Fan Mail (II), Part 6

By mid-afternoon, The 88 Club was practically monastic. Just the tick of the grandfather clock behind the bar, the quiet stretch of sunlight striping the herringbone floors, and the slow-creep of dust motes shifting in air that smelled faintly of lemon peel and old scotch.

Marissa had always preferred it that way. She settled at a small table just left of the club’s baby grand—one of the few in the place that wasn’t lacquered to a high, blinding shine. With the afternoon sun slanting in through the tall windows, she could almost believe herself back in the libraries of her grad school years, a time when silence was a privilege and not a threat.

On the table before her, nested in an open case lined with forest-green velvet, lay a new Irish lap harp. The instrument was exquisitely made: honeyed maple body, thirty-four strings that caught the light like spun sugar, soundboard etched with a linework of knots and tiny forget-me-nots. Beside it, resting in the crook of the open lid, was a slim songbook—no title on the cover, just an embossed treble clef and the faintest dusting of silver ink at the spine.

Marissa ran a fingertip along the soundboard. The wood was cool and buttery, freshly polished, the edges tight as a surgeon’s stitch. She had never owned a harp, not even in childhood—her mother’s instrument was a piano, and Marissa had spent a decade chasing that ghost, working scales and chords until the arthritis in her mother’s hands became the ticking clock on her own progress.

The harp was… different. Lighter, softer, just as intricate but somehow less burdened by generations of expectation. She turned it in her lap, careful not to let her hair brush the strings, and tested a single note with her thumb. The sound was crystalline: pure, clean, a little mournful at the end. It vibrated in her sternum, then faded to nothing, as if the air itself was **** to let go.

She didn’t dare play more, not here, not with the club’s high ceilings and the risk of someone—maybe Andy, maybe one of the other women—wandering in and catching her off guard. Instead, she turned her attention to the envelope propped against the harp’s case, the heavy off-white paper that still held the memory of its sender.

She slit it open with the back of her thumbnail, careful not to tear the letter inside. The ink was a tidy blue, looping but precise; whoever wrote it had spent more hours with a fountain pen than was strictly reasonable.

Greetings again. You have done well and grown much in the time since my last letter. I am overjoyed that you could cast off your armor and open yourself to Andy. Your music is lovely, I hope you continue to share this side of yourself.

Alas your milky transformation failed, I no longer believe you are destined to share Susan’s path. I hope for both of us that wherever the audience decides to take you instead you will be happy with. Perhaps you should give the bell to dear Chloe if she takes up the mantle instead. I am pleased that you continue to try to help the others, but do remember to take time for yourself as well.

Shar.

Marissa read it through, then a second time, and this time the words slipped past her practiced deflections and landed somewhere sharp and real. Cast off your armor. Open yourself to Andy. She could almost hear Shar’s voice, not her actual timbre (she’d never met the woman), but the tone: gentle, a touch clinical, but always with a twist of genuine warmth at the end.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The bell reference made her smile, a private joke she’d once shared with Chloe after an awkward kitchen encounter. Maybe she would pass it on; Chloe was the sort who found comfort in rituals, even if they seemed silly to outsiders.

Her thumb drifted to the edge of the songbook. The cover was soft, matte, almost velvety. She flipped it open and found a handwritten inscription in the inside flap:

For Dr. Marissa Holt,

May you find in music the voice you sometimes withhold from the world.

—S.

She huffed a tiny, almost inaudible laugh, then closed the songbook and set it in her lap.

In the quiet, she tested another string on the harp—just a whisper of a chord, nothing more. The sound lingered for a heartbeat, then vanished.

Marissa’s lips quirked into a half-smile. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be the kind of woman who played music in public, but maybe she could learn to play for herself. For the ghosts, for her sister, for the man who was—against her better judgment—making her want things again.

She reached for the letter and tucked it into the songbook, letting the two touch as if they belonged together.

Marissa let the echo of the harp string fade and reached for the second envelope, the one stamped with a jagged, blood-red wax seal that looked suspiciously like it had been designed to leave a scar. The handwriting on the front was bold, a little messy, the kind of script that belonged to someone who signed waivers with a flourish and then set them on fire.

Inside, there was a single page, the words dense and run-on, a full **** of personality before she even got halfway down the first paragraph.

Dr. Holt,

Well, it’s been another crazy day for us since I responded to your thank you note. For the sake of full disclosure, I have been sworn to secrecy on a couple of points. So, if I sound cagey (or if parts of my letter are redacted), it’s because I am trying to avoid speaking out of turn.

