Moments

The spa was warm in a way that made the outside world seem fictional. Dawn nearly turned back three times between the elevator and the steamy threshold, but each time Marissa’s calm stride pulled her forward, like a tug on an invisible thread. The space was smaller than she’d imagined—intimate, as though designed for secrets. Pillar candles in glass jars flickered on every surface. The sound of bubbling water was everywhere: from the round hot tub in the center, the mineral pool along one wall, the piped-in trickle of a “Zen feature” that looked like an upmarket beer tap, the well-hidden door to the sauna. The air hung thick with eucalyptus and something softer, maybe sandalwood.

Dawn hesitated at the edge of a slate bench, eyes darting to the rack of folded towels, then to the row of spare bathrobes behind the door, then to the floor. Marissa watched her with the patience of a scientist studying a rare animal: interested, never mocking.

“Would you prefer the hot tub, or the pool?” Marissa asked, her voice low and even.

Dawn tried to smile. “Whatever you like. I’m… not picky.”

Marissa nodded, unhurried, then untied the belt of her robe and shrugged it off. Dawn saw, for the first time, what a G-cup did to a human body in the real world. It was… more than she’d expected. Not just size, but gravity, tension, the way the flesh drew every eye in the room even when you didn’t want it to. Marissa caught her staring and offered the faintest hint of amusement, but no apology.

“It’s rarely been a gift, you know,” Marissa said. She folded the robe and set it aside, then stepped to the edge of the tub. “I think people imagine it’s all fun, or that you get to choose how the world sees you. Mostly it’s the opposite.”

Dawn blinked. “I didn’t—” she started, but Marissa shook her head, silencing her with a gentle look.

“I’ve spent most of my career fighting to be seen for what’s above my neckline, not below. It gets exhausting. But you adapt.” She stepped into the water, lowering herself until the surface lapped at her collarbones, then gestured for Dawn to join her. “You adapt, or you let them decide who you are.”

Dawn’s ears burned. She untied her own robe with fumbling fingers, keeping her eyes locked on the floor as she folded it, then stepped into the tub as quickly as she could manage. The water was hotter than she expected, a shock that faded into a sort of relief. She folded her arms over her chest, both as shield and as comfort. “I guess I thought… it’d be easier. You always look so calm.”

Marissa smiled, the lines at her eyes softening. “That’s the trick. Never let them see you rattle. Even if your body feels like a borrowed suit and your mind is running diagnostics every second.”

Dawn sank further, until just her head showed above the surface. The heat crept into her bones, and she found it easier to speak. “Did you always want to be a therapist?”

Marissa considered, then shook her head. “I wanted to be a concert pianist. My mother taught at the conservatory. But my hands—” She flexed her fingers above the water, long and elegant—“they weren’t strong enough. Arthritis, runs in my family. So I learned to listen, instead of play.”

Dawn thought about that, watching the steam bead on Marissa’s shoulders. “Do you miss it?”

“Not as much as I thought I would,” Marissa said. “I still play, sometimes. For my sister. But I like the silence. And I like helping people make sense of what hurts.”

Dawn nodded, then tried to relax, but the question heavy on her tongue. Marissa noticed, of course. “You can say it,” she said. “It’s the reason I asked you here.”

Dawn squeezed the side of the tub with both hands. “I just… I wanted to know if you have any advice. About, you know. The thing Arabella did to me.”

Marissa nodded, her face going serious. “Does it bother you most when you’re alone, or when you’re with others?”

Dawn thought. “Alone, it’s not as bad. It’s like… a little echo. But when I’m with Andy, it’s so loud I can barely hear myself think. It’s embarrassing. I keep wanting to do things for him, and if I don’t, I get… itchy, or sad, or just wrong.” She swallowed, the words coming out faster. “Sometimes it’s not so bad. Sometimes it’s really, really bad. Like I can’t control it.”

Marissa listened, absorbing each word. “Compulsions aren’t new to psychology. People live with them all the time. Some crack under the pressure. Some survive. Some even thrive. What Arabella did to you may be artificial, but it’s not entirely unfamiliar.”

