Before the Storm, Part 2

Norah woke to the sound of footfalls—quick, agitated, rhythmic as a metronome gone mad. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know it was Riley; no one else in the women’s guest bedrooms walked like that, with the kind of restless anger that made even a corridor feel like a trap. Norah stayed in bed long enough to run a systems check (limbs: sore, but operational; mind: clear, if a little slow; mood: irritable), then rolled out and began the process of rebuilding herself for public view.

Norah ran her fingers over her clothes, straightened her hair, and made a face at her reflection. “You got this,” she said, out loud but quiet, then stepped into the hallway to intercept the **** of nature that was Riley Bennett.

She didn’t have to look far. Riley was halfway down the corridor, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her battered jeans, her shoulders hunched, her chin tucked. She was muttering to herself, rapid-fire, a string of curses so inventive it made Norah want to steal some for later use. Her hair—black at the roots, red in the sunlight, and long enough to threaten tripping hazards—was loose around her face, as if she couldn’t be bothered to keep it tamed.

Riley didn’t notice Norah at first, or pretended not to. Norah watched her, waited until she made a tight U-turn at the end of the hall and started back, then blocked the path with an outstretched arm. “Gonna wear a groove in the floor at this rate,” Norah said. “Or are you hoping to break through and find Narnia?”

Riley stopped. She glared, the effect undercut by the way her heterochromatic eyes (green and brown, always shifting which one looked more pissed-off) seemed almost comically large above her freckled nose. “You’re up early,” Riley said, voice flat.

Norah arched an eyebrow. “Some of us don’t need to drown our problems in carbs and passive-aggression. You want to talk, or are we sticking with the silent treatment?”

A pause. Riley looked away, as if searching for a window she could leap out of. “Didn’t sleep. Not with…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

Norah understood, even if she didn’t admit it. The building had a pulse to it today—a charge, the air thick with the kind of anticipation that made your teeth itch. The rest of the girls pretended not to notice, but Norah’s job was noticing things. She could feel it vibrating in her own skin.

“Fine,” she said, softer now. “Let’s go hit something. Preferably each other.”

Riley looked back, and though the smile was small, it was real. “Yeah. I could use that.”

They didn’t bother changing. The gym in the west wing was rarely used at this hour. Norah led the way, heels clicking sharp on the tile, and felt Riley’s steps fall into sync behind her.

The Training Ground was cooler than expected—someone had set the thermostat way down, or maybe the windowless space just held the night’s chill like a tomb. The mats were clean, the air metallic with the tang of yesterday’s sweat. On a rack near the door, a full set of padded sticks hung in neat rows, each one with a different stripe of tape for length.

Norah snagged two, tossing one to Riley without warning. Riley caught it left-handed, tested the balance, then began a lazy, circular twirl that said she knew what she was doing. Norah rolled her own wrist, practiced a strike, then squared up in the center of the mat.

They faced off. For a moment, neither moved.

Then Riley lunged.

Norah parried, her stick snapping up to block the overhead swing. The contact made a satisfying crack, the vibration running down Norah’s arm to her shoulder. She pivoted, drove an elbow toward Riley’s ribs, felt Riley twist away in time.

They worked through the basics at first—single stick, block and counter, the rhythm almost gentle. Riley was slightly taller and had the reach, but Norah’s footwork was better; she shifted her weight, used the heels like skates, turning tight circles around Riley’s heavier stance.

It escalated, fast. They went double sticks, then started mixing in low sweeps, feints, even a few kicks. They fell into a pattern: Riley attacked, wild and fast, Norah absorbed and redirected. The sticks clacked, the air filled with the thud of impact on foam padding and the hiss of breath through gritted teeth.

They didn’t talk. The only sound was the collision of sticks and the uneven rhythm of their breathing. Norah felt sweat begin to bead under her scarf, her shirt sticking to the small of her back. Riley’s hair was a halo of static by now, her lips peeled back in a smile that was all teeth.

After thirty minutes, Riley’s attacks grew sloppier, her recovery a hair slower each time. Norah took a risk, faked high and swept low, catching Riley behind the knee. Riley stumbled, lost her balance, and landed on the mat with a grunt.

