Edges and Echoes, Part 2

Lunch in the dining area had become something like a daily market: everyone staked their territory early, and woe to the latecomer who expected to get a good seat or even a clean fork. Today, the largest table by the windows was the scene of a different kind of battle. Norah, Liesa, Erin, and Sam sat in a tight square around a cluster of character sheets, multiple-sided dice, and the battered rulebooks Sam had paid 200 BP to get via Arabella.

Sam 3250 BP - 200 BP = 3050 BP

Norah took charge immediately, flipping through the player’s guide like it was a menu and she was starving. “I’m going barbarian,” she announced. “No finesse, just raw damage. I want to see how far I can get before I die. RAARGH!"

“Typical,” Erin said, laughing, as she penciled her own stats in neat, columned rows. “You’re not even going to try to roll for something else?”

“Please,” Norah snorted. “If I rolled a wizard, I’d have to put up with the rest of you yelling ‘squishy’ every time I took a hit. I’m squishy enough in real life.” She gestured to her body. “I want to control my own fate, not depend on you clowns to keep me alive.”

Sam grinned, propping her chin on her hands. “They could just not revive you if you die. That’s an option.”

Liesa smiled, the expression soft and oddly secretive. “I will be cleric,” she said, voice gentle. “Someone must heal the wounds of these wild people.” She tapped the page. “And I like to help. Is my nature.”

Erin hesitated over her character sheet, then checked a box. “Ranger. Duh. I get to track, shoot, and avoid people. Feels about right.”

Sam’s gaze drifted to the window, where the gardens shimmered in the heat haze. “We need a bard,” she said. “Someone to make up songs about all the times Norah gets knocked out in a fight.”

Norah flicked her d20 at Sam. “Just you watch.”

Erin laughed. “Fine, I’ll put some points in Performance.”

“That’s the idea,” Sam replied, entirely unashamed.

For a while, the group filled out character backstories, argued over starting gear, and debated the best way to min-max their stat blocks. But it wasn’t long before the conversation drifted from fantasy to reality.

“So, how many points are you ahead of me, anyway?” Norah said to Erin, pencil poised for damage.

Erin glanced at her wrist, where she’d scrawled the latest leaderboard in black ink. “Sixteen, I think. Unless they updated it this morning.”

“Not too late to catch up,” Sam offered, nudging Norah. “There’s a lot of show left.”

Norah grinned. “I have to think like a barbarian. Just charge.”

Erin side-eyed her. “Or you could not get eliminated, and just wait us out.”

Sam shrugged. “I think the point is to have fun, not to crush the competition. But maybe that’s just the Game Master in me talking.”

Liesa, who had been quietly listening, set down her pencil. “Maybe it can be both. In the game, we can fight monsters together. In real life, we help each other, even if we want the same thing.”

Norah didn’t say anything right away. Then she nodded, grudging respect. “Fine. But you’re still getting stuck with the healing duties.”

Liesa smiled, as if she didn’t mind at all.

At the next table over, Andy watched the exchange with cautious optimism. He’d started wandering between the lunch tables to check in, see how everyone was faring. It felt like a duty, but also a genuine pleasure—he liked seeing how the women interacted when they thought he wasn’t looking.

There was Claire, sharing a thick illustrated book with Dawn, both of them heads-down, every so often trading a glance or a giggle over some secret in the text. Dawn was obviously the louder of the two, but Claire seemed happy in her shadow, perfectly at home just listening.

At the far end, Marissa and Chloe worked together on a flower arrangement, each with a small paring knife and a careful sense of space. Marissa was wearing sneakers, jeans and a white t-shirt that made her look younger, and spoke in low tones, guiding Chloe’s hands, showing her how to trim the stems at a perfect angle. Chloe nodded a lot, never quite meeting Marissa’s gaze, but she looked more relaxed than she had since she’d arrived.

Andy smiled at these little alliances, these moments of ordinary teamwork. They reminded him of the best parts of his old life—the parts before the river, before all the loss. He hoped the women could hang on to them, even as the stakes ramped up and the game got harsher.

