Aftermath

Chapter X: An Elusive Heart

VP and BP Standings
Dawn - 3 VP - 2000 BP
Sam - 2 VP - 2500 BP
Claire - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Dawn - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Emi - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Liesa - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Marissa - 0 VP - 1500 BP
Erin - 0 VP - 1000 BP
Norah - 0 VP - 1000 BP

Andy woke to the smell of cinnamon and coffee, a combination so domestic and benign that it took him a solid thirty seconds to realize he was still in the Master’s Suite, not back in Chicago, not in any real-world memory. Beside him, the bed was empty, the impression of Dawn’s body already faded from the pillow. For a moment he lay there, eyes closed, trying to reconstruct the night—her warmth against his chest, the gentle rise and fall of her breath, the way her hair tickled his jaw when she rolled over in her sleep. He remembered holding her, remembered the feeling of her fingers interlaced with his. He remembered the quiet, and how for the first time in a long time, it had felt like safety.

He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stretched, joints creaking. He was still in his T-shirt and boxers, but someone—Dawn, obviously—had folded his jeans and shirt into a perfect stack on the floor, at the foot of the bed. This lack of furniture in the bedroom was disorienting. The room was full of new light, the sunrise off the ocean throwing orange streaks across the walls. He shrugged into his jeans and shirt, then followed the smell of food.

Dawn was in the kitchen, still in her oversized t-shirt, hair in a neat ponytail with a few rebellious strands falling around her face. She was bent over the stove, flipping something in a pan, and humming—actually humming, like she was starring in her own cooking show. The sight was so normal it made Andy’s heart ache, just a little.

She sensed him before he said anything. “Good morning, Mr. Cooper,” she called, then caught herself and shook her head, smiling. “Sorry, Andy. **** of habit.”

He grinned. “You didn’t have to get up so early, you know. Compulsion or not, you’re allowed to lounge in bed.”

She rolled her eyes, but the blush spread across her cheeks. “It’s not the compulsion. I just—” she stopped, spooning cinnamon into a French press, “I always wake up before dawn. Old habit from the hotel, I guess. I thought I’d fix breakfast while you slept in. I hope that’s okay.”

He leaned against the counter, watching her. “You don’t have to do that either, Dawn.”

Dawn set the press aside, wiped her hands on a towel, and turned to face him. “I know,” she said, voice low. “But I wanted to.” She hesitated, then added, “I mean it. I don’t even feel the compulsion right now. Unless you ask for something. Which, by the way, you haven’t.” She shrugged, as if embarrassed by her own forwardness. “I guess I just wanted to do something nice for you. After last night.”

Andy tried to find the right words. “You were great, Dawn. Really.”

She smiled, but there was a note of self-consciousness in it. “It’s just, I’ve never—” She glanced at the pan, then back at him. “I’ve never really dated anyone. Not like you, anyway. Not that this was a date. I mean, obviously it was a date, but—” She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

He laughed. “I’m pretty sure it counts as a date if you spend the night spooning. I had a good time.”

She brightened, relief loosening her shoulders. “Me too,” she said. “I was worried I’d be awkward, or that you’d be disappointed, or…” She trailed off, then focused on the stove with laser precision. “You know, I read this article once about how first dates are like job interviews, but with more eye contact and less lying.”

He thought about it, then said, “You didn’t seem awkward. I liked talking with you. And you make a mean cup of tea.”

She grinned, ducking her head. “I’m even better at breakfast than tea, actually. My grandma taught me.” She slid a plate onto the counter—french toast, perfectly browned, with a side of fresh berries. She poured two cups of coffee, handed him one, then perched on the edge of a barstool, ankle crossed over knee.

He took a bite of the french toast. It was perfect. “If this whole hotel thing doesn’t work out, you could have your own brunch place. I’m serious.”

Dawn laughed, really laughed, and it made him want to keep saying dumb things just to see her smile. “Maybe I will,” she said. She watched him eat, then, a little more serious: “I wanted to thank you. For last night. I know it was weird, me being **** to stay, but you made it… not weird. Or, at least, less weird than it could have been.”

He nodded. “It wasn’t weird. Or, if it was, it was good-weird.”