I am again sorry for any pain I caused you with my last letter. I did not intend to hurt you. I’m also sorry if my immediate response caused you any distress. It was not a good morning. Our set was on lockdown due to – things – and I was not taking those things well. Immediately after responding to your letter, I received my response from Dr. Petrov. As I mentioned to you in my response, it was irrelevant due to changing circumstances. I swear whatever sort of monster that has kidnapped Dr. Petrov will burn for that someday. That host’s negligence is not excused by things turning out okay despite his/her/their/it’s (honestly don’t know who or what Petrov’s host is) incompetence.

That situation... resolved itself without my input, with some metaphysical damage done to my Mistress. While I wished things would have turned out differently, I will respect that I can’t change what happened. I’ve done what I can to patch my Mistress up; she’ll heal, but it will take time. While I understand my treatment transformation is a quick fix, it is very helpful to know that it is effective. I hope by being a good fiance I will be able to help her do the work to heal in a more respectable way (since any therapy treatment seems permanently stuck in my craw whenever I try to speak it into a situation).

I was brought along on yesterday’s date. Good news: we stopped a Pretoria incident. Bad news: getting shot in the chest hurt like hell. Don’t worry; I’m fine now. Between my insides being mostly lava and a little monk healing power, I patched myself up quite nicely. And I got pretty good at kicking a rifle hard enough to make the barrel melt, if I do say so myself. Harper got to meet / patch things up with Skye’s mother, which is good. And we got to see Svartalfheim. Strange place, that.

My present for you this time is a bottle of mushroom wine from there. It’s admittedly an acquired taste. Closest thing to tasting notes I could give you is that it’s like someone added some curacao to a batch of brewed pu-erh tea. Maybe don’t drink a bunch straight from the bottle this time?

Oh, and I tried scissoring my Mistress last night and I’m still a little sore from it. Not easy to get the angles right, despite what porn would make you believe.

So, I’ve talked enough about my situation. How are you coping? Getting along with everyone? Made some friends yet? Got into any fun? Got into that Andy guy’s pants when he’s a girl yet? Got to tell you that, in my experience, sex with girls that were once guys feels pretty good once you got her trained. Seduced any catgirls?

If you need anything, let me know. My Mistress did grab an inter-dimensional travel spell this morning. She just needs the right tuning fork (and probably permission from Arabella, if you’re still on your season’s set). I do have a bottle of regular massage oil with your name on it when you need it.

Your fiery friend,

Scarlet

Marissa blinked, then read the letter again, slower, watching for the parts that seemed too strange even for this universe.

“Insides being mostly lava,” she muttered, then choked on a laugh as she imagined what kind of transformation would produce that. The admission about “scissoring my Mistress” nearly made her snort her tea, a heat blooming from her neck to her ears as she remembered the clinical diagrams from her old grad school textbooks. Scarlet’s candor was almost weaponized—it crashed through boundaries and just kept going, shrapnel flying in all directions.

She let herself feel the blush, then shook her head and reached for the package that came with the letter: a small, stoppered bottle with a hand-drawn label that read “Svartalfheim Vintage.” The glass was thick and old-fashioned, the liquid inside a luminous amber, with odd flecks that caught the light and winked at her. She held it up to the window and tipped the bottle gently, watching as the contents rolled with a syrupy slowness, then settled.

Marissa popped the cork—just a sliver, barely enough to let the aroma escape—and was hit with an oddly comforting scent: loamy, like wet forest floor, but sweetened by something sharp and citrusy underneath. She closed her eyes, savoring the unfamiliar. Maybe she’d try it later, after dinner. Maybe she’d convince Andy to share a glass. The idea made her smile, not in a wistful way, but as if she was already imagining the punchline of a joke neither of them had heard yet.

Scarlet’s letter was a fever dream of disasters, but there was a strange sense of camaraderie in it, a kind of “we’re in the same foxhole, you and I” solidarity that Marissa found herself needing more than she’d admit. She was still learning how to process the chaos of this place, still learning how to want without guilt, still feeling her way through the contradictions of being both a caretaker and a woman who needed care in return.

She set the bottle beside the harp case, careful not to tip it over, then read the last lines of Scarlet’s letter again. Got into that Andy guy’s pants when he’s a girl yet? She laughed, honest this time, and wondered what her pen pal thought of her. She wasn't sure Scarlet's therapy skills were quite up to standard, or that she had considered the ethical implications of treating her own Mistress, but she kept that thought private, not wishing to offend.

