Midnight Visitors

The night had grown slow and viscous, every movement and sound caught in a syrup of moonlight and leftover wine. Music, once a pulse for dancing, now whispered along the sand—half remembered, like a radio tuned low in the next room. Women clustered in orbits around the firepit, shoulders bare, laughter bright as glass even when nothing was really funny. Lanterns bobbed overhead on invisible lines, their shifting gold the only authority left to govern the world. The sea, just past the line of warm sand, sparkled under a crooked crescent, and the scent of brine smudged out all but the cleanest memories.

Andy took it all in from the edge of the scene, leaning against a driftwood post, watching the knots and pairs and loners that made up his accidental family. He could count them by the sound each one made: Chloe’s breathless giggle, Riley’s sly knife of sarcasm, the way Dawn’s voice always carried, even when she tried to keep it gentle. Most of all, he watched Laura, who had become the center of a three-girl cyclone with Emi and Dawn, the three of them sprawled on a battered quilt, holding court over a small kingdom of shells and spilled snacks. Laura’s hair fell over her face, hiding her smile until she laughed, but when she did, it was bright enough to reach across the fire and land like a dare in Andy’s chest.

He tried to look away, to give her room, but every time their eyes met—every time, even by accident—he felt the world stutter and swing a few degrees closer to her. It was the same as it had always been, that connection that made them feel close even when they were apart, but worse now, or better, depending on whether you wanted to sleep that night or not.

He watched her throw her head back at some joke, bare throat and all, and it triggered a memory so strong he nearly lost his balance: the two of them, ten or eleven, running through a thunderstorm so wild it made the news, ducking under every awning on Main until they found shelter beneath the drive-thru menu at Dairy Queen. Laura had been laughing then, too, though she was soaked through and shivering, and he remembered thinking that if he could bottle the sound, he’d never need anything else in his life.

The present Laura was older, her laugh more careful, but in the right light Andy could see the old mischief glimmering beneath the surface, waiting to be let out. He could also see, if he really looked, the nerves. The way she checked her own hands, or snuck glances at Emi’s six arms or Dawn’s impossible ears, as if tallying up the ways she’d missed the years in between. Each time, the group nudged her back—Dawn with a shoulder bump, Emi with a conspiratorial roll of her eyes, the two of them building a scaffold around the newcomer until it was clear she wasn’t going to collapse. It made Andy proud.

He drifted, sampling the warmth of the fire, then catching a drink from Emily, who moved through the party as if she’d been designed for it. Her hair, undone and shining, fell over her shoulders in strategic waves, hiding and revealing her body in ways that left most of the guests off-balance. She pressed a cup into Andy’s hand, then brushed past him, hips swaying on instinct, and joined Liesa and Sam where they danced in a lazy spiral just beyond the circle of firelight.

Andy took a sip, found the drink sweeter than he expected, and let his mind wander. In some other universe, he’d be standing at a party like this and wondering how to talk to a single girl. Here, he was responsible for thirteen of them, each with their own gravitational demands, and it was a miracle he hadn’t simply spun apart.

He looked back at Laura, and this time, when their eyes met, she didn’t look away. The moment stretched—a thread pulled tight across the decades, vibrating with everything left unsaid. Andy felt the old electric current, the one that always made him reckless, and for a second he wanted to cross the sand and sit beside her, just to see if the world would finally stop moving when they touched. Instead, he smiled, small and private, and Laura smiled back. It was enough. For now.

He let his gaze wander to the water, where the tide was coming in, the foam lit ghostly white by the lanterns and the moon. He thought of the stories he’d heard, of what Arabella had discussed—of the place between worlds, the river that carried the dead and the living in opposite directions, the point where you could reach across and pull someone back if your hand was steady and your heart was sure. Tonight, the whole world felt like it was built out of those in-betweens.

Behind him, Marissa and Myra traded stories in low voices, their laughter less wild but no less real. Marissa’s transformation meant that every word she spoke had a ripple effect—he could see Norah, sitting at the next table, flush deeper and deeper each time Marissa leaned over to say something. Even Myra, who usually kept her hands folded in her lap, had let her fox tail swish onto Marissa’s thigh, resting there as if it had forgotten who it belonged to.

Everywhere Andy looked, there was motion and connection, the slow knitting together of wounds and old hurts. He wondered if this was what Arabella had meant, all along, by healing. Not a cure, not even a fix—just enough time, enough warmth, that the raw edges could mesh and grow into something new.