Norah stepped in, pointed the tip of her stick at Riley’s chest. “Yield?”

Riley laughed, flat on her back, arms flung out. “You’re a monster,” she said. “I like it.”

Norah offered a hand. Riley took it, and Norah hauled her up in a single, practiced motion.

They stood there, chests heaving, sweat running in rivers. Norah felt the urge to say something, to break the spell, but Riley beat her to it.

“Where’d you learn that?” Riley asked. “Wasn’t in the welcome packet.”

Norah shrugged, catching her breath. “Escrima. My old neighborhood was… not the best. Dad got tired of me coming home with bruises. Signed me up when I was fourteen. Rest is history.”

Riley whistled. “Hell of a hobby.”

Norah grinned, letting herself enjoy the compliment. “Better than therapy. At least you get to hit people.”

Riley glanced down at Norah’s shoes, then back up. “You know, I was going to say you looked ridiculous fighting in heels, but you made it work.”

Norah snorted. “That’s the transformation. Top Heavy. If I’m not in heels, I can’t walk. Seriously. I fall on my ass instantly. But I can run, fight, even do burpees in these. Kind of a superpower, if you squint.”

Riley nodded, as if adding the fact to a mental Rolodex. “Explains a lot.”

Norah leaned on her stick, rolling her shoulder to ease the tension. “Your turn. Where’d you learn to fight with sticks?”

Riley made a face, looked away. “Not as interesting as you’d hope. ROTC at university, then a few years in the gym, sometimes at protests. Baton work, mostly. Never got to hit anyone who deserved it until now.”

Norah smiled. “Glad I could be of service.”

Riley grinned back. There was something lighter in her now, the sharpness dulled a little. “You want to shower and grab food?”

Norah nodded. “Yeah. We earned it.”

They put the sticks back, left the gym, and walked together down the hallway, their steps slower, in no rush. For a moment, Norah thought they might actually talk about tomorrow—about the birthday, about the inevitability of loss—but neither said a word.

Instead, they just walked, matching each other stride for stride, as if daring the world to knock them down again.

---

The Inner Gardens always looked best at sunrise, when the plants still shimmered with last night’s breath and the paths glimmered with secrets. Liesa had claimed the northeast bench, still damp from her morning swim, her hair a braided rope that dripped occasional diamond droplets onto her thigh. She wore a ratty t-shirt over her swimsuit and nothing else, and in the pale blue light, her skin seemed to absorb every stray photon.

Emi found her that way, spine straight, arms folded, eyes fixed on a pot of basil as if willing it to grow an inch before lunch. She hovered in the doorway, not sure if she was interrupting a moment, but Liesa turned and smiled—the kind of smile that made Emi want to run over and start talking about something inane, just to fill the air.

“Is it safe to come in, or are you cross-pollinating?” Emi teased, lingering in the threshold.

Liesa rolled her eyes, but the smile didn’t break. “Just making sure they’re hydrated. You should see the lettuce—if it gets any bigger, we’ll have to start charging rent.”

Emi stepped inside, careful not to brush the seedlings with her many limbs. Her six arms were down to a science now—two for balance, two for gesturing, two for carrying the thermos of iced tea she’d brought as a peace offering. She handed Liesa a cup. “Hydrate or die-drate,” she said, trying to sound casual. It came out a little breathless.

Liesa sipped, eyed Emi over the rim. “You’re nervous.”

“Nope,” Emi lied, “just have too much energy today. The coffee was probably a mistake. Want to do sprints?”

Liesa looked her up and down, then shrugged. “Sure. But you’re going to lose. I’ve got aquatic legs today.”

They finished their tea, set the cups aside, and stepped out onto the back lawn. The grass was slick, not yet cut by the week’s first mower, and the air had that fresh, zappy chill that burned off fast once the sun cleared the treetops.

They marked the start and finish with two hunks of driftwood from the compost pile. Emi stretched (all arms overhead, a brief, impressive display of joint hyperflexibility), and Liesa just shook her legs out, bending her knees with exaggerated slowness.