She imagined writing back, telling Scarlet that she had made friends, that she was learning to share space with the other women and even enjoy it, sometimes. Marissa exhaled, long and steady, and let her shoulders drop. For a moment, the club felt less empty, the long bar less intimidating, the sunlight less clinical.

The next envelope was thinner than the others, barely enough weight to bother the air as Marissa lifted it. She recognized the name on the return address immediately—Eliza Dawson, the philosophy professor from one of the other seasons, whose elegant, haunted face had appeared in more than a few of Arabella’s briefing memories.

Marissa opened the envelope and unfolded a single, cream-colored page. The handwriting was looping, deliberate, the sort that spoke of long evenings grading essays and the patience to mend a paper’s grammar without breaking its spirit.

Dear Dr. Holt,

I want to say I have the utmost respect for you. Not just on a professional level, though, as a philosophy professor, your approach to the field of psychology is most intriguing, but as a woman. I want to say that the fact that you rallied behind your sister the way you did demonstrates a strength of spirit and a kindness of character that is not common. You deserve every happiness and kindness that comes your way.

I also understand to a degree of finding yourself at odds with love and your passions. While certainly not the same, my ex-husband left me during my time studying for my PhD. He said he found me less interesting and boring since I began my studies. I often find myself revisiting those words, and even so, do I regret my choices? No, I have loved my career, my students, and if I couldn’t care about the things that brought me joy, what matter would it be that I still had a husband?

The competition I’m in has changed me, not always for the better, but I hope by the end I can still look back and say the same about the decisions I make here. I believe in your ability to do the same and to find the happiness you deserve.

Sincerely,

Eliza Dawson

Marissa sat back, letting her hands fall into her lap. She stared at the closing for a long moment, seeing the precise underline below Eliza’s signature, the tidy period at the end, and felt a pang for all the women she had counseled who were **** to choose between the things they wanted and the people who were supposed to want them.

She sighed, softer than she meant to, and let the letter rest on the tabletop. Through the haze of memory, she replayed one of Arabella’s glimpses: Eliza, mortified and brittle. Marissa remembered, too, the moment when Mira—her own fellow contestant—had crossed a line with Eliza, and the aftermath that followed. Arabella had shown her the moment not to shock, but to prepare her: empathy at a distance, the closest thing to training she would get in this place.

She wondered what it meant to be seen by someone like Eliza, who’d watched her season from the other side of the glass. The phrase “rallied behind your sister” made Marissa’s chest ache with a strange, hot pride, but also a spike of guilt. She had never once regretted the time or energy she poured into Sarah, but she sometimes wondered what her life might have been if she’d given herself permission to want something else, or even to want more.

Now, for the first time in years, she was starting to imagine the possibility of happiness not as an indulgence, but as something she might be allowed.

Marissa smoothed the letter and composed, in her head, a reply. She would write back. She would thank Eliza for her honesty, and for seeing her, and for reminding her that strength and kindness could be enough to carry a person through the worst the world could throw.

The last letter was a heavy, almost ceremonial thing, its envelope scored with gold filigree and sealed with the initials J. in a stamped, obsidian wax. Marissa opened it carefully, a sense of ceremony rising unbidden in her chest.

As she slid the contents free, something slipped out and fell into her palm: a circlet, wrought from a strange silvery metal that shimmered blue at the edges. As her fingers closed around it, a corona of flames leaped to life along the rim—phantom fire, bright but chill, flickering and licking in elegant patterns that never seemed to repeat.

Marissa gasped, clutching the circlet with both hands. The flames didn’t hurt, didn’t even tingle; they just radiated a quiet, impossible light. It was beautiful, and a little terrifying, and she wondered if anyone else in the room (had there been anyone else) would even see the flames at all.

She set the circlet down on the table, afraid for a second that it might ignite the old wood, then snatched up the letter, eager to see what explanation—or warning—might follow such a gift.

Doctor Holt,

It is with great joy that I have watched you come into yourself in your days at The HH. To be a woman in mankind’s modern age is ever to walk a tightrope, yet you do so with grace and poise. The words of advice I have to offer you will not shake your world’s foundation—they are meant not as revelation, but as reassurance.

You have already begun to take the steps required to allow yourself to live as both a woman and a doctor. You must continue down that path. The environment in which you find yourself is a unique opportunity to reinvent yourself. The mores and standards of the world which shaped you are the product of a society to which you are no longer beholden. Instead, it is your sisters and Master Cooper who will support you, and the Doctor Holt who emerges from the island paradise must be one who has a place in a family which she desires.