The wind picked up, ruffling the lanterns and making the fire bend low. Someone—probably Sam—started up a new song, one Andy recognized from the radio but couldn’t name. The others joined in, each adding their own harmony or countermelody, until the whole beach vibrated with a music that had never been written down but somehow everyone knew.

Andy grinned, set down his empty cup, and stepped forward into the light, ready for whatever happened next.

He barely made it three steps toward the fire when the music changed again—if it had ever been music and not just the heartbeat of the party. The melody thinned out, a sound like glass being breathed on, then the background chatter stilled by degrees. At the edge of the lantern light, three shapes appeared, so perfectly silhouetted against the dark it was as if the night itself had decided to send a delegation.

Arabella stood in the center, flanked by Anna and Herman, the latter dressed in a white linen suit that made him look like a dissolute angel on vacation. Anna was resplendent, her hair catching every scrap of light, her dress trailing behind like a trick of perspective. Even before they spoke, Andy felt the entire beach clock their presence and recalibrate: not fear, not even deference, but a readiness for something larger than the sum of all the weirdness so far.

Arabella’s smile was bright, but her eyes were heavier than usual. “Are we as welcome as last time, Andy? Or should we wait our turn for the afterparty?”

The words carried, and the response from the harem was immediate and louder than Andy expected—cheers, catcalls, even applause from Liesa and Sam, who hooted and waved them over. Anna, clearly pleased, gave a little bow before gliding to the firepit, where she let herself be drawn into the ongoing story war between Riley and Marissa.

Arabella lingered, waiting for Andy with a tilt of her head that was almost shy. She beckoned, and he joined her just outside the ring of lanterns, where the hush was deep enough to hear the sea moving against the rocks.

She spoke first, voice low. “You did it. A proper miracle, right in the Garden of Glass.”

Andy resisted the urge to deflect. “It wasn’t just me. Everyone played a part.”

Arabella laughed—one exhale, like a secret escaping. “You’re too modest, Andy. No one’s ever gamed Conflate like that. Not in all the cycles I’ve hosted.” She fixed him with a look.

He blinked. “You could have stopped it.”

She nodded. “Of course. But you did follow the rules. And I wanted to see if you’d try. Most Masters play to the edge, afraid of being punished, but you… you’re the first one I’ve witnessed to take a step past it, and not for your own sake.”

Andy looked out at the sea, where the moon silvered the water in a line that seemed to lead nowhere. “Is that good, or bad?”

Arabella shrugged, then grew solemn. “I think it might be the only thing that matters.” She reached down, smoothing her dress, as if the movement might quiet the gravity of the words. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you did it. Even if the price is still due.”

He almost missed that last part, but the word ‘price’ hung in the air, prickling.

“You mean Laura,” he said.

A pause, then: “She was never supposed to die. Not then, not there.” Her voice wavered, just a flicker, before the Host mask returned. “The world corrects for tragedy, Andy. Sometimes it takes a generation. Sometimes it tries to hurry things along.”

Andy wanted to shout at her, to demand a reason why his pain—or Laura’s—was necessary. Instead, he asked the only question that mattered: “Why her? Why not someone else?”

Arabella smiled, but there was no happiness in it. "Let me tell you about gardens, Andy. Sometimes a flower grows from poisoned soil. Sometimes that flower is the most beautiful one in the garden, precisely because it shouldn't exist at all. And Laura was caught between worlds from her first breath—born of rules broken and promises unkept."

She trailed off, then gestured vaguely toward Anna, who was spinning a tale for Chloe and Emi with both arms, her fingers painting shapes in the air. "Some of the most beautiful seeds are planted by hands that should never touch the earth."

Andy shook his head. “You don’t believe that.”

This time, her smile was genuine, if rueful. “I do. But then I met you, and you kept breaking the script.” She looked at him, really looked, her eyes wet at the corners. “Do you know what I wanted, when I started this season?”

He shook his head, silent.

Arabella’s voice trembled, but she pressed on. “I wanted to see if someone could win. Not just the challenge. The whole thing. I wanted to see if love—real love—could beat the house, even once.” She turned away, watching the waves. “Maybe that’s selfish. Maybe it’s just hope.”

Andy felt the world narrow to just them, the party fading into the background, the only sound the hush of the sea and the flutter of lanterns. He reached out, a half-formed gesture, but Arabella stepped back, just out of range.

