organized chaos only a harem with a half-dozen type-A personalities could produce. Most of the women were already up from the long table, queued at the buffet and arguing over whose turn it was to scoop the rice (Dawn’s, but she’d delegated to Chloe, who’d delegated to Emi, who was now juggling three ladles and two different kinds of rice and doing it with alarming grace).

Norah and Riley entered, carrying their curry bowls with the solemnity of funeral directors. Norah took the head of the table and tapped a spoon on her dish. “Can I have everyone’s attention?”

Most of the women ignored her, but Sam, sitting nearby, banged her own glass and said, “Hey! Norah’s got something.”

Norah raised her voice. “Tonight, we are having a contest. Riley and I both made curry. We want you to taste each one and vote honestly for the better dish. Winner gets bragging rights for a week. Loser does not speak of this again. Understood?”

Riley, at the far end, added, “Also, no lying. If you hate both, say so.”

A wave of **** rippled down the table. Dawn’s ears went flat. Liesa’s eyes narrowed in the universal language of “how did I get roped into this.” Emi sat with all six hands folded in front of her, looking like a judge about to preside over a **** trial. Katherine grinned and clapped, happy to be included in her first harem challenge with this group.

Riley and Norah began to plate small samples. Each judge got a portion of both curries, and the bowls were placed dead center on the table: “Classic Chicken Curry, by Norah” and “Volcano Curry, by Riley.”

Dawn braced herself, chopsticks in hand. She peered into the first curry—Riley’s, the one with visible shards of chili and a menacing red oil slick on top. Dawn poked at a chunk of sweet potato, blew on it, and took a bite.

The burn was immediate, the kind of heat that went past tongue and straight to the roof of the mouth. Dawn’s ears went stiff as board, then twitched flat. “That’s—oh, wow,” she managed. She tried to make it sound positive, but her voice cracked in the middle. “There’s definitely… a lot going on.”

She chased it with a gulp of rice and some cucumber salad, but the heat clung, tenacious as shame.

She tried Norah’s curry next, a creamier orange. The burn here was slower, sneaky. The first taste was sweet—like maybe it was safe—and then, as she swallowed, the heat came in sideways and got her at the back of the throat. Dawn’s eyes watered. She dabbed at them with a napkin, but the tears just kept coming.

“Is this… normal?” Dawn asked, looking to the rest of the table for backup. “I think I’m sweating through my tongue.”

Erin, who sat three seats down, studied the curries with the detachment of a botanist. She took a small bite of Riley’s, shrugged, and said, “It’s not as bad as the spicy ramen challenge. But definitely up there.” She spooned up a chunk of Norah’s, chewed, and nodded, as if confirming a theory. “Norah, you put fenugreek in this, didn’t you?”

Norah’s face betrayed nothing. “It’s traditional,” she said. “You’re supposed to balance with raita or bread.”

Emily, next to Erin, was doing her best to be a good sport. She tried Riley’s, managed a strained smile, then tried Norah’s and gave a little whoop of surprise. “That’s intense,” she said. “I like them both, but I don’t know if I’ll have taste buds left tomorrow.”

Next up was Emi, who took her judging very seriously. She brought both curries close, one in each of her top two hands, and used the other four to assemble the perfect supporting cast: rice, a spoonful of yogurt, a shred of naan. She ate with perfect form, eyes closed, as if judging a wine. When she finished, she set her utensils down, wiped her mouth, and looked at both Norah and Riley with a neutral, unreadable smile.

She said nothing, but took careful notes in a tiny, hand-bound journal she kept for “important impressions.” On the page she drew a tiny flame for Riley’s, and a droplet for Norah’s, but did not clarify which was positive.

Sam, who had sat at the end, was ready for pain. She tried Riley’s, grinned, and said, “Hell yes.” She tried Norah’s, and the grin faltered. “This one… I don’t know, it’s more dangerous. Like, it sneaks up on you.” She wrote something in her own notepad and passed it to Emi, who nodded and did not share with the class.

Liesa, next to Sam, regarded the bowls with suspicion. She tried Riley’s, made a small appreciative sound, and went back for more. She tried Norah’s, made a face like she’d just been caught picking her nose on camera, and set her spoon down. “I cannot,” she said, pushing the bowl a full foot away. “Sorry, Norah. Too sneaky for me.”

Myra was next. She could sense the color of each bowl by the emotion radiating from the cooks and the audience. Riley’s bowl looked on fire. Norah’s bowl looked queasy. Neither looked particularly inviting. She tried Riley’s first. The moment the taste hit her tongue, she shivered. “It’s—alive,” she said, and licked her lips. She tried Norah’s and blinked, both fox tails fluffing up with what looked like pleasure. “Also alive, but in a different way.” She did not elaborate, and poured herself a big cup of milk.

Katherine was a wild card. When the bowl was passed to her, she lifted it and took a bite; immediately, her face cycled through five distinct expressions: astonishment, horror, intrigue, amusement, and finally something like pain. Then she did the same for Norah’s, this time landing on a calm, slightly self-satisfied grimace.

Marissa went last. She picked up a spoonful of Riley’s, sampled, and set her spoon down. There was a pause, then: “It’s edible,” she said, the words soft and deadpan. She tried Norah’s, and her eyes went wide for a second, like she’d just been shown a new type of trauma. She cleared her throat. “Now I know why Norah only makes three things,” Marissa said. “It’s a survival strategy.”

The room went quiet. Norah turned to face Marissa, who looked back without blinking. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of silverware, and the faint whimper from the far end, where Dawn was still trying to cool her mouth with a bread roll.

“Shall we vote?” Norah said, voice clipped.

Riley nodded, arms crossed. “Raise your hand for mine.”

Hands went up—Dawn’s, then Emily’s, then Emi’s, then Sam’s, then Liesa’s, then both of Laura’s. Myra hesitated, then put up her hand, too. Katherine gave a little double thumbs-up, which might or might not have been an official vote.

Riley did not celebrate. She only glanced down at her bowl, and then at Norah, as if to say: there you go.

Norah looked at the table, then at the bowl with the offending curry. She closed it, set it aside, and said, “I accept the results. Congratulations, Riley.”

Riley shrugged. “We’ll see if anyone survives the night.”

Emily, who had been watching this with an air of detached curiosity, said, “I think Andy and Claire are lucky to miss this.” Several women laughed, but it was nervous at the edges.

Erin said, “Honestly, I’m just glad the babies can’t taste anything yet.”

Dawn said, “I’m not sure I can taste anything either, now.”

The table broke into a subdued, slightly shell-shocked laughter. Some tried to go back for seconds, but most just reached for the raita and ate it straight, no spoon required.

Riley’s curry was declared the official winner, by virtue of being marginally edible, and the rest of the meal passed in a blur of milk, bread, and small talk about anything other than food.

When it was over, the harem drifted to the buffet, some seeking relief in the cold cuts and salad bar, others just grateful for the reprieve. Norah and Riley lingered at the table for a moment, then stood at the same time.

“That was a good contest,” Riley said. “You almost had me.”

Norah gave her a tight, appreciative nod. “Next time,” she said, “we do dessert.”

Riley grinned, the sharp edges gone. “Deal.”

The kitchen staff would be cleaning the air for hours. But the contest was done, the winner declared, and the harem lived to judge another day.