Dawn nodded, grateful. “So… what do I do?”

“Two things,” Marissa said, holding up her fingers. “First, you find a ritual. Something you can do to ground yourself, break the loop. When the compulsion rises, you do the ritual—count to ten, trace your wrist, whatever. It interrupts the circuit, just enough to remind you you’re in control. Even for a second.” She paused. “Second, you ask yourself what you actually want. Not what the magic wants, not what you think Andy wants. What you want. And you let that have a voice, even if it’s just in your head.”

Dawn frowned. “But what if I don’t know?”

Marissa smiled. “Then you try things, safely, until you figure it out.” She leaned back, letting the jets pummel her lower back, eyes closing in pleasure. “But you have to promise me something.”

Dawn blinked. “What?”

“If it gets to be too much, you tell someone. Me, or Andy, or Sam. Don’t let it fester. That’s how real harm starts.”

Dawn nodded, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since entering the spa. “Thank you,” she said. “I mean it.” She paused. “I feel like no one’s really asked me what I want. They just tell me to go with it, or not to let it show.”

Marissa opened her eyes. “You’d be surprised how many people never get asked that question. Not just here. In the world.”

Dawn let herself float, the heat creeping into every corner. For a while, they just sat in silence, the only sound the bubbling of the water and the muted crackle of the candles. It was as close to peace as Dawn had felt since arriving.

After a time, Marissa spoke again. “You’re nervous about tonight.”

Dawn started, then nodded. “Yeah. I hate being the first. I don’t know what to expect.”

Marissa gave a soft, sympathetic noise. “Do you want advice?”

Dawn nodded, **** and hopeful.

“Decide what your goal is,” Marissa said. “Is it to impress Andy? To survive the night? To enjoy yourself? There’s no wrong answer, but you need to have one. Otherwise you’ll just react, and the compulsion will win.”

Dawn thought, then said, “I guess I just don’t want to mess up. I don’t want Andy to think I’m… broken.”

“He already knows you’re not,” Marissa said, her voice sure. “But you don’t have to prove anything. Just be honest. If it’s overwhelming, tell him. If it’s not, then enjoy it. I believe Andy will be careful.”

Dawn smiled, the answer simple but, for the first time, possible. “Thanks. Really. It means a lot.”

Marissa nodded, then changed the subject, as if to protect the delicate moment. “Did you know the mineral pool is supposed to be good for your skin?”

Dawn laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “It’s got to be better than the hard water in Chicago. My hands used to crack every winter.”

Marissa grinned, and for a second, she looked young and relaxed. “Let’s try it. The candles make it look like a witch’s cauldron, but I promise it’s safe.”

They stood, Dawn averting her eyes as Marissa rose to her full height. She tried not to compare herself—tried not to feel like a twelve-year-old next to a Victoria’s Secret model—but the difference was so stark it bordered on comedy. Marissa caught her blushing and offered a gentle, knowing look.

“You get used to it,” she said, voice soft. “Eventually you just become yourself, and the rest is noise.”

They crossed to the mineral pool, water cool and slick compared to the hot tub, and slipped in side by side. The air felt lighter here, the smell of eucalyptus giving way to the faint tang of sea salt. They floated, shoulders touching, eyes fixed on the flickering lights above.

Dawn let the silence stretch, then said, “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Of course,” Marissa replied.

“Do you think Andy will ever get used to this? All of it?” She waved her hand, indicating the hotel, the rules, the strange new world.

Marissa thought for a long moment. “He’s adaptable, but not immune to pain. He’ll do his best to protect us all. That’s his nature. But he’ll never stop feeling responsible.” She turned, eyes earnest. “If you want to help him, be honest. Let him see when you’re struggling. And see him when he is the one who is struggling. He doesn’t need you to be perfect. He just needs you to be real.”

Dawn nodded, the advice nestling into her chest like a warm stone.