“I don’t know what’s coming,” she said. “But whatever it is, I think you’ll be ready for it. Because you’re not the kind of man who flinches from hard choices, even when they hurt.” She smiled, softening. “When it comes, I hope you remember this moment, Andy. I hope you remember that sometimes, even the Host is rooting for the players.”

They stood in the silence, neither wanting to move, neither willing to leave it unfinished.

Arabella kissed him on the cheek and then was the first to break away, her steps careful as she joined the others by the fire. The moment she crossed the boundary into lantern light, she became someone else—laughing, trading stories with Dawn, letting Marissa pour her a drink. To the rest of the world, she was just another guest at the best party on the island.

Andy stood in the darkness a while longer, letting the words settle, letting the promise—or the warning—sink all the way in.

He was halfway back to the fire when Anna intercepted him, her movement graceful as always but somehow sharpened by intent. She took his arm with an easy familiarity, guiding him a few steps past the circle of party light, and Herman materialized beside them, hands in his pockets, face set in a thoughtful half-smile.

"Good speech," Herman said, nodding toward where Arabella was now deep in conversation with Marissa and Dawn, the three of them heads bowed like co-conspirators. "You ever think about going pro?"

Andy tried to match the tone. "Isn't that what I just signed up for?"

Anna laughed, a sound as golden as her dress. "You've already crossed the boundary most people never find. Most of them wouldn't have noticed the cracks, let alone climbed through." She let her hand linger on his elbow before stepping back. "This is the liminal, Andy. The place between stories. I don't know if anyone's told you, but you wear it well."

Andy found himself oddly comforted by their presence, even as it unnerved him. "You could say I'm getting used to it."

Herman grinned, then pulled a coin from his pocket and spun it in the air, catching it on his knuckles. "Here's the trick with boundaries," he said, not looking at the coin but at Andy. "They exist to be crossed. But every time you do, something changes on both sides." He flipped the coin, caught it, and held it out to Andy, who hesitantly took it and slipped it into his own pocket.

Anna turned to Andy, her gaze warm but edged with something old and unyielding. "The debt Arabella spoke of—it isn't what you think. It's not about suffering, or punishment. It's about returning things to where they belong. Sometimes, when the story is bent too far out of shape, the universe snaps it back." She paused, then smiled in a way that made Andy think of thunderstorms: beautiful, but lethal. "But I think you have a chance. A real one. Because the thing you have with Laura—it's more than fate. It's a feedback loop. One life, echoing through the next."

Andy felt the world tilt, the sense of unreality so strong he wondered if he'd ever really left the Garden of Glass. "What do I have to do?" he asked, quietly.

Herman shrugged, but there was a seriousness under the surface. "Just be ready to pay the price when it comes. Sometimes, the only way out is through. But you'd be surprised how often the balance tips in favor of the bold." He smiled, sharp as a knife but kind, too. "I've seen a lot of heroes, Andy. Most of them never make it this far. But the ones who do? They're the ones who figure out it's not about beating the system. It's about making something new in the space between."

Anna nodded, then glanced toward Arabella, her expression softening with what looked almost like pity. "She cares about you more than she should. Hosts aren't supposed to have favorites. But Arabella…" Anna shook her head, lips quirking in a fond, rueful smile. "She has always been too human for her own good. Even if she'll never admit it."

Andy looked at the two of them, searching for an anchor. "Was she ever—"

Anna finished for him. "Human? Not really. She had many names on Earth, after that first season. Masks she wore, identities she was given. Geshtinanna, Hecate, and so on. But the earliest Hosts were made, not born. Still, the best of them can remember what it was like, in another life, to have hope." Her eyes were on Arabella now, who caught the gaze and offered a faint, private smile back before returning to the noise and light of the party.

For a while, the three of them just stood, watching the beach. Lanterns flickered, music drifted, women laughed. Andy let himself breathe.

It was Herman who broke the spell. "You know, there are a million worlds out there," he said. "Somewhere, you're the villain. Somewhere else, you're the punchline. But here?" He looked Andy dead in the eye. "Here, you might get to be the myth that sticks."

Anna laughed, delighted. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Messenger?"

Herman gave a mock bow. "Guilty as charged."