On Emi’s count, they ran. Liesa was faster, but Emi had the edge in stamina, and by the fourth sprint, they were neck and neck, both wheezing and giggling, neither willing to yield.

On the sixth go, Emi slipped, went down hard, and lay sprawled on her back, staring up at the blank blue dome of the sky. Liesa flopped down beside her, arms splayed. For a few seconds, they just lay there, the early sunlight soaking into their skin, lungs fighting for air.

“You okay?” Liesa asked, rolling her head to the side.

Emi nodded, but didn’t answer. She let her lower arms rest on her stomach, the upper ones stretched above her head, the middle set tucked under the curve of her ribs. It was a pose that looked accidental, but she’d practiced it for weeks to make sure her arms didn’t tangle or look too alien.

Liesa made a soft “hmm” sound. “You’re not just full of energy. You’re worried.”

Emi considered a clever deflection, then let it go. “Maybe.”

They watched the clouds for a while. There weren’t many—just a few puffs, moving slow, more decoration than threat.

Liesa plucked a blade of grass, chewed the end. “Want to talk about it, or is this one of those moods where we have to spar first?”

Emi snorted. “I’d lose. You’d judo-flip me.”

“Not with six arms. It would be, like, grappling an octopus.” Liesa laughed, but let it drift off. “Is it tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Emi swallowed, then tried again. “It’s not just Andy. I mean, I know he’s going to feel it worst, but—” She broke off, unsure how to articulate the rest.

Liesa waited, patient as ever.

Emi closed her eyes, letting the sunlight turn her lids orange. “We talked about Laura a lot. On our date night. More than I ever thought I would. And now I can’t stop thinking about her.” She fiddled with her wrist, twisting the bracelet she’d made from scraps of fabric the week before. “I think I’ve remembered her more in two months here than I did in the last sixteen years. Which is… weird.”

“Is it?” Liesa said. “You were friends, weren’t you?”

Emi hesitated. “We were. And then… we weren’t.”

She felt Liesa turn, propped up on one elbow. “What happened?”

Emi exhaled. "We argued. About Andy. She found out I had a crush on him too." Her middle arms twisted together nervously. "She accused me of betrayal. I told her she was pathetic for circling him without ever saying anything. We both said horrible things. I pulled away after that—from both of them. Almost a whole year before she..." Emi's voice caught. "She was gone before I could tell her I was sorry. That I didn't mean it. I spent years convincing myself it didn't matter, that I wasn't partly responsible, but—" She shook her head. "It does. More than I ever admitted, even to myself."

Liesa was silent for a while. Then: “You’re not betraying her, you know.”

Emi opened her eyes. “Sometimes it feels like I am. Like, if I let myself be happy with Andy, I’m—”

“You’re living,” Liesa said, gentle but firm. “That’s what she’d want. For you, for him.”

Emi wiped at her eye, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t usually get this—”

“Emotional? Honest?” Liesa’s smile was kind, not mocking. “That’s what I like about you, Emi. You feel things. You don’t hide from them.”

“I tried,” Emi said. “I spent sixteen years in a fantasy, because it was safer than being real. And now… I guess I want to be real. Even if it’s messy.”

Liesa brushed a grass stem over Emi’s nose, and Emi sneezed. “You’re brave, you know,” Liesa said. “You’ve changed so much since the beginning. I’m proud of you.”

Emi blinked, surprised at how much that meant. “Thanks,” she said, voice a little wobbly.

They lay there a while longer, just two women and the sun and the faintest smell of basil from the greenhouse. Emi felt the anxiety slip away, replaced by something softer—hope, maybe, or just the sense that the future could be anything.

Liesa broke the quiet. “You want to go for another run, or should we just nap in the grass until the staff comes to yell at us?”

Emi grinned. “Let’s nap. My legs are noodles.”

Liesa lay back down, and Emi scooted closer, so their shoulders touched. “You know,” Emi said, “this is the happiest I’ve been in… ever, maybe.”

“Good,” Liesa replied. “Me, too.”