They floated a while longer, letting the world fall away. When they finally stood, toweling off and wrapping themselves in soft robes, Dawn felt lighter, steadier, as though she’d borrowed a piece of Marissa’s calm for herself.

As they left the spa, Dawn turned to Marissa and, before she could lose her nerve, hugged her—quick and fierce, then gone.

“Thank you,” she said.

Marissa smiled, her arms lingering a second longer than necessary. “Anytime,” she said. “We’re all in this together.”

They walked back to their rooms, steam trailing behind them like a secret.

The garden hall was the quietest place in the hotel, adjacent to the inner gardens, and yet a world away. A cold grid of sunlight crawled across the stone floor, poured through stained glass in stripes of blue and gold, and turned the edges of every shadow to a kind of pale fire. Claire sat at a two-top in the farthest corner, her notebook open, a cheap black pen poised between her fingers. She looked calm. Serene, even. If anyone had looked closely enough, though, they might have seen the knuckles white from how hard she gripped the pen, or the way her breath came in little measured puffs that always fogged her glasses.

Erin sat across from her, perched on the edge of a wrought-iron chair, her entire body in a state of rebellion. She could not keep her feet still. One heel jiggled an arrhythmic tattoo against the floor; the other leg kept crossing and uncrossing, as if no position could possibly be the right one for more than half a second. Her hands were worse: when she wasn’t folding them into fists, she was drumming them on her thigh, her movements sharp and clipped.

For a long time, they just sat in the sunlight. Claire wrote nothing. Erin watched the patterns on the table, waiting to see if the other woman would write anything. She didn’t. At last, Erin said, “You’re not what I expected.”

Claire’s pen hovered. She glanced up, eyes big and very, very blue behind her glasses. She didn’t nod, but she didn’t look away, either.

“I mean, Andy never really mentioned you,” Erin went on, the words tumbling out as though she’d practiced them. “You’d think, with all the years, there would have been stories, or, I don’t know, drama. But you’re just… here. Silent and watching.” She tried a smile, but the muscles wouldn’t cooperate. “I’m not very good at small talk, sorry.”

Claire pressed the tip of her pen to the page, then wrote with swift, practiced letters. She tore out the sheet and slid it across the table.

He didn’t talk about me because I was the one who hurt him. Not the other way around. I didn’t know I was doing it, but that’s what happened.

Erin frowned, studying the page as if it were a crossword she could not quite solve. “How’d you hurt him?” she asked, careful to keep her voice neutral.

Claire’s pen barely paused.

I was his friend, and I didn’t even realize he wanted something more. I did not see the signs. For a long time. Not until he told me. And I did not explain myself well. I was scared. When I tried to fix it, it was too late. He was already gone.

Erin read, then set the paper down and reached for her water glass. She didn’t drink. “You seem very calm about it,” she said, and this time she didn’t bother to mask the edge. “If I did that to someone, I’d never sleep again.”

Claire blinked, once, slow and deliberate. Then she wrote:

I didn’t sleep, not for years. But I cleared the air with Andy last night. We talked it out. He’s forgiven me. I think.

Erin’s jaw twitched. “That easy, huh? He’s just okay with it?”

Another line appeared, rapid-fire.

He’s not okay. But he’s decided to move on. He always does that.

Erin leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped so tight the veins stood out. “I’m not sure if I want to move on. Not like that.” She looked at Claire, searching her face. “You know, it’s weird. I thought you’d be more of a threat.”

Claire tilted her head. Wrote:

I’m not competing.

“Everyone’s competing. That’s the point,” Erin said, her voice a bit louder than before. “Even if you’re not trying, you’re still here. And if it comes down to you or me, you’ll fight.”

Claire thought for a second, then wrote:

I don’t want to fight. But I won’t let him get hurt again.

Erin laughed, short and bitter. “He’s the last one who’s going to get hurt, if you ask me.” She shook her head. “Can I ask you something?”

Claire nodded.

“Can you really… feel what he feels? Like Arabella said?”