Andy blinked, suddenly noticing the silver coin dancing across Herman's knuckles, how it never seemed to fall. The way Herman had always appeared exactly when needed, materializing between worlds. The casual way he'd spoken of boundaries and thresholds. Even his name—Herman—was just a modern reshaping of something ancient. Andy's throat went dry as the realization crystallized. "Hermes?"

Herman tipped an imaginary hat. "On my good days. Most of the time, I'm just a guy in the background, nudging things along." He glanced at Anna. "You want to tell him, or should I?"

Anna looked at Andy, her face suddenly solemn. "The stories you know, Andy—the ones about gods, about heroes, about bargains and debts—they're all true, in some way. They're just stories about people, written so large that the world remembers them even after the names are lost. Arabella is part of that, so am I, and so—" She flicked the coin back at Herman, who caught it with a grin—"so is he."

Andy stared at the coin, then at the two of them. "So what happens next?"

Herman shrugged again, but this time it felt like a promise. "Whatever you want. That's the real secret: the myth only matters if you make it matter."

Anna smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not alone in this, Andy. That's the other thing myths forget to mention—no one ever really goes through the underworld by themselves. There's always someone to walk with, even if it's just for a little while."

They stood together in the liminal, letting the party swirl around them. Andy looked at Anna, then at Herman, then at the fire where Arabella had wrapped herself in the heat and the laughter of the women. He saw Laura's silhouette against the flames, Dawn's ears catching the light, Erin's green skin glowing like jade. Something clicked into place – they weren't just participants in someone else's story anymore. They were writing their own.

"I guess I'll try to stick the landing, then," he said.

Herman winked. "You will. People will tell stories about you and your women someday."

Anna reached out, squeezed his shoulder. "We're betting on it. The myth of Andy and his stars is already being written."

They left him then, dissolving into the party like they'd always been there. Andy watched as Anna spun a story for Emi and Liesa, her words painting colors into the air, and Herman sat with Sam and Norah, his gestures wide and open, always moving, always in motion.

Andy closed his eyes, let the world blur, and felt dizzy with the weight of revelations.

A little ways down the beach, just beyond the tangle of lantern light, Laura found herself flanked by Erin and Dawn, the three of them cross-legged on a low blanket and sharing the last dregs of some improvised punch. The world had narrowed to their small circle, the only reality that mattered the sand under their legs, the fire at their backs, and the delirious sound of their own laughter.

They’d started with a game—two truths and a lie, though by now nobody remembered the rules. Right then, the challenge was to dump every embarrassing moment Andy had ever lived through. Laura went first.

“Okay, so when he was, like, five, he actually managed to wedge his head between two picket fence posts,” Laura said, grinning. “And no matter how much he screamed, his Mom tried to free him, but she couldn’t pry him out. Finally she called the fire department and they had to saw the fence apart.”

Dawn’s bunny ears twitched as she laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. Erin bent forward, hands pressed to her knees, chortling.

Laura took a breath, then added, “And then there was his third birthday party, when he tried to blow out the candles by eating half the cake instead—face-first. I don’t think he realized what a sugar high really felt like until he bounced off the walls for three hours straight.”

Erin wiped a stray tear of laughter from her cheek. "All great stuff, but brace yourself for college Andy," she said, eyes sparkling. "Junior year, he was giving this big presentation for his app development class. Ten minutes in, his laptop died. When he bent down to plug it in, he split his pants right down the middle. Complete exposure." She traced a line down her thigh. "But he just kept going, back to the wall, sweating bullets, voice cracking on every third word."

Dawn howled with delight. "Please tell me someone recorded it!"

"The professor banned phones," Erin said, "but trust me, the story lived on."

For a long moment, they just sat in the aftershock of laughter, the kind of breathless quiet that followed real uproar. Laura felt her shoulders drop without quite meaning to. She was aware, distantly, that she hadn’t been watching her words, or Erin’s reactions, or bracing for impact — and the realization itself made her a little wary.

Erin leaned back on her hands, gaze fixed on the fire. Her laughter faded more slowly than Dawn’s, like she was **** to let the moment end.

Laura studied her in the firelight. Erin’s eyes were bright, confident, sharp — the kind of confidence that looked effortless but, up close, carried tension under it, like a muscle that never quite unclenched. Laura felt a pinch of envy, familiar and uncomfortable. It would have been so easy to resent Erin, to see her as competition made flesh. Instead, against her expectations, she found herself enjoying Erin’s presence — and distrusting how much she enjoyed it.