They closed their eyes, and the day moved on, and for a while at least, nothing hurt.

---

The kitchen’s heart was dough and motion. Chloe’s hands kneaded the yeasty mass with steady pressure, her arms dusted with flour up to the elbow. The day’s light, filtered through the fogged glass of the east windows, was weaker than usual—diffuse, almost hesitant, as if the sun had forgotten how to perform.

Sam was at the stove, checking the timer on her counter every two minutes. She wore her Blue Bean apron, already splattered with crimson streaks of sriracha, and was stacking rows of bowls in reverse size order. Chloe admired the efficiency, the precision. If Sam was nervous, she hid it behind work.

They’d started prepping before ten. Neither said much at first. Chloe hummed quietly—a tune she couldn’t name, probably from an old musical—while she shaped dough into rolls and left them to rise near the window. Sam ran point on everything else: setting up the salad station, slicing fruit, testing vinaigrettes. Every so often she’d glance over at Chloe and flash a little “we got this” smile.

By eleven, the kitchen had the hum of a well-oiled engine. Chloe began assembling the lasagna, layering sheets of pasta with her homemade ricotta, the cheese still warm from the mixing bowl. Sam, meanwhile, was refining her sauce—tasting, spitting, adjusting, and repeating until the balance was exactly right.

When the first loaf came out of the oven, Chloe sliced the heel and handed it to Sam. She watched as Sam took a bite, chewed, then shrugged like it was “good enough” even though Chloe knew it was perfect.

The bread’s warmth softened Chloe’s nerves for a minute, but they returned as she caught a glimpse of the sky through the window. The clouds had thickened, pressing down in a way that made her stomach knot.

“Looks like rain,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Sam followed her gaze, then shrugged. “That’s new.”

“Do you think it means something?” Chloe’s voice was soft, almost childlike.

“Probably just weather,” Sam said, but her eyes didn’t leave the clouds. “Maybe we just hit a lucky stretch until now.”

Chloe nodded, though it didn’t feel right. She lined up the casserole trays, arranging them with military precision, then began prepping the salad. She sliced tomatoes, fingers moving almost automatically.

They worked in silence for a while. The only sounds were the whir of the mixer, the click of knives on wood, the faint crackle from the oven. Chloe found herself counting each step—mix, fold, turn, repeat—because the rhythm made the world feel less slippery.

She wanted to ask Sam about tomorrow, about how they were supposed to make the day special when the world seemed determined to crowd them with gloom. But she didn’t. She couldn’t bear to speak it aloud.

Instead, she focused on the dough, the cheese, the pasta sheets. On the perfection of the layers, the geometry of each square. She let the work absorb her, let it be enough.

By the time the salads were plated, the clock said two. Chloe dusted her hands, wiped down the counter, and turned to Sam. “I’m going to lie down for a bit, if that’s okay.”

Sam looked up, nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll finish up here.”

Chloe hesitated in the doorway, watching Sam rinse a bowl with a little more **** than was strictly necessary. She wanted to say thank you, to hug her friend and promise that tomorrow would be okay. But the words stuck, so she settled for a small smile before stepping into the hall.

Alone in the kitchen, Sam stared at the clouds, then at her own hands, pink with sauce and effort. She let herself rest for a second, breathing in the sharp, spicy air.

Then she rolled up her sleeves and went back to work.

---

Claire spent the morning curating time.

The Dance Hall was still, the light filtered through the great northern window in a way that made everything look grayscale. She moved slowly, letting the hush of the place settle in her joints. The memory wall filled most of the west side, a ragged, beautiful chaos of photos and mementos she’d assembled over the last week. Claire carried her notepad as if it were a passport, jotting observations, drawing lines between faces and dates, sometimes pausing to transcribe a fragment of conversation she remembered from the night before.

She hovered longest at the Polaroid. It anchored the entire wall. Andy, thirteen, grinning in a shirt two sizes too big. Laura, pressed against him, her face caught mid-laugh, hair flying like she was about to take off and never come back. The image was overexposed, the edges faded. It looked like something out of a dream.