Back at the game table, the talk had shifted again.

“I bet we could take the next challenge if we worked together,” Norah was saying. “If we pool our strengths, maybe we can outsmart the system.”

Sam looked skeptical. “You really think they’d let us do that? Arabella’s not going to just hand us a win because we’re holding hands and singing kumbaya.”

Norah shrugged. “Maybe not. But it’s worth a shot. Anything to keep us all out of the elimination rounds.”

Erin nodded. “I’ll go along, as long as no one tries to stab me in the back. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”

“Promise,” Liesa said, hand raised in mock oath.

Andy caught Sam’s eye as he passed by, and she flashed him a double thumbs-up. “Team’s doing fine,” she stage-whispered. “No mutiny yet.”

He laughed, but as he walked away, he couldn’t help wondering how long the truce would last. The show was designed to sow discord, to make friends into rivals. He hated that, but he also knew better than to underestimate the pressure-cooker effect of the Harem Hotel.

He lingered at the far window, staring out at the lawns, the gardens, the strip of blue ocean on the horizon. He wondered what the next challenge would be, and how it would change the balance among the women. He wondered if any of them would end up hating him—or each other—by the end.

But for now, they were laughing, rolling dice, and planning imaginary battles as if the only thing that mattered was the next encounter, the next roll, the next joke.

Andy decided to enjoy the peace while it lasted.

He grabbed a sandwich, approached the table, sat down. “Room for one more?” He asked, and the women cheered him. Erin pressed herself against him with a grin. “Always, Romeo,” she teased him with a kiss. Norah groaned. “Get a room, you two!” She said, but grinned. Liesa smiled, and Sam put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Andy was, for once, content to just be.

The air was hot, even this late in the afternoon. The volcano’s lower trail wound up through stands of flowering shrubs and slabs of black rock, the whole island tilted toward the ocean so that every few steps brought a new angle on the blue horizon. Andy didn’t know if Liesa and Sam had planned it this way, but by the time he caught up, they were already waiting at the start of the path, leaning into the wind, side by side.

Liesa wore a loose linen blouse and shorts that showed off her legs, but she kept her gaze mostly on the ground, scanning for wildflowers to identify or patches of moss that looked like tiny forests. She had brought a battered field guide from the library, and every so often she’d crouch to compare a bloom to a photo, her hair slipping over one shoulder like a curtain.

Sam, in contrast, looked straight ahead, as if the trail was an opponent and she was daring it to blink first. She’d tied her shirt at the waist, the sleeves rolled tight around her biceps, and her usual energy was sharpened by the challenge of the hike.

“Ready to burn off some carbs?” Sam called, waving him over.

Andy nodded, falling in beside them. “Lead the way.”

They set off at a brisk pace, Sam and Liesa up front, Andy a step behind. The trail cut through switchbacks, sometimes leveling out to reveal glimpses of the resort far below—tiny and perfect, like a postcard—and sometimes ducking into shade where the air felt trapped and fragrant.

After a few minutes, Liesa found her voice. “I never thought I’d walk on a volcano,” she said, almost shyly.

Sam grinned. “Pretty sure this is the only time you can hike up an active one and not worry about lava.”

“It’s not active,” Andy said. “I checked.”

“Still, is good to know,” Liesa replied, laughing. She crouched to point out a cluster of pale blue flowers. “See? Plumbago. Is from Africa originally, but grows wild everywhere here.”

Sam bent down with her, peering at the blooms. “How do you know this stuff?”

Liesa blushed, but didn’t look away. “I always liked plants. Even when I was little, I could remember the names.” She touched a leaf gently, careful not to bruise it. “In Belgium, I worked for a botanist one summer. We counted all the invasive species in the city parks.”

Sam looked impressed. “You’re full of surprises, Liesa.”

Liesa shrugged, but the compliment lingered on her face.