She looked at him, something in her gaze steady and searching. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

She hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “Were you… expecting more? Last night? Than just sleeping, I mean.”

He considered. “I don’t think I was expecting anything. I was just glad you were there.”

She held his gaze, eyes wide and earnest. “Okay,” she said, soft. “I just—I’ve never been good at reading signals. My brothers always said I was the last to catch on to anything. So if I missed something, I wanted to know.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t miss anything. I’m not exactly great at signals myself.”

Dawn blushed, smiled again, then reached for the berries, popping one into her mouth. “Good,” she said, voice muffled. “Because I liked how it went. I felt… comfortable. I haven’t felt that way in a long time.”

Andy wanted to say something profound, but all he could muster was, “Me too.”

They sat in companionable silence, eating, listening to the quiet click of the clock and the distant crash of waves on the beach. Dawn finished her food, then wiped her hands on a napkin, almost ceremonially.

She glanced at the hallway, then back at Andy, suddenly sheepish. “I should, um, get ready for the day. I’m supposed to meet with Claire and Emi.” She stood, collecting their plates, and paused. “Thanks for being nice to me,” she said. “I know you didn’t have to.”

He stood, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. “It was easy,” he said. “You make it easy. I look forward to our next date.”

She laughed, shook her head, then—before he could say another word—stepped in close and kissed him, quick and clumsy, on the lips. Then she squeaked, actually squeaked, and bolted for the bathroom, her face the color of a ripe tomato.

Andy stood there, stunned, for a full ten seconds before he started laughing, deep and honest and helpless. He heard the shower start in the bathroom, the sound of water and the muffled clatter of bottles. He ran a finger over his lips, still warm from the kiss.

He sat back at the breakfast bar, stared at the empty plate, and wondered how in a world so full of madness and magic, a simple breakfast could feel more real than anything else.

Dawn left for her own room around eight, and Andy, not sure where else to go, offered to accompany her in the elevator. She accepted happily, and they rode together in silence, the kind that was companionable, not strained. Mr. Sniffles was securely in the crook of her arm. On her floor, she stepped out and gave him a quick, embarrassed wave. He watched her disappear around the corner, then let the elevator close behind him. On a whim, he decided to take a walk in the gardens.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. So he put them in his pockets and started walking.

The gardens behind the hotel were wilder than he remembered from the tour. The pathways were paved with soft, crushed granite, and bordered by beds of flowers so bright they looked photoshopped. Andy ran a hand along the top of a low hedge, the waxy leaves cool and smooth. He lost himself in the pattern of the paths, following the scent of something sweet and unfamiliar—jasmine, maybe, or some engineered cousin. He thought about Dawn, about how natural it had felt to eat breakfast together, even with all the magic and compulsion layered between them.

He walked the paths at random, passing fountains shaped like women carrying jugs, wrought-iron benches painted to a high gloss, a small cactus incongruously surrounded by a tall fence, with a single flower growing on top of it, and rows of flowers so perfect they seemed cloned from a single cell. The paths braided and turned, designed to confuse the guest’s sense of direction and stretch the grounds larger than logic would allow. Many of the more tasteful decorations were recent, or so they seemed. He lost himself, intentionally, until the hotel’s white-walled main building seemed a rumor of a memory, and even the ocean’s distant growl was a suggestion, not a fact.

He liked it better out here. The gardens felt old, like someone had tried to transplant the grounds of a forgotten Viennese palace and only half succeeded. There were moments when he could almost forget the game, the Audience, the transformations. Only almost.

He was about to double back when he spotted the library. He hadn’t noticed it before. It was a stone annex, one story tall and windowless, built into the slope of a small hill. A narrow walkway led to a heavy oak door banded with iron and, when he pressed it open, the familiar scent of dust and old paper wrapped around him, calming as a mother’s hug.

The lights were already on. Not the harsh LEDs of the rest of the resort, but old-fashioned sconces, their bulbs flickering like the flame they were meant to imitate. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall, crammed with leather-bound volumes in varying shades of tan and brown. A ladder on rails beckoned him, but he ignored it, wandering the perimeter and reading titles at random. There were old philosophy tomes, shelves of histories—some of them about places he didn’t think existed—and at least one full run of a nineteenth-century French erotica series, complete with ribald woodcuts. He smiled. He should tell Claire about this place… although on second thought, she’d hole herself up here and never come out.