You are allowed—required—to want and need and yearn, and in the arms of those who love you, you need not fear that your desires will be rejected.

To you, I offer My fond wishes, and a small boon.

J.

Her fingers trembled a little as she reached for the circlet, the flames intensifying under her touch. The metal was heavier than it looked. She turned it over, and found a tiny slip of paper tucked inside the curve:

The Crown of Flame: The wisps of flame which dance around this simple circlet carry no heat. By running their finger along the rim of the crown, the wearer can ignite the flames and assume a bearing of command and poise such that they could address a nation’s ruler naked without fear or shame. When the crown’s magic is expended, the flames recede and cannot be called upon again.

Marissa smiled, the words evoking a memory of her own mother, who had once told her that confidence was the only gown that could never be taken away. She’d never quite believed it, not until this moment—sitting here, alone in a sunlit club, with a harp on one side and a bottle of mushroom wine on the other, a head full of competing doubts, and a literal crown of fire at her fingertips.

She slid the circlet over her brow. The flames blossomed, full and electric, bathing her face in a strange blue light. She imagined herself addressing a roomful of strangers, or perhaps just Andy, or even her own sister, and felt—if only for a heartbeat—like she could say anything, ask for anything, and be met not with judgment but with understanding.

Marissa took it off and set it gently on the table. The flames flickered.

The horizon here belonged to the ocean—an infinity of blue pressed flat as a razor and interrupted only by the impossible curve of the world itself. Arabella stood barefoot on her private balcony, arms folded against the breeze, and watched the light bleed from gold to bruise as the sun made its slow, deliberate exit.

She had never really felt at home in the seasons’ opulence. The marble floors, the chandeliered lobbies, the endless parade of fresh-cut flowers—all of it was for the cameras. Here, alone, Arabella could be a little smaller, a little less Host, and more simply herself.

The mail drop had arrived with mathematical punctuality: a lacquered box, inscribed with a minimalist "Ms. A," and fastened with a lock that yielded, predictably, to her first try. Inside was a letter, written in a print so crisp and precise it could have doubled as a font. Beneath it, nestled in a bed of shredded blue tissue, was an apology basket that could have come straight from a mid-century fantasy catalogue.

She set the box on the slate-top table and broke the seal on the letter first. There was something oddly tender about the weight of it, as if the sender—Ms. E, naturally—had chosen the stationery with care, or perhaps just with a sense of aesthetics that paralleled her own.

Ms. Arabella,

According to my calculations, you will be receiving both our footage of my wards’ replies and their letters towards the end of your second week of your season. Congratulations on your work so far. I especially love your little nudges to Ms. Freeman; she is such a delight. Mr. Cooper is lucky to have her in his life. It is good to see a Host not want everyone enslaved or worse by the end. And there are so few of them that see it that way.

My apologies for some of my primary ward’s remarks. She is so, so young. Impetuous, even. When the pain starts to heal for what we had to do to her, I am sure she will apologize personally. Until then, please be satisfied with my apology (with accompanying traditional apology basket) in her stead.

I am a bit of an audiophile, so I, of course, started with a song by this band called the Arctic Monkeys (which is, of course, a silly name). The little silver harp will play the song on command. And that lead to several seconds of watching the movie it referenced at 5000x speed a couple of times. I sent a LaserDisc copy of said movie, plus a costume from it, for you to enjoy. I assume you have a LaserDisc player somewhere, right?
Finally, a bottle of some highly rated mushroom wine from Svartalfheim, brewed by some of the finest drow winemakers. I am sure a palette as refined as yours will appreciate the complexity.

Ms. E

Arabella snorted, a small, dry laugh escaping before she could censor it. She wondered if any of the other Hosts had ever received an apology basket before. Probably not—most of them considered it a badge of honor to traumatize their contestants, and only the more recent generations had started to realize that breaking a cast’s spirit was not the same as running a successful show.

She set the letter aside and examined the gifts one by one. The silver harp was beautiful, each string pre-tuned to a simple pentatonic scale, and when she plucked it, a brittle, perfect A rang out, hovering in the air long after the string stilled. She wondered if Ms. E was trying to flatter her, or if she’d simply noticed the way Arabella’s hands sometimes found music even when her mind was elsewhere.

The LaserDisc was a marvel—Arabella had watched the technology blossom and then fade, first as a novelty, then as a collector’s item, and finally as a punchline for the very old or the very stubborn. She ran her fingers over the sleeve, noting the crisp corners and the still-vivid artwork. She’d have to dig out a player from the basement, if only to see what Ms. E had queued up for her.