Claire scribbled quickly.

Yes. It’s like being nearly in tune with a radio station, but not quite. As if I could almost hear his thoughts, but not quite. His feelings, yes. And what he needs.

Erin considered this, then said, “So what’s he feeling now?”

Claire hesitated, then wrote:

Right now, nothing. He’s not here. Erin smirked. She could see deflection when it was placed in front of her.

“But if he was?”

Another pause. Then:

He’s always sad, but the shape of the sadness is different for each of us. For you, it’s guilt.

Erin froze. “Guilt?” She scoffed. “He should hate me. He should at least be angry.”

Claire shrugged, a slight, almost invisible movement. She scribbled:

He doesn’t hate you. He’s not even angry. Just sad.

Erin sat back, her posture slumping for the first time since she’d arrived. “Are you kidding?” she said, as if she needed the words to clarify. “He’s not mad at me? After everything?”

Claire shook her head, slow and certain.

Erin let the silence stretch, her mind chasing old ghosts in every direction. “That’s not… what I expected,” she said finally.

Claire wrote:

What did you expect?

“I thought he’d want to punish me. Or… that he’d be cold, the way he was near the end. I never thought he’d just be sad.”

Another line appeared:

I think he believes he failed you.

Erin barked a laugh, sharp and cruel. “Well, he didn’t. I broke myself, long before I met him.” She drummed her fingers again, but the motion was slower now, less frantic. “I don’t know what to do with that. With the idea that he just… feels sorry for me.”

Claire tapped her pen, thoughtful. Then she wrote:

Sometimes it’s enough just to know.

Erin didn’t reply. She picked at a thread on her shirt sleeve, eyes darting over the table, the walls, the distant windows. “It’s never been enough, for me,” she said, her voice small. “But maybe it should be. I don’t know.”

The two women sat in silence, the sun inching across the table, their shadows stretching toward each other until they almost touched.

Finally, Erin stood, chair scraping softly. She didn’t say goodbye, just nodded once and walked away. Claire watched her go, then gathered up the loose sheets of paper, folded them, and pressed them flat into her notebook.

Sam hadn’t meant to end up in the gardens, but Norah’s pointed “Let’s get some air” made her realize she’d been holding her breath for hours, metaphorically speaking. She let Norah lead, mostly because she needed a break from decisions, and partly because Emi was trailing behind, distracted by the colors, the birds, and her own tangle of arms.

The Inner Gardens looked like a dream sketched by a botanist with too much time and unlimited resources. Exotic flowers exploded from every raised bed: bleeding hearts, lilies, things that looked like melting candelabras or stalks of neon celery. Stone paths meandered under canopies of old, thick trees, their bark polished smooth by centuries or by whatever magic kept the place alive. Birds called to each other from high above, not one of them a species Sam recognized. The air was thick with perfume—sweet, green, and a little bit dizzying.

They walked in single file for a while, none of them speaking, each chewing through her own set of troubles. Sam noticed the small things: the way Norah’s ponytail lashed from side to side like a metronome while her newly enhanced hips swayed provocatively with each step, the way Emi kept all her arms folded in a careful hug across her torso, as if afraid they’d get ideas and start acting on their own.

Sam let them set the pace. She wasn’t sure why she’d come, except that being inside with her own thoughts seemed worse. The hotel had a suffocating effect, even in the most luxurious of rooms. Here, at least, the smells and sounds and colors offered the illusion of escape.

“Do you wonder if the plants are real?” Norah asked, stopping beside a velvet-purple orchid the size of a salad plate. “Or if it’s just the same three flowers copied and pasted everywhere?”

Sam considered it. “I dunno, but I bet if you licked one you’d find out fast enough.”

Norah shot her a look. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sam grinned. “But it’s what you needed to hear.”

Emi caught up, her arms—six of them now, and she’d almost stopped apologizing for it—wrapped awkwardly around a huge bundle of feathery grass she’d picked. “These are real,” she said, voice hushed, big smile on her lips. “You can tell by the way they bend. Real grass never bends the same way twice.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but Sam caught the corner of her mouth twitching. “You gonna collect everything? It’s not a scavenger hunt.”