He let his hand drift along the shelves. To his surprise, a thin layer of dust stained his fingers. How long had it been since anyone had entered this place? When he reached the back corner, he found a cluster of oversized armchairs arranged around a low marble table, on which a chessboard waited mid-game, the pieces arranged in a position he didn’t recognize. The chairs were the kind old men fought to die in. Andy lowered himself into one, feeling the leather cup him, and stared at the chessboard for a while, trying to imagine what Arabella or whoever ran this place expected of him next.

He thought, not for the first time, about the Host. About the moment, two days earlier, when he'd called her out, and the look she'd given him. He tried to reconcile the teasing, almost maternal version of her with the ruthless magician, the woman who could undo the rules of reality with a flick of her fingers and a smile. He wondered if she ever slept, or if she simply stood in a dark room somewhere, waiting for the next line in the script to prompt her.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He didn’t sleep, not exactly. He just drifted, letting the sounds of the resort fade out—until a whisper of movement, almost inaudible, brushed against his ear.

He jerked upright, and Arabella was seated across the table from him.

Her arrival hadn’t made a sound. She sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap, but her eyes gleamed, alive and amused. Today she wore a black cocktail dress, cut high at the neck and low at the back, sleeveless. Her hair fell in perfect waves, and the only sign of unreality about her was the way the air near her shoulders seemed to shimmer, just a little, as if she were running a low-grade fever invisible to the naked eye.

“Andy,” she said with a warm smile, the accent more pronounced in the hush of the library. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He stared at her, more annoyed at himself for being startled than at her for appearing. “Do you ever knock?” he asked. She grinned, slow and warm. “I do always seem to come upon you while you doze, Andy.” She pronounced his name as if tasting it for the first time. “Would you like coffee? Or tea?” She waved her hand, and suddenly, as if it had always been there, a silver tray appeared at the edge of the table, laden with both.

He blinked. “You always do that?”

She arched a brow. “Offer hospitality? Of course. It’s the first rule of good hosting.”

He snorted, reached for the coffee, poured himself a cup. “I meant the magic tricks. The... editing of reality.”

She pretended to think it over, then sat in the armchair opposite his. She moved with fluidity, never breaking eye contact. “Only when necessary. Or when it would amuse me. Or,” she leaned in, voice a half-step softer, “when the situation requires a certain... touch.” She sipped her tea, pinky extended in what had to be ironic homage.

For a minute, neither of them spoke.

“Is this your office hours?” Andy said, finally. “Or am I being evaluated for some secret merit badge?”

Arabella laughed, not unkind. “Neither. I was simply curious to see where the Master would wander, if left to his own devices. You have a tendency to seek out libraries, did you know that?”

He shrugged. “Habit. Or maybe I’m just looking for a manual on how to survive this place.”

She set her cup down. “If there were such a manual, would you read it, or would you just scan for the index and the loopholes?”

He smiled, despite himself. “I was a software developer. Loopholes are the whole point.”

She gave a slow, approving nod. “Then you’re precisely where you ought to be.” She sat back, folding her hands in her lap. “May I ask you something, Andy?”

He hesitated. “Sure.”

“Why are you so afraid of power?”

The question was blunt, almost childish, and it caught him off guard. He looked away, studied the chessboard. “I’m not.”

She laughed, gently. “Oh, but you are. You’ve been running from it since you got here. Even before that, I think.”

He stared at the board, at the black queen poised to take the white bishop. “I don’t like the kind of power you speak of. I don’t like hurting people. Even by accident.”

Arabella tilted her head. “And you believe all power is harm, by definition?”

He didn’t answer. She let the silence do the work.

“I wonder,” she said, voice low and thoughtful, “if it’s not power itself that bothers you, but the fear that you might become someone who abuses it.” Her eyes were sharp, flensing. “You’re not the villain, Andy. Not in this story. Unless you want to be.”

He winced. “You say that as if you know the ending.”

She smiled, small and enigmatic. “No one knows the ending. Not even me.”

He shot her a look. “That’s hard to believe. You control everything here.”