Claire pressed her fingers to the border of the photo and closed her eyes. She tried to imagine what it must be like to hold a memory so tight, it hurt to breathe. What it must be like to carry loss, not as a wound but as a second spinal column, threading through every day, a weight that was at once invisible and inescapable.

She made a note: Grief is a library with no catalog. You just wander, hoping the right book falls on your head.

After an hour, her focus drifted to the adjacent photos—snapshots of Andy’s life after Laura, the years he’d spent in college, with Liesa, then alone in half-lit apartments, then again with Erin, then with Sam. The progression told its own story: a bright center, a slow collapse, a tangle of attempts at new orbit.

She was tracing these orbits—literally, with a colored pencil, blue for joy, red for pain, green for the weird wild in-between—when she felt someone’s shadow fall over her shoulder.

Marissa didn’t knock or announce herself. She simply appeared, her own body language at a hush, and took up position next to Claire, mirroring her stance. They stood in silence for a time, looking at the collage as if it were an autopsy report.

After a minute, Marissa spoke, her voice barely above a whisper: “Do you think tomorrow will break him?”

Claire considered. She flipped to a clean page and wrote, with careful strokes: He’s already broken. But sometimes breaking again is what lets something else grow.

She handed Marissa the page. The older woman read it, then nodded. “Smart,” she said. “I don’t have any brilliant advice for him. I just… I keep thinking about what I’d want if it were me. If I’d lost my sister that way. I don’t think I’d survive.”

Claire wanted to say You would, because you have to, but wrote instead: Maybe he’s not meant to survive it alone.

Marissa smiled, tired and fond. “You’re good at making sense out of mess.”

They looked at the wall together, the progression of photos, the faint constellation lines Claire had drawn in colored pencil between them. Claire watched Marissa’s gaze, saw it drift to the Polaroid, then back to a snapshot of Andy and Erin at a party, both in costume, both smiling but not quite touching.

Marissa asked, “Do you plan to take this down after… after tomorrow?”

Claire shook her head. She wrote: I want to add to it. I want to show him that he has a life, not just a wound.

Claire hesitated after writing it, as if uncertain whether the words themselves were too bold. She kept the notebook pressed to her chest, arms crossed in a self-hug, and watched the wall as though waiting for it to update itself in real time. The silence between her and Marissa stretched, but it was not awkward—more the calm between chess moves, each considering their next statement.

Marissa’s attention went from the notebook to Claire, then to the Polaroid again. “Do you think he’ll be able to look at this after tomorrow?” she asked, not expecting an answer.

Claire shrugged. She uncapped her pen, thought for a second, then scribbled: Yes, but only if we help him.

Marissa read it, then sat with her thoughts. “He has us,” she said. “But I’ve never seen someone fight so hard to keep their wounds open.” She traced the edge of the Polaroid with a fingertip, then shook her head as if shaking off a spell. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about closing the wound.”

Claire picked up the thread of conversation, writing more slowly: If a bone heals wrong, sometimes you have to break it again to set it straight.

Marissa barked a laugh—quick, unguarded. “You’re more ruthless than you look.” She smiled, then leaned back on her heels, shifting her gaze from the collage to the girl beside her. “You really want to keep this up, don’t you? The wall, the memories. Not erase the past just because it hurts.”

Claire nodded. She tapped the word life, underlined twice in her last note. After a beat, she wrote: He should have a whole life, not just the bad parts.

They sat together, side by side, letting the afternoon light move across the wall. The Dance Hall had gone empty, its silence deepening as the sun fell past the upper windows. The dust motes looked golden, as if they were keeping vigil for the night ahead.

Marissa took the silence as invitation to let down her own guard. “It’s funny,” she said. “I used to think I’d marry him. Andy, I mean. I’d never say it out loud—therapy, boundaries, and all that—but it was a nice thought. He’d never let himself love me that much, so I didn’t have to be afraid of losing it.” She looked at Claire, measuring her reaction. “You’re not afraid. You’re all in.”

Claire’s pen hovered, then wrote: I am scared. But I want it anyway.

Marissa read it, smiled. “Good answer.” She looked at the wall again. “Are you really going to add more? After tomorrow?”