They climbed higher, the path narrowing and the view growing more dramatic. At one switchback, the wind hit hard enough to **** them to stop and brace against a boulder. Liesa laughed as her hair whipped around her head, and Sam, reaching over without thinking, tucked the loose strands behind Liesa’s ear.

Andy watched the exchange. There was a small, electric pause. Just a blink, but he saw it. Liesa’s cheeks went pink, and she glanced at Sam, then quickly away.

They pressed on. Sam fell back to walk beside Andy, dropping her voice. “She’s doing better,” she said. “I think this place is good for her.”

Andy nodded, not trusting himself to say more.

Sam bumped his shoulder. “You too. You’re getting better at this. Letting people in.”

He snorted. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“It is,” Sam said, grinning. “But you still keep the important stuff locked up.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “You ever think about what happens when this is over?”

Sam considered. “I do. But I don’t try to predict it. I just want to get to the end with everyone still talking to each other.”

“Even me?”

Sam stopped, made him look her in the eye. “Especially you.”

Andy smiled, and they hiked on in companionable silence.

At the next bend, Liesa had paused at the edge of a cliff, arms stretched wide. The ocean spread out below, endless and dazzling, the wind flattening the wild grass around her legs. She looked small and fierce at the same time.

Sam caught up, and together, they stood at the overlook, breathing hard. Andy joined them, taking in the view.

For a while, no one spoke.

Then Liesa said, softly, “This is where I tell you the truth.”

Sam glanced at Andy, then back to Liesa. “You don’t have to.”

Liesa shook her head. “I want to. It’s time.” She looked at Andy, her eyes serious. “When I left for Belgium, I told you days ago it was because I had to. But that wasn’t enough.”

Andy wanted to offer her a lifeline, some way to make it easier—he could see she was twisting in the wind, figuratively and almost literally, and the urge to step in was almost overwhelming. But Sam held her gaze steady, just as she had when Andy was on the verge of bolting, back in Chicago on the rooftop. She was giving Liesa room to do it her way.

After a long silence, the only sounds their breathing and the sound of the surf hundreds of feet below, Liesa said, “My mother got sick.”

It wasn’t the words themselves that landed. It was the way Liesa said them: with a finality, a throw of the dice. “Very sick,” she said, and her voice broke. She brushed it away with a laugh, embarrassed. “Het spijt me. I always hated that phrase. ‘Sick.’ Het klinkt zo iel*.”

Sam stepped closer, setting a hand gently at the small of Liesa’s back, and Liesa leaned into the touch without thinking.

“Ze probeerde zelfmoord te plegen… She tried to kill herself.” Liesa looked down at the grass, as if afraid she’d find a blade there. “She didn’t want to be a burden, I think. She was always so proud.” Her gaze flicked up to Andy, eyes shining. “My father… he is not good with emotions. He begged me to come back, to help care for her. He said he couldn’t do it alone.”

Andy felt shame, a bitter twist in his stomach, that he hadn’t guessed any of this at the time. There was no way to know. He had figured it out during the first challenge, thanks to viewing her memories in the Memory Cabana, but it was important for her to tell the story. And he needed to be there with her, to provide whatever comfort he could.

She went on: “I didn’t know how to say goodbye. I thought if I just disappeared, you would be angry, and that would make it easier for you. Voor mij ook**.” She looked at Sam, then at Andy, and her next words tumbled out in a rush: “Was so scared, Andy, and I should have told you. I should have given you the chance to be angry for the right reason.”

Sam squeezed Liesa’s shoulder, and Liesa squeezed back, her fingers digging in as if she might fall off the island without the anchor.

Andy let the confession settle. He didn’t blurt out a fix or change the subject. Instead, he considered Liesa as she was now—backlit by sun and sky, a person who, in her own way, had been trying to shield him from the worst of herself.

“You could have told me,” he said at last, not a rebuke, just a soft observation. Not accusatory, just sad.