The costume was a well-constructed imitation of a 1970s cocktail dress, all plunging neckline and synthetic shimmer. Arabella held it up to the light, gauging the cut, and decided it might fit Anna, if her sister ever took to wearing something with sleeves. She tucked it back into the basket, amused.

The bottle of mushroom wine was last, and most interesting. The label was in a swirling drow script that she could read, if only she squinted. She pulled the cork, just a hair, and inhaled. It was earthy, almost savory, with a tang that reminded her of old bookstores and the first rain after a drought.

She poured a thimbleful into a glass and tasted. At first, it was just bitterness and woodsmoke, but then a slow, deliberate sweetness crept in—a hint of pear, maybe, or something more exotic, and a backnote that lingered like a secret at the edge of memory.

Arabella let the glass dangle between her fingers and returned to the letter, reading the last lines again. She wondered if Ms. E truly believed what she’d written, or if it was just another layer of the performance, a Producer-to-Host pat on the back. It didn’t matter, really; Arabella had chosen her path a long time ago, and there was no going back to the old ways.

She looked out across the ocean, the sky now shifting to that impossible violet that lasted only minutes before full night. She raised the glass in a silent toast to Ms. E, to the cast, to herself.

She finished the wine in a single swallow and set the bottle down, careful not to chip the rim. The next letter in the basket was different: older parchment, the script a deliberate, almost haughty hand. Arabella recognized it instantly—the signature was all but an artifact from the earliest runs of the show.

She brushed her palm affectionately, almost reverently over the page, feeling the ghost of J.’s magic thrumming just under the surface.

Little Arabella,

You should know that it makes Me proud to see how far you’ve come. You and your sisters were never intended to exhibit much in the way of flexibility, so you can imagine My surprise and delight when I saw how much you’ve changed. Perhaps that should come as no surprise to Me—it’s not as though I’m the same being I was in the early days of Harem Hotel—but your efforts are worthy and deserving of recognition.

I’ve included a selection of boons for your master and his harem. I hope that the collection of individuals you’ve assembled is able to find some enjoyment and, perhaps, a taste of peace in times which I’m sure must feel turbulent to their young minds.

J.

P.S. I’ve kept My touch light. I know how other Producers can get when they feel that their seasons are being meddled with. That said, if you ever feel as though you need a respite, I’m sure I could find a place and time for a vacation for you. I did so enjoy when little Ishtar graced My current season with her touch.

Arabella read it through twice, letting the cadence of the sentences roll over her. No one else wrote like J.—every word was calculated, each phrase engineered to fit within the universe’s own internal logic. Even the postscript carried a strange intimacy, as if J. was writing not to a subordinate, but to a favored child. She smiled fondly, thinking of how true J.'s words were. He truly had changed much since the early days, since their first meeting at the First Gate.

The idea that she was never meant to “exhibit much in the way of flexibility” made Arabella laugh, quiet and bitter but not without pride. It was true: she and her sisters had been engineered for stability, for containment, for keeping the wheels of the machine spinning regardless of the trauma inflicted on the players inside. Yet now, here she was, the last of her generation, reading letters on her balcony, being praised for her ability to bend without breaking. So young Ishtar had visited J.'s season? Anna would not be happy about that. A little tidbit of information Arabella would spare her sister.

She let herself feel the pride, then. Not the artificial glow she wore for the cameras, but something genuine and maybe even a little childish. She wondered what the other Hosts would make of this—probably nothing good, but that was their problem.

She thought about the “vacation” J. offered, and smiled in a way that surprised her. There was no vacation for Hosts. Not really. But the fact that J. even suggested it meant more than she could express.

Arabella folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope, smoothing the flap closed with the pad of her thumb. She looked out over the ocean again, the first stars peeking through the haze, and allowed herself to imagine what a vacation might feel like. A world where she could be simply herself—no script, no obligations, no contest to run.

The thought was dangerously sweet.

Arabella had just smoothed the last envelope flat and was contemplating the fading horizon when the faintest vibration of air behind her signaled that she was no longer alone.

She didn’t turn. Instead, she lifted her glass in a silent salute and said, “You’re early, Herm.”

Herman drifted from the shadows at the edge of the balcony, looking as if he’d been waiting in the wings for hours and had only now decided to step into the spotlight. He wore his signature ensemble—a mechanic’s jumpsuit, a yellow safety helmet perched slightly askew, and a pair of sneakers bright enough to be visible from the moon.