Erin caught Laura watching and gave a crooked smile. “You sizing me up,” she said lightly, “or deciding whether that fence story was a tactical error?”

Laura huffed a laugh. “Both,” she admitted. “Mostly the first.”

Erin’s smile lingered — then shifted, subtle but real. “I didn’t think this would be… fun,” she said, like she was testing the word. “Us, I mean.”

Laura blinked. “Me neither.”

Erin nodded once, sharp. “Andy talked to me, before that big speech,” she added, voice casual in a way that was anything but. “And Sam. And Claire.” She rolled her shoulders. “They all swear nothing’s changed.”

Laura tensed, just a little.

“I’m not saying I believe the universe,” Erin went on. “But I believe them. Mostly.” She met Laura’s eyes, unflinching. “That doesn’t mean I’m not waiting for the other shoe.”

Laura nodded. Then, honestly, “I would be too.”

That surprised Erin more than anything else Laura had said all night. She barked a short laugh. “Yeah. You would.”

Dawn shifted closer, sensing the edge. “For what it’s worth,” she said gently, “I think the fact that you’re laughing together right now counts for something.”

Erin exhaled. “Yeah,” she said. “It does. I just don’t know what yet.”

They let that sit for a few moments.

The surf hissed softly in the background. The music drifted down the beach. Someone shouted something unintelligible near the firepit.

Laura took another sip of punch. “I don’t want to pull anything out from under anyone,” she said quietly. “I’m not here to rearrange the ground.”

Erin studied her for a beat, then nodded. “Okay,” she said. Not agreement. Not forgiveness. Just a marker planted in the sand. “That’s… good to know.”

Dawn smiled between them, visibly relieved. “Look at that,” she said. “Emotional honesty and humiliating Andy stories. Productive evening.”

Laura snorted despite herself.

They fell into an easier quiet, listening to the waves and the distant laughter. Laura knew the feeling wouldn’t last—that Erin’s guard would come back up, that her own would too—but for now, the truce held. And that felt like more than she’d expected.

A whoop from the firepit broke the spell, and Dawn’s ears swiveled toward the sound. She tilted her head. “Looks like the others are starting a dance party.”

Erin groaned. “If I have to see Emily twerk again, I’m going to need another drink.”

But Dawn was already standing, reaching for Laura’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “It’s tradition. And I want to see if you can out-dance a catgirl.”

Laura hesitated—torn between feeling she needed time to process what had happened, and because she was acutely aware of how fragile the moment felt. Then Dawn squeezed her hand, warm and insistent, and Erin was already getting to her feet, stretching like nothing complicated had just passed between them.

Near the fire, Emily, Liesa, Sam, and Emi had claimed a patch of flat sand and declared it a makeshift dance floor. Emi, with her six arms, managed to look like a music video and a car wreck at the same time. Sam had abandoned her usual cool, hands in the air, body loose and unguarded. Liesa danced with a lazy, deliberate sensuality that seemed to slow the air around her, and Emily—completely naked except for the curtain of her hair—moved with a freedom that made even the other women stare.

As Laura and the others arrived, Emily reached out, snagging Laura’s wrist with a gentle but unbreakable grip. “You’re not allowed to stand on the sidelines,” she said, voice light but full of command. “Everyone dances, or no one does.”

Laura tried to demur, but then Liesa spun her, and Sam caught her, and soon she was in the middle of the circle, laughter and limbs everywhere, the music thumping through her bones. She lost track of time, of space, of everything except the heat of the fire and the hands that found her—sometimes steadying, sometimes pulling her into a wild, off-kilter spin.

Even Riley joined, dragging a shrieking Chloe into the circle and refusing to let her escape. Chloe’s face was a red beacon in the night, but after a minute she stopped fighting and let herself be carried by the tide of movement and noise. Marissa and Norah watched from the sidelines, sharing a knowing glance, but even Marissa’s composure slipped as she clapped and shouted for them to go faster, higher, wilder.

In the chaos, Laura lost track of Andy, but when she finally caught a glimpse of him, he was standing at the edge of the circle, arms crossed, smiling so wide it made her heart ache. He looked at her and in that instant, the ache went quiet long enough to breathe.

She wasn’t just a story or a tragedy or a game piece. She was Laura. She was here. And for a few stolen seconds, she didn’t feel like an intruder.