Liesa smiled then, watery but real. “I know. But I was afraid. I didn’t want you to see me as weak.” She fidgeted with the button on her sleeve, eyes drifting away. “I always wanted to be your equal, to be the one you looked up to. It’s silly, maybe.”

Andy shook his head. “You’re strong, Liesa,” he said, and he meant it. “Even when you’re scared. Even when you think you’re not.”

Sam chimed in, softly: “You’re allowed to lean. That’s what friends are for.” She glanced at Andy with a wry twist of the mouth, an unspoken: Right?

For the first time since Andy had arrived on the island, he saw Liesa’s shoulders drop, the tension in her neck melting away like snow in the spring. She looked at both of them, and her smile—while still damp with tears—was a little less guarded.

“I missed you,” she said. “I never stopped missing you.”

Andy reached out, and Liesa let him wrap an arm around her, just for a moment. Sam joined, and for a few seconds they were a tangle of limbs and warmth, the three of them forming a windbreak against the world.

They broke apart, each a little embarrassed, but also a little lighter. Sam wiped a tear from her cheek with the heel of her hand and looked out at the horizon. “Well, now that we’re all caught up on emotional trauma,” she whispered, “can we talk about how much I want to throw Andy off this cliff for never doing his own laundry?”

Liesa snorted, and Andy rolled his eyes, but the mood had changed: a brightening of the air, a release. They stood at the overlook, three points on a line, each facing the same horizon but seeing something different.

On the walk back down, the mood was lighter. Liesa and Sam traded stories about college—mostly about Andy’s legendary inability to do his own laundry, or his habit of memorizing random facts to win bets. Andy let them roast him, secretly grateful for the easy rhythm of their voices.

At one tricky descent, Liesa nearly slipped on a patch of gravel. Sam caught her elbow, steadying her, and Liesa blushed again, her thank-you mumbled and quick. Andy saw the way Sam lingered a fraction longer than necessary, the way Liesa seemed to lean into the touch.

He wondered if they even realized it.

At the foot of the trail, the path widened into a flat, sunlit field. The wind had died, and the air was heavy with the scent of warm earth and crushed leaves. Waiting at the far end, looking out of place in her crisp white blouse, was Marissa. She was slightly out of breath, as if she’d hurried to catch up.

“Andy,” Marissa called, waving. He jogged over, Sam and Liesa following.

Marissa smiled at the two women. “Would you mind if I borrowed him? I have something I’d like to discuss.”

Sam looked at Liesa, then shrugged. “He’s all yours.” Liesa nodded, a quiet understanding in her eyes. Marissa took Andy’s arm and led him away, her touch gentle but urgent.

They walked together, Marissa silent until the others were out of earshot.

“Is everything okay?” Andy asked.

Marissa nodded, but her lips pressed tight. “I just needed to talk. Alone.”

He waited, sensing the importance of the moment.

Marissa stopped, turning to face him. “I’m not good at this,” she admitted. “The… emotional side of things.”

Andy almost smiled. “You’re doing fine.”

Marissa shook her head. “No, I’m not. I’m used to observing, not participating.” She looked up at him, her eyes clear and focused. “But I want to change that. And I want you to know that I… care.” She gave a small laugh, almost a giggle, which sounded very out of place on the normally composed therapist. “More than I should.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “I care, too.”

She relaxed, letting out a breath. “Thank you. Would you… would you mind starting our date early? I think I need the time.”

Andy nodded, a wave of relief and affection flooding through him. “I’d like that.”

They walked together, leaving the volcano path and the past behind. Sam and Liesa stood at the trailhead, watching them go. Sam leaned in, whispering something that made Liesa laugh, her shoulders shaking. Andy looked back once, saw them together, and felt, for a rare moment, that everything was exactly as it should be.

Claire wandered the garden at dusk, letting the hush and the coming dark clear her mind of everything but what she could see and smell and feel. The hotel’s pool area was deserted, the water flat and glassy, the only movement the lazy drip of a bamboo fountain and the slow-motion ballet of a dragonfly hovering above it. Every so often, the faint sound of a faraway laugh, but otherwise silence.