Claire nodded.

“What will you put up?” Marissa’s voice was low, more curious than probing.

Claire hesitated, then wrote: Pictures of everyone. Us, too. Whoever is left, and whoever we lose.

Marissa chewed her lip, then nodded, a decision settling across her face. “I want to help. If that’s allowed.”

Claire’s smile was small, but bright. She offered the notebook, inviting Marissa to write something of her own.

Marissa took it, surprised. She drew a line under Claire’s last words, then added, in careful script: Even broken things belong.

She handed the notebook back. Claire pressed the page, reverently, then looked up and blinked fast, ears flattening as she fought back a surge of emotion.

It was Marissa who broke the tension. “You know, you and Erin are going to wreck that man. In a good way, I mean.” She grinned. “I can already see it. It’s going to be a disaster, but it’ll be beautiful.”

Claire’s face went so red that her freckles vanished. She scribbled furiously: We want to marry him.

Marissa read it, then doubled over laughing. “God, you two are relentless. Has he said yes?”

Claire nodded, shy but proud. She wrote: He wants both of us. We want each other, too.

Marissa shook her head, but there was no judgment—only a kind of wistful admiration. “You’re all brave,” she said. “I haven’t decided if I want to join the circus or just applaud from the audience.”

Claire’s face went serious. She wrote: You could, if you want to.

Marissa cocked her head. “Even after all this? After everything I know?”

Claire nodded.

Marissa looked at the notebook for a long time. Then she closed it gently, handing it back like a sacred text. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it.

The sun had dipped enough that the wall was in shadow now, the colors muted, the Polaroid suddenly the brightest thing in the room.

Marissa stood, stretching the stiffness from her legs. “We should go. There’s supposed to be dinner.” She glanced at the notebook, then added, “I hope you know, you’re a better therapist than I am.”

Claire shook her head.

Marissa extended a hand, and Claire took it, letting herself be pulled to her feet. For a moment, they stood together in the stillness of the Hall, the memory wall behind them, the future—strange and wild and uncertain—ahead.

“Do you think we should start planning a wedding?” Marissa asked, mock-serious.

Claire made a soundless snort and covered her face with both hands, mortified.

Marissa grinned, squeezing Claire’s shoulder. “You’re adorable. Come on, let’s go scare up some drinks.”

They left the Hall together, two more points in Andy’s orbit, ready to keep the wall growing, no matter what tomorrow brought.

---

The afternoon sand was hot enough to brand Liesa’s feet, but she liked the sting of it, the way it **** every muscle to wake up and commit to movement. Erin was already waiting at the edge of the dunes, mint skin gleaming, naked but for a pair of sneakers. She squinted into the sun, head tilted back, hair a wet tangle that looked like it would never dry. Her arms were crossed under her breasts, but it didn’t look defensive; more like she was squeezing herself to stay tethered to the present.

“Ready to risk third-degree burns?” Liesa called, knowing full well Erin would take it as a challenge.

Erin snorted, but there was a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t burn anymore. But bring it, Belgium. You don’t even have real beaches over there.”

“We have beaches,” Liesa replied, “but not like this.” She trudged down, pausing to let the surf wash up around her ankles, cold and shocking after the heat of the sand.

They waded in together. The ocean shelved quickly here—four steps and the water was up to Liesa’s waist, cool but not bracing, the salt stinging in a way that felt good. She leaned into a small incoming wave, letting it slap her flat across the face. She surfaced, spat, and wiped her eyes.

Erin laughed, loud and honest, then dove in herself, her long body cutting through the swell. She surfaced next to Liesa, wiped water from her eyes, and shook out her hair with a **** that sent droplets everywhere.

“Feels different today,” Erin said, voice softer now. “Like the water’s heavier.”

“It always is, before a storm,” Liesa said. She raised a hand, shading her eyes. The sky to the west was clear, but there was a thickness to the light, a haze that hadn’t been there that morning.

“Storm coming?” Erin’s tone was casual, but Liesa could hear the real question underneath.