Arabella’s face went perfectly still, the playfulness leeching out. For the first time, he saw something brittle in her, a hairline crack running through the mask. “You misunderstand,” she said, and her voice was different—less Host, more... what? “Even I have masters, Andy. Even I play by rules I did not write.”

He felt the temperature in the room drop a degree. “The people who run the show.”

She nodded, slow. “You may think I am a goddess, but I am as bound as you. More, perhaps. My job is to make this seem effortless, to give you the illusion of choice. But there are boundaries I cannot cross.” She looked at her own hands, as if surprised to see them, and to Andy’s surprise, she sighed. “If I could change the rules, I would have done so long ago.”

He studied her, watching for the trick, the sleight of hand. “So what, you’re just another pawn?”

Her eyes flicked to the chessboard, then back to him. “It’s possible to be a pawn and a player, simultaneously. But that’s not what you want to hear.”

He shook his head. “I want to know why you’re telling me this. What’s in it for you?”

She smiled, but there was no triumph in it. “Maybe I’m tired of the script. Maybe I’m hoping, this time, the story will go differently. Maybe—” she paused, then said, “I am allowed a little latitude, now and then. Consider this a gift.”

Andy leaned forward, elbows on knees. “If there are rules you can’t break, then what am I supposed to do? Just sit back and let you destroy my life and the lives of the women I care about?”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t look away. “You misunderstand again. My goal is not to destroy anyone. If you lose, if you become what you fear most—then my part is done, and I disappear. But if you win, if you do the impossible, then maybe... we both get free.”

He stared at her, heart pounding. “Free of what?”

She made a tiny gesture, as if flicking away a mote of dust. “That is the game, isn’t it? To discover what you’re really playing for.” She glanced at her tea, then looked up at him, eyes shining with a sincerity so sudden and raw that he almost believed her. “I will never lie to you, Andy. Not even once. That’s my only advantage, perhaps. And yours. And if you ever need to know whether something is true or not, you can ask me. I will tell you.”

He didn’t know what to say. So he just nodded.

“And in the spirit of not lying, I will tell you one thing, Andy.” She leaned forward, her eyes so intense he almost recoiled. “We have not even begun our game. Transformations, like Claire is discovering—or Emi, for that matter—don’t have to be curses. We are all bound by the wishes of the Producers and by the whims of the audience, but look carefully, Andy. And… play the game. Show me—and yourself—who you truly are. I did not lie, when I welcomed you to the Master's Suite. Your choices will determine the fate not just of yourself, but of the women bound to your harem, both the eight you have met thus far, and the others still to come.” She smiled warmly. “I assure you, Andy, it’s in your interest to play.”

Arabella stood, as fluidly as she’d sat. She smoothed her skirt, then turned to go. At the door, she paused, hand on the knob.

“Andy,” she said, not looking back. “There is no manual. But if you’re clever enough, you’ll write one before the end.” Her voice dropped a note, almost affectionate. “Take care of them. All of them.”

He waited until she was gone, the echo of her perfume hanging in the air, before he slumped back into the chair and let out a long, ragged breath.

He looked at the chessboard, at the frozen battle, and reached out to tip the white king over. The move felt right.

He left the library, garden dirt still clinging to his shoes, and took the long way back to the Suite. He didn’t know if he trusted Arabella, but he knew she hadn’t lied. Not yet.

The thought was more comforting than it should have been.

The sitting room off the central hallway looked as if it had been stolen from an English manor and drop-shipped, whole, into the Harem Hotel. Sunlight poured in through gauzy curtains, scattering itself over a round table set with pastries and tiny, jewel-toned teacups. The air was thick with the scent of cardamom buns and fresh-cut fruit. Dawn, Claire, Emi, and Marissa occupied four of the six overstuffed chairs, their bodies radiating the sleepy energy of a morning-after brunch.

Dawn was animated, her hands a blur as she recounted the night. “He was such a gentleman,” she said, voice hovering on the edge of a giggle. “Like, I could tell the compulsion was there—every time I wanted to tidy something, or pour tea, or offer to make the bed, it prickled in the back of my brain. But he never made me do anything. He just… let me be.”

She blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know it’s silly, but I really thought he’d—” She stopped, looking for a tactful word. “—take advantage.”