Emi shook her head, the motion setting her black bob swinging. “It’s for a sketch. I want to remember this, in case we don’t get another walk.”

Sam blinked. “Is that a thing? Do you think they’ll take away our yard privileges?”

“I think,” Norah said, “that the game will get a lot less chill after the first round.” She kicked at a clump of violets, then looked up at the sky, which was already losing its color to the oncoming dark. “Stuff like this always does. And I think the worst part of all this isn’t the transformations,” she said, her voice carrying in the stillness. “It’s the waiting. The not knowing.”

Sam shrugged and sat beside her, leaving space in the middle. “The transformations are pretty bad,” she said. “I mean, Emi’s basically one step from a Marvel character, and I’m this close to bawling my eyes out if I don’t get my daily hug fix.”

Emi, who’d been staring at a cluster of white trumpet-shaped flowers, blushed and said, “I think they’re beautiful.” She caught herself, then amended: “The flowers, I mean.”

Norah snorted. “Sure, but at least you got something out of it, Kim. I get extra top-heaviness, the height of a twelve-year-old, and a center of gravity that makes me feel like I’m walking in zero-G.” She leaned back, arms crossed under her new bust, and let her eyes drift upward. “I’ve been trying to distract myself. It never lasts more than a minute.”

Sam watched the breeze stir the garden, the way light moved through the leaves and made shifting patterns on the gravel.

Emi wandered over, and her arms had loosened, two of them now absently picking at the petals of a dandelion, the others resting on her hips. She looked at Norah and Sam, then said, “Do you think there’s a reason it’s us? Like, why we’re the ones who got picked?” She shrugged, a six-armed gesture so complicated Sam nearly laughed. “It just seems weird.”

Norah straightened, frowning. “You’re right,” she said. “Why us? Why not any of the other women Cooper knew?” She turned to Sam, “Did you ask him?”

Sam shook her head. “I think he’s just as confused as we are. Maybe more. He spent the first night trying to apologize to everyone, I suspect. He tried with me. It was almost funny.”

Norah smiled, a flash of white teeth, but it faded quick. “He’s a sucker for guilt trips. Makes him easy to manipulate.” She caught Sam’s look and said, “Not that you’d ever do that, obviously.”

Sam snorted. “Please. I’m the only one here who doesn’t want anything from him.” She looked at Emi, “What about you?”

Emi shook her head, hair flying. “I’m just happy to be somewhere new. And, um, to get to know everyone. Even if it’s like this.”

A long silence followed, the kind where you realize you might have more in common with strangers than with your own family. Birds chirped overhead, and a pair of bright blue butterflies circled Emi’s head, almost drawn to her. Sam let herself relax, just a little. The gardens really did feel peaceful.

Eventually, Norah stood and said, “I’m bored. Let’s walk.” She led the way, Sam and Emi following. The path split at a fork, and they hesitated.

Sam said, “Split up? Might cover more ground.”

Norah shrugged and went left. Emi, after a moment’s indecision, went right. Sam hesitated, then trailed after Emi, but slowly, giving her space.

Emi walked in a meandering, unhurried way, stopping to examine every weird bud and fern, her extra arms running careful inventory of every surface. Once, she nearly tripped, but caught herself with two lower arms, then giggled at her own clumsiness. Sam watched from a few steps back, marveling at how quickly Emi had adapted. It wasn’t normal. It was superhuman. And yet in many ways, she almost seemed a child.

At a bend in the path, Emi paused, transfixed by something Sam couldn’t see. She stepped off the gravel, into a patch of tall blue flowers, and then gasped.

Sam caught up just as Emi reached the edge of a small clearing. There, at the exact center, was a rose bush. But not a normal one: the blooms were a color Sam had never seen before, not even on a paint swatch or the most cursed Instagram filter. They were blue—really blue—not the dusty navy of store-bought roses, but electric and alive, glowing in the late afternoon sun.