She shrugged. “Maybe. I think it’s more than weather, though.” She looked at Erin, at the green skin gone almost blue in the shadow of a passing cloud. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Erin didn’t answer, not directly. She stared at the horizon, her eyes narrowed. “Something’s going to change,” she said. “You ever get that feeling, like your body’s on alert but your brain hasn’t caught up yet?”

“All the time,” Liesa said. “It’s like living on a fault line.”

They stood there, water up to their chests, neither moving for a long time. The beach was empty except for a couple of distant figures walking the shore, but Liesa barely noticed. The ocean’s steady push and pull, the way it tried to knock you off balance if you didn’t pay attention, was the only thing she let herself focus on.

Eventually, Erin asked, “You think we’ll be okay, after tomorrow?”

Liesa considered, then nodded. “I do. Maybe not right away, but eventually. That’s what people do, right? Keep going, even when they shouldn’t.”

Erin grinned, sharp and unsentimental. “You’re such a romantic, Liesa.”

“I know.” She smiled back, not ashamed.

They didn’t talk after that. They just let the current press them together, shoulders bumping, the waves tugging at their legs. The ocean was cold, and the sky grew heavier, but neither of them shivered.

They stayed that way, quiet and braced, until the sun started to slide toward evening and the tide crept higher, making it harder to keep their footing. When they finally waded out, the sand burned less, and the air felt strangely clean.

“Storm’ll probably hit tomorrow,” Erin said, glancing up at the sky.

Liesa nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

They walked back toward the hotel, steps in sync, the water drying to salt on their skin. They didn’t look at each other, but they didn’t need to.

---

Myra preferred the Library in the morning, when the air was still cool and the only sounds were her own footsteps on the flagstone floor and the faint, irregular ticking of the old brass clock above the entryway. She had found her favorite spot—a deep leather armchair, cracked with age, set close to the long window that faced the gardens—on her first visit, and had never tried another. It was close enough to feel the warmth of sunlight on her cheek, far enough that she could forget the rest of the world existed.

She held the book open in her lap, the spine gently cradled in both hands, but she hadn’t turned a page in half an hour. Instead, she traced the ridges of the binding with her thumbs, memorizing the feel of it: the faint roughness, the shallow groove where a previous reader had pressed too hard, the slight stick where a bit of glue had bubbled through the cloth. She didn’t need to see the words to know what was inside—she remembered the plot, the language, the cadences of this particular author as clearly as she remembered her own medical school lectures. But it was the ritual that mattered: the smell, the texture, the weight. She would have sat there all morning, holding the book in the golden warmth, if not for the second set of footsteps that entered the room.

Emily arrived with less sound than usual. Myra could sense her from the faint vibration of energy in the air—something she had learned to recognize in each of the women—but it was nothing like the hurricane of emotion that followed Andy or Riley. Emily was just… Emily: a cloud of nervousness, curiosity, and that strange, persistent note of wistful hope.

Myra didn’t turn when Emily entered. She waited, feeling the slow, methodical approach of shoes on the flagstone, then the hesitation as Emily surveyed the room. A soft clatter as she set something—probably a water bottle or a hair tie—on the table. The creak of another chair, directly across from Myra’s. Emily didn’t speak, which was unusual for her, but Myra was grateful. She savored the quiet a moment longer before setting the book, still open, on her lap.

The silence held for several minutes. It was not awkward, or even expectant; more like the hush after a heavy snowfall, when everything has already been said.

Finally, Myra broke the spell. “You’re here early,” she said, her voice soft and slightly hoarse from disuse. “Or maybe I’m just late.”

Emily smiled, though Myra could not see it. “I like it better in the morning. The sun isn’t as harsh. And you get first dibs on the best seat.” She paused. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Stay as long as you want.” Myra ran her thumb along the edge of the book. “I don’t own it.”

Emily folded her legs under her in a practiced, **** motion. “What book is that?”

Myra let out a breath, a little embarrassed. “I’m not reading. Just holding it.”

“Does it help?” Emily’s tone was gentle.