“Called me again so soon?” Herman said, his voice a dry rasp layered over something ancient and inexhaustible.

“I missed your conversation,” Arabella replied, tilting her head to acknowledge him properly. “And, as it happens, you have mail.”

She handed him the final envelope. This one was addressed in a girlish scrawl, with pink hearts bracketing the word “Hermy.” The return address was a rainbow sticker, and the wax seal was a riot of iridescent glitter. Herman opened it with a single flick of his thumbnail, read the contents, and let the letter dangle from his hand as he snorted in amusement.

Hermy! Oh gosh! It’s so good to be able to write to you. You know, I don’t think we’ve had the good fortune to ever meet in person, but as far as I’m concerned, we are of the same DNA. Pretty positive, frankly, that you’re essentially my great-grandpa, and I’m sure the blood test will reflect that. I took all the lessons from you to heart! Duping mortals, humiliating lords, seducing and cucking married partners, and escaping the consequences of my actions? Everything straight from the Herman playbook! I hope you can find time to drop by sometime. We can share a meal, take a blood sample, and compare exploits!
XOXO Reyna

Herman grinned, half-mocking, half-fond. “The ego on that one,” he said. “Can’t fault her for ambition, but she’s got it all backward. It’s not about the solo act, it’s about the game. The weaving. There’s no art in tricking for the sake of your own reflection.”

“Agreed,” Arabella said. “But you have to admit, she pulls off the bravado better than most.”

Herman held the letter to the sky, as if he could judge its worth by the translucence of the paper. “She thinks this is what it means to be a trickster. That the world is just a stage for cleverness and a few bruised feelings. She forgets: my best tricks were the ones where I helped the mortals. Gave them music, or trade, or a story they’d remember when the dark was too much for them.”

Herman leaned back on his heels, scanning the letter as if he could divine its true intent from the angle of the ink. “She’s got the right amount of gall, I’ll grant her that.” He refolded the page, turning it over in his hands, and smirked. “Although, she could stand to learn the difference between cleverness and wisdom. World’s already got enough of the first.”

Arabella allowed herself a small, sidelong smile. “You can’t expect every grandchild to pick up all the family traits. Some get the hair, some get the horniness, some just get the attitude.”

He grunted, glancing out over the parapet. “The ones who get all three are dangerous. ‘Course, I never claimed the tree was free of rotten fruit.”

The sky had deepened to a near-night indigo, and the stars had begun their slow, competitive emergence. For a few breaths, neither spoke. Herman cracked his neck, then set the letter on the table and tapped a forefinger against it, as if conducting the rhythm of his own thoughts.

“Here’s the thing,” he said finally. “Reyna—she’s good at the game, but she doesn’t see the rest of the board. Tricksters exist to shake the world up, yeah, but you’ve got to remember: sometimes the best trick is giving people what they need, not what they want. Look at mortals. Give them a story, a path, something to follow when the darkness starts talking back. That’s the long con. She’s all flash, no echo. No ripple.”

“She’ll learn,” Arabella said, gentle but not quite optimistic.

Herman raised an eyebrow. “You sound more like a mother than a Host.”

Arabella laughed, the sound thin and bright in the open air. “I am what they made me, Herm. But I’ll take it as a compliment.”

She took the letter, folded it, and tucked it into a small lacquered box that sat in the corner of the table. The motion was unhurried, almost ceremonial. “Do you want to reply?” she asked, and her voice was the kind of soft that usually followed a hard rain or a funeral.

Herman considered this, eyes half-lidded. “If she wants my attention, she’ll get it. Eventually. Maybe I’ll pop by her set. Give her a lesson in humility. Or in how not to get your ass handed to you by a mortal with a good memory and a longer grudge.”

Arabella nodded, then stood, the long lines of her dress catching the last of the sunset. “Stay for dinner?” she asked. “Anna’s making an appearance. You know how she is if you’re late.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was affection in the gesture. “That woman’s never been late for anything. Except her own funeral.”

Together, they moved toward the glass doors that led back into the suite. Arabella paused just inside, looking back at the sea as if she could see the next three moves of the universe lined up in the waves.

“Will you need help with the next challenge?” Herman asked. He sounded almost hopeful—if you could call the prospect of wrecking a handful of hopeful mortals “helpful.”

Arabella shook her head. “Not this time. But maybe for the other plan. In a couple of weeks.”

He smiled, showing a flash of teeth, bright as a secret. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

They went inside together, the air closing behind them, and the balcony was left to the night and the slow, inevitable shift of the stars.