Emi’s eyes went wide. She reached out, six arms splayed, unable to decide which would get to touch first. “It’s real,” she said, breathless.

Sam stared, then blinked. “I think I just lost a bet with myself.” She looked at Emi, who was already kneeling to sniff one of the blooms. “Careful, it could be—”

“—poison? I know,” Emi finished. “But I think it’s safe. Nothing in this place hurts unless it wants to.” She stroked the petals, so gentle it was like a mother with a newborn.

Sam stood back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. She turned away, scanning the tree line, but stopped dead when she saw the familiar crimson of Arabella’s dress at the edge of the clearing.

Arabella didn’t speak, not at first. She just watched, arms folded, eyes narrowed in polite amusement. When Sam finally met her gaze, the Host smiled, a sharp white crescent.

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Arabella said, walking forward, heels somehow not sinking into the mossy earth.

Emi looked up, startled. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice small.

Arabella nodded. “I thought you’d appreciate it.” She turned to Sam, “Would you mind giving us a moment? I promise I won’t bite.”

Sam hesitated, then shrugged and stepped a few paces back, leaning against a tree. She couldn’t hear the words, but watched as Arabella knelt beside Emi, picking up one of the blue roses and holding it out.

Emi took it, all six arms trembling. “How does it grow like this?” she asked.

Arabella smiled, softer this time. “Water remembers long after memory has faded. Sometimes, the impossible is the only honest thing.” She watched as Emi turned the bloom over and over, studying its petals.

“Are you adjusting?” Arabella asked, voice kind.

Emi thought, then nodded. “It’s hard, sometimes. My brain gets mixed up, and I drop things. And my new hands… seem to like playing with me. But… I like being able to do more. It feels like I could hold the whole world, if I had to.”

Arabella beamed. “Good. That’s the idea.” She dusted invisible pollen off her skirt, then said, “If you ever want to try something… more, the Commissary has options. Or you could ask Andy to help. He’d never say no to you.”

Emi’s cheeks flushed. “I don’t want to trouble him.”

“It would not trouble him,” Arabella said, her voice dropping lower. “He cares about you. Maybe more than you think.”

Emi looked at her hands, then at the rose. “He was always nice to me,” she whispered. “He and Laura, they were always kind.”

Arabella nodded, and for a second, she seemed genuinely moved. “How did it feel, seeing him again?”

Emi started to answer, then stopped. “I don’t know. Like nothing changed, but everything did.”

Arabella’s smile faded to something almost pained. “You are the only one, besides Marissa, who knows what happened to Andy,” she said. “The others—they only guess. But you were there. You saw the beginning, even if you didn’t see the end.”

Emi looked down, sad. “I was already gone by then,” she said. “But I remember.”

Arabella rested a hand on her shoulder. “Keep an eye on him, won’t you? He needs someone who remembers the old world.”

Emi nodded, not trusting her voice. She looked at the rose again, and said, “I’ve only seen this color once before. Not on a rose, but… in a dream, maybe. Or in the glint of someone’s eyes.”

Arabella smiled. “Sometimes, dreams come first. The rest of us only catch up later.” She stood, brushing off her dress. “What will you do now?”

Emi considered, then said, “I’ll try to keep growing. Like the roses.”

Arabella smiled, a full, approving smile. “Wonderful. That’s all any of us can do.”

She turned and walked away, heels silent on the moss, vanishing between the trees as if she’d never been there at all.

Sam wandered back into the clearing, unsure if she was interrupting, but Emi smiled at her and held out the blue rose. “Look,” Emi said, “I think it’s magic.”

Sam took it, careful not to prick herself. The petals felt cool and impossibly soft. “I think you’re right,” she said, and meant it.

They walked back to the main path, Emi still turning the rose in her hands. They left the clearing behind, but Sam glanced back just before they turned the corner. In the spot where the rose bush had been, there was only a shimmer of blue, gone as soon as she blinked.