She liked the garden best at this hour: not a spotlight for drama or challenge, but an in-between place where she could be invisible, or at least ignored.

She took the long path behind the pool, where the stepping stones curved between riotous banks of flowers—jasmine, heliotrope, some species she couldn’t name but that glowed violet in the dusk. Her ears twitched at every footfall, every subtle change in the air. Her tail swished lazily behind her. The humidity had dropped after sunset, and the entire world felt ready to exhale.

She was rounding the far side of the garden, near the little bamboo grove, when she heard a sound: the quiet swish of a silk hem against leaves. Claire stopped, pressed her back to a tree, and peered through the undergrowth.

It was Arabella.

The Host wasn’t dressed for the garden, exactly—she wore a floor-length gown the color of the inside of a seashell, her hair pulled into a severe knot. She moved like a ghost, arms folded, eyes scanning the beds as if searching for a lost key. Claire had never seen her like this: not the omniscient, camera-ready queen, but a woman alone and caught off guard.

Arabella paused by a bush with a single blue rose, in the middle of a clearing Claire had never noticed before. The rose was real, but so impossibly blue it must have been engineered for the hotel. It looked as if it were made of glass, shades of blue trapped within its surface. Arabella reached out, caressed the bloom, examining it for imperfections. She seemed satisfied, then suddenly, she hesitated.

Claire’s tail snapped against her ankle. The Host must have heard, because she turned, not startled but curious. Her green eyes landed on Claire’s hiding spot, and for a moment, Claire thought about fleeing, or at least pretending to be a statue.

Instead, she watched.

Arabella smiled, the kind of smile people used when their plan was going exactly as intended.

She walked, slow and unhurried, in Claire’s direction. When she was close enough, she said, “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

Claire nodded, mute, waiting for the inevitable “what are you doing here” or “shouldn’t you be in your room.”

But Arabella only tilted her head. “Do you like the gardens?”

Claire nodded again, a little faster.

“Me too,” Arabella said. She reached out and brushed a fallen leaf from Claire’s sleeve, as if grooming her. “They’re even better at night, don’t you think?”

Claire dared a glance at the blue rose. She mouthed the word: Beautiful.

Arabella saw, and her smile widened. “Thank you. I’m very proud of it. This rose only grows in two places, and it listens in both.” She didn’t explain the statement. She gestured for Claire to draw closer. “You can touch it, if you wish.”

Hesitantly, Claire approached the rose, her fingers delicately touching the petals. They felt electric to the touch. She blinked, and looked at Arabella. They stood like that, two figures in the half-light, not quite friends, not quite strangers.

After a while, Arabella said, “Enjoy your walk, Claire.” She turned and vanished into the shadows, her gown trailing a silver echo behind her.

Claire stared at the space where Arabella had been, her heart pounding. She wanted to follow, to ask about the rose, Arabella’s strange words. But she knew it wouldn’t matter. Arabella would only give her the answer she wanted to hear.

The Commissary stood ignored in the lobby. The only sound was the faint hum of the vents, and the slow, deliberate tapping of Claire’s finger as she navigated a sequence that wasn’t on the standard user map.

She’d discovered it two days ago, hiding in plain sight in a postille of the Rulebook—a hidden menu triggered by a particular rhythm of touches. Maybe it was the kind of thing meant for staff, or possibly Arabella herself, but Claire had always been good at finding the seams in a system. After meeting her, earlier, Claire had debated with herself whether to risk her attention again. But she needed to know.

She always did.

The screen flickered, hesitated, then displayed a single line of text:

Host summoning protocol: Confirm?

Claire tapped yes.

Ten seconds later, Arabella arrived, perfectly on cue. She wore the same seashell gown Claire had seen in the Gardens, but her hair was now loose, falling down her shoulders in rivulets. She didn’t look at the menu, or at Claire’s hands; she looked straight into Claire’s face, and smiled as if greeting an old friend.