Myra closed the cover, running her palm over the title. “Sometimes. It reminds me of how things used to be. Before.” She hesitated. “It’s a strange thing—when you lose something, you miss the little parts the most. I used to love reading in the mornings, before rounds. Even if it was just for five minutes.”

Emily didn’t say anything. Myra could feel her sympathy, bright and uncomplicated, radiating like the sun through the glass. It was oddly comforting. The pain, when it came, was less sharp than usual.

After a minute, Myra continued, almost apologetically. “I come here every day. Sometimes just for a few minutes. It’s the only place that really feels quiet.”

“It is quiet,” Emily agreed. She glanced around, then said, “I never liked libraries before. They always seemed like they were trying too hard to be serious. But this one is… different. Like a secret.” She leaned forward. “You know, I think I get why you come here. Even if you’re not reading.”

Myra smiled, just a little. “The other reason is that, in here, I can’t sense anyone else. Not even you, unless you’re right in front of me. It’s… peaceful.”

Emily nodded, playing with a strand of her hair. “I used to go to a little coffee shop like that. Before all of this. I’d sit by the window and pretend the rest of the world was on mute.” She looked at Myra, hesitant. “Do you miss it?”

“Every day.” Myra’s voice was flat, but there was no bitterness. “I miss a lot of things.”

Emily hesitated, then offered, “I can’t imagine what it’s like, not being able to see.”

“It’s not like closing your eyes.” Myra said quietly. “But you get used to it. Or, you get used to hating it a little less.”

They sat with that for a while. Sunlight drifted across the carpet, pooling at Emily’s feet and turning her bare legs gold. The air was dry, heavy with the smell of old paper and dust.

Emily fidgeted with her hair, winding it around her finger. “The closest I can come is… well, not being able to wear clothes. I used to love getting dressed in the morning. Picking out jeans or a blouse, figuring out if I wanted to look cute or cool or invisible. Sometimes I look at the other women here and I wonder what it would be like to wear real clothes again, even just once.” She smiled, embarrassed. “It’s dumb, I know.”

“It’s not dumb,” Myra said. “You lost something. Of course you miss it.” She reached out, tentatively, and touched the edge of the table. “What do you do, when you miss it the most?”

Emily thought for a moment. “I… draw, sometimes. Or I braid my hair, just to feel like I’m doing something. Sometimes I’ll make up stories about who I’d be if I could pick anything.”

Myra nodded. “I like that. The stories.”

Another stretch of silence, this one lighter. Emily’s presence was warm, unthreatening. Myra felt herself relax, the tension in her hands easing.

Then Emily said, “If you want, I could read to you. Or, I mean, I could try. If you want.”

Myra was silent for a second, startled by the offer. She had not realized how much she missed hearing words aloud. “I would like that,” she said, her voice very small.

Emily’s smile grew. “Pick any book. I’ll do my best not to mess it up.”

Myra ran her fingers along the shelf behind her, searching for a spine she remembered. She found one—familiar, thick, well-worn. She handed it to Emily, her fingers lingering a moment on the cover.

Emily opened it to the first page and began to read. Her voice was soft but clear, the words a little halting at first, then gaining confidence as she found the rhythm.

For several minutes, they sat that way: Emily reading, Myra listening, the sun painting lazy arcs across the floor.

It was only when Emily stumbled over a particularly strange sentence—something about “burgeoning masculinity” and “heaving chemise”—that she realized she was not, in fact, reading a classic, but some kind of very old and extremely explicit romance novel. The phrase “unyielding staff” came up. Twice.

Emily stopped, blushing furiously, then started to laugh. Myra, realizing what had happened, laughed too—first a quiet, helpless snort, then a full, wild cackle that shook her shoulders and made her eyes stream with tears.

They laughed until they couldn’t breathe, and the Library, for that moment, became the happiest place in the world.

---

Author's Note: the story continues with Dawn's Night (IV). However, someone attends a very eerie event at the same time, that night. The event may give greater insight into Arabella's short-term goal. It is not necessary to read the Intermission to enjoy the story, and if you have no idea of what she plans, you may want to read the Intermission later. There will be a link after the Intermission to take you back to Dawn's Night.