Marissa smiled, eyes soft. “It’s not silly, Dawn. The game is designed to make you doubt yourself. That’s the real challenge.”

Claire scribbled furiously in her notebook, lips pursed in concentration. She’d found an old fountain pen in her room, and was obsessed with the inky loops it made. After a minute, she flipped the notebook around so everyone could see:

I am happy for you! It sounds like Andy was understanding.

Then, on a new line, in smaller writing:

I look forward to my time with him tonight.

A tiny, nervous smile curved her mouth.

Dawn leaned over to squeeze her knee. “He is a good man. If anything, he’ll be even more awkward about the night, because he likes you.” She winked, then realized that probably made it worse, but Claire just blushed and nodded.

Emi, meanwhile, had been holding a teacup in her top right hand, a book in her second right, a scone in her bottom right, and a napkin daintily in her top left. The other two arms fidgeted, folding and unfolding in her lap, and it was clear she was getting better at controlling them, at least when she focused. Marissa commented, “You seem to have acquired greater control over your errant limbs.”

Emi looked up from the scone, powdered sugar dusting her lips, and nodded slowly. She said, “I was scared, at first, that the extra arms would make everything… harder. But actually, it’s easier than I thought. I can write and snack and drink tea at the same time. I’m getting the hang of it quickly.” She beamed, then, as if embarrassed, dropped her gaze. “Sometimes, though, if I’m not paying attention, the hands just… do their own thing.”

Marissa, who’d been watching Emi with undisguised professional interest, chimed in. “That’s to be expected. Your brain is adapting to a new neural network, essentially. It will take time for your motor cortex to catch up.” She sipped her black coffee, then added, “I suspect you’ll have full control by the end of the week, if you practice.”

Emi, who’d been focused on slicing a banana into perfect coins, looked up. Her six hands worked independently—one held the knife, one steadied the fruit, one reached for the honey, another balanced a teacup, a fifth clutched a napkin, and the last hovered uncertainly over the plate, as if waiting for instructions. It was both impressive and a little overwhelming.

“I’m getting better at using them,” she said, each hand contributing to the sentence. “During the day, anyway.” She gestured, and all six arms wove together, folding neatly in her lap. “But at night, they… have a mind of their own.”

Marissa leaned forward, professional curiosity lit in her eyes. “How do you mean?”

Emi blushed, gaze dropping. “When I sleep, they start… touching me. My regular arms, too, but the new ones don’t stop. And the dreams—” She faltered, cheeks going from pink to red. “They’re very vivid.”

Claire stopped writing.

Vivid how?

Emi hesitated, then said, in a rush: “They keep touching me. All over. And I’m scared that if Andy is in bed, I won’t be able to control myself. That I’ll… do something embarrassing. Or worse.”

Marissa nodded, hands folded. “It’s not uncommon for new appendages to assert themselves while the conscious mind is resting. Phantom limb, but in reverse. If you’re worried, we can try a sleep position that limits range of motion.”

Dawn, who had been silent, reached over and touched Emi’s real hand. “He won’t be mad. If anything, I think he’d be flattered.” She smiled. “And if it gets too weird, you can always wake him up. That’s what I did.”

Emi smiled, but it was small and uncertain. “Thanks. I just—I’ve never had to worry about this kind of thing before. I used to think I had too much body for most people to handle, and now… it’s literally true.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sigh.

Claire tore a page from her notebook, wrote something on it, and passed it to Emi. Emi read it, then grinned, the tension leaving her shoulders.

Marissa poured herself a cup of tea, added a sugar cube, and stirred. “We should probably practice. See if we can make you more comfortable.”

Emi nodded. “I’d like that.” She reached for another banana, and for a moment all six hands moved in perfect harmony.

Dawn leaned back in her chair, cradling her cup. “I never thought I’d feel safe here,” she said, almost to herself. “But this—” she gestured around the table, “—this feels good.”

The others agreed, each in their own way: Marissa with a smile, Emi with a new determination, Claire with a scribbled note.

Outside, a breeze rattled the leaves in the courtyard. The four women sat in the warmth, sipping tea and sharing stories, and for a little while, the world outside the Hall didn’t matter at all.