“Well done,” Arabella said, folding her arms. “It’s been some time since anyone called me this way. How did you know?”

Claire opened her notebook and wrote, You always come when someone pushes hard enough. I wanted to see if you’d come for me.

Arabella’s eyes widened, just a flicker, then she nodded. “Curiosity. The strongest **** in the universe.” She leaned on the counter, her posture relaxed. “What can I do for you, Claire?”

Claire wrote, May I watch other seasons?

Arabella arched one eyebrow, then gave a dry laugh. “You want to see the tapes? Is that what this is about?”

Claire nodded. I want to know how it works. Not just my season.

Arabella’s gaze turned thoughtful. “You’re very clever,” she said, almost admiringly. “I suppose you found this in your fanmail? Or did you deduce it from the rules?”

Claire shook her head. A letter said someone could watch the past. That’s all.

Arabella nodded, as if this explained everything. “There are many secrets, in this place. But few people who care to look for them.” She straightened, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve. “Understand that each season, each Host, has their rules. What you see may not help you. Some Hosts are cruel, much crueler than you may imagine. Others are kind. But if it will help you… Yes, you may have access.”

Claire tilted her head, considered, then wrote: Thank you.

“Good,” Arabella said. “Is that all?”

Claire hesitated, then wrote, The catgirl transformation. You put it in the mix for a reason.

Arabella laughed softly. “You noticed.” She leaned in, her voice a whisper meant for no one else. “It’s a fan favorite. But more than that, I thought you’d appreciate the way it let you move. Silently. Without boundaries. I did not lie when I described it. Cats are the custodians of secrets, Claire. Have you ever heard of the Egyptian goddess, Bastet? Bast, if you prefer. Cat-headed, protector goddess of women and secrets?” She tapped the notebook. “You’re more yourself now than you ever were, aren’t you?”

Claire flushed, but nodded.

“Sometimes,” Arabella said, “the best way to help is to give you what you didn’t know you wanted.” She smiled, not unkindly. “And sometimes, it’s to give you what you needed, even if it hurts.”

Claire wrote, One more thing. The Interpersonal Vector Adjustment function.

Arabella’s smile broadened, just a fraction. “Ah. That’s… not for most contestants.” She weighed her words. “It’s a tool for managing dynamics. Disabled by default, and grayed out for most of you.”

Claire wrote, Is it real?

Arabella looked away, her face unreadable. “As real as anything here. But not for you.”

Claire nodded, accepting this.

Arabella softened. “I like you, Claire. You see things others don’t.”

Claire hesitated, then proffered a small smile and scribbled, Thank you for not lying to me.

Arabella’s lips curved. “I promised Andy. It’s the least I can do.”

They stood in silence, the Commissary filling with the faint scent of ozone from the backlit display.

Will you let me see the episodes tonight? Claire wrote.

Arabella nodded. “Come to the Library at midnight. Alone.”

Claire nodded.

Arabella turned to go, but paused at the door. “We should talk about Bastet. And if you ever want to ask about Andy,” she said, “just say so. I know you care.”

Claire hesitated, then wrote, One last thing. If I buy an upgrade, can I delay it?

Arabella blinked, caught by surprise for the first time. “Delay it?” She hesitated. “I don’t see why not. You will have to tell me, when you buy it, however.”

Claire nodded hesitantly. Arabella smiled. “I think I know what you are planning. It will work. I’ll see you tonight, kitten.”

Claire didn’t reply, but she didn’t have to.

After Arabella left, Claire spent a long time at the menu, just watching the options scroll by. None of the prizes interested her anymore; what she wanted was never on the list.

She tucked the notebook under her arm and went out through the gardens, ears swiveling for any hint of movement. The sun was down, the stars faint above the volcano. She thought about the tapes, and what it might mean to see other versions of her own life, played out again and again.

Claire walked into the darkness, tail flicking, already planning her questions for Arabella. There was so much left to learn, and not nearly enough time.

But she would use every minute.

* "It sounds so small."

** "For me, too."