The night blurred. The music never stopped. The fire burned down to embers, but no one wanted to leave, not yet.

Laura danced until her feet ached, until her chest was raw with laughter, until the world shrank to nothing but heat and light and the people who mattered. She let herself be carried, not just by Dawn and Emi and Riley and Emily, but by the **** of something bigger than any of them.

A few hours before dawn, the guests left.

At some unspoken signal, Anna stood, brushed sand from her dress, and announced in a regal drawl that “mortals require sleep, and so do the rest of us, on occasion.” Herman, ever the showman, executed a grand bow to the harem and vanished into the blue predawn before anyone could blink. Arabella lingered, accepting hugs and parting words, and for the first time in Andy’s memory she didn’t try to maintain a perfect Host mask—she smiled and rolled her eyes at the jokes, squeezed hands, even promised Chloe a rematch at two truths and a lie “when next the moon is right.”

Andy saw her off at the edge of the terrace. For a second, she looked back, the lines of fatigue clear in her face, and said only: “You’ll do fine.” He wanted to answer, but by then she was already gone, the hush rolling in behind her.

The beach emptied by degrees, women peeling off in pairs or small packs, some to sleep, some to keep talking in the comfort of blankets and fire-cooled sand. The tide had come in, smoothing away footprints and the debris of the party, leaving only the faint glow of dying lanterns and the rising scent of salt.

Andy drifted from cluster to cluster, trading warmth and touches and the kinds of secrets that only exist between people who have nothing left to hide. Emily, hair wild and tangled, curled against his side for a long while before she yawned and let herself be carried off by Sam and Liesa. Dawn, predictably, was still awake, fixing mugs of tea and dispensing them to anyone who even looked tired. Emi lingered, talking with Myra about books and dreams, six hands gesturing in a slow-motion blur, and when she finally left she gave Andy a hug with all six arms at once, then darted away before he could say a word.

Near the firepit, Marissa and Claire sat together, their conversation soft but intense, punctuated by Claire’s quick sketches on her notepad and Marissa’s rare, delighted laughs. Erin was there too, lying back with her arms folded behind her head, listening more than speaking, her expression unreadable but not unfriendly.

Andy found himself at the center, but for once he felt no pressure to perform. The women moved around him, not as satellites but as equals, each orbiting on her own terms. He watched as Riley wrapped a blanket around Chloe’s shoulders, as Norah and Liesa plotted some secret breakfast plan, as Marissa brushed a strand of hair behind Claire’s ear and Claire beamed, scribbling something with furious joy.

At some point, Laura returned to his side, her face flushed and damp with sweat, her body humming with leftover adrenaline from the dancing. She took his hand without asking, and they sat together, watching the sun creep toward the horizon.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, whispering, "You okay?"

Andy nodded, but his heart was a storm of fear and hope and something like relief. "Yeah," he said. "I think I am." He turned to look at her profile, the curve of her cheek catching the first hint of dawn. "What about you? Are you okay with all of this?"

Laura blinked, as if the question had caught her off guard. “I—” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “I didn’t expect this,” she said quietly. She gestured toward the scattered groups of women. “I kept waiting for the moment where it would go wrong. Where someone pushed back. Or froze me out.” She swallowed. “But instead they just… kept moving. Like I was allowed to be part of it.”

She rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder. “I don’t know what that means yet. I just know it didn’t hurt.”

Andy squeezed her hand. “That’s enough for tonight.”

She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “It is.”

They sat like that a long time. At first, the women kept talking, trading stories and memories, but gradually the world grew softer, the edges blurring into a single, gentle murmur. Andy felt the weight of all that had happened pressing in, but also the buoyancy of what they'd built together, this impossible, fragile family.

He thought of Arabella’s warning, of Anna’s and Herman’s riddles, and of the price still to be paid. He didn’t know what shape it would take, or who it might cost, but he felt—truly, for the first time—that he would face it, no matter what.

He looked around the circle: at Erin, eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips; at Claire and Marissa, still confiding in each other, completely at ease; at Dawn, drifting between groups with infinite care; at Sam, sprawled on her back and tracing shapes in the sky; at Liesa, already half-asleep but still holding Sam’s hand; at Emily, snuggled in next to Emi, the two of them whispering about something only they understood; at Myra, whose fox tail was wrapped protectively around herself, but whose posture said she was, at last, content.