Roots and Shadows, Part 1

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 95 VP - 5100 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 95 VP - 7700 BP - 2 Achievs
Claire - 87 VP - 8900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 86 VP - 6050 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 77 VP - 5000 BP - 2 Achievs
Liesa - 75 VP - 5700 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 74 VP - 4350 BP - 3 Achievs
Emily - 62 VP - 5600 BP - 2 Achievs (2 used)
Dawn - 60 VP - 8300 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 45 VP - 7775 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 42 VP - 7100 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 15 VP - 6800 BP
Laura - 13 VP - 6950 BP

Andy woke with his face mashed into a nest of tangled red-black hair, and the taste of Riley still sharp on his lips. Her leg was thrown over his hip, thigh pressing into him like a siege weapon, and her arm was banded tight around his chest, fingers splayed just below his collarbone as if to guarantee possession even in sleep. Even thick locks of her hair were wrapped around his leg and torso, clinging to him with every possible limb. The room was warm—too warm, probably—but Andy lay still, not eager to disrupt the quiet thrum of her pulse against his skin.

The Suite’s morning light painted the ceiling in slow, undulating bands of gold. It caught on Riley’s hair, turning the wild mass into a kind of living halo. Her hair, he noticed, was damp at the roots—sweat from last night’s exertion, maybe, or just Riley’s way of taking up space even after the main event was done.

He tried to flex his hand and realized it was pinned beneath her ribs. She’d rolled half on top of him, anchoring him with the full inertia of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of the deadweight snuggle. Andy considered the option of wriggling free, but as soon as he moved, Riley stirred.

Her eyelids flickered, then opened: two eyes, one green, one brown, boring into him with the sharp, clinical intensity of someone who hadn’t quite decided if this was a trap or a reward.

He smiled, careful not to move too much. “Morning.”

She didn’t answer right away, just squinted at him like she was recalibrating her entire personality to the new day. Then, without warning, she shifted and pressed her face into his neck, the edge of her nose cold and perfect against his skin.

“You snore,” she muttered, voice hoarse but not unkind.

He snorted, the movement earning a groan of protest from her. “I do not.”

“Do too,” she insisted, rolling so her mouth was at his ear. “Like a dying walrus.”

Andy, unaccustomed to being the big spoon, realized he kind of liked it. “You’re a much louder sleeper,” he whispered back. “You kicked me twice and called me a—what was it—a ‘bitch baby with commitment issues’?”

Riley’s laugh was immediate, honest, and cut short by a sheepish snort. She hid her face deeper into the pillow. “I stand by it,” she said. “But I take back the part where I said I’d throw you out the window.”

He kissed her forehead, and she let him. Her skin was sticky with last night’s sweat, her hair a disaster, but Riley radiated the kind of satisfaction he’d only ever seen in cats and very confident children. She held his gaze, daring him to make a thing out of it.

“Not bad?” he asked, trying to keep it light.

She arched a brow. “You call that ‘not bad’?”

He grinned. “You were pretty bossy for someone who claims to be all about surrender.”

Riley pounced, straddling his hips before he could process it. The shift in weight drove the air out of his lungs, but she kept him there, pinning both of his wrists above his head in one quick, practiced move. Andy relaxed instinctively, the only way she could do this, considering their relative size, but she was efficient and all muscle.

“Say that again,” she challenged, eyes flashing.

He pretended to twist, just enough to make her grip tighten. “What, that you’re bossy?”

Riley rolled her eyes. “No, the part where you pretend this isn’t the best morning you’ve had during a round, for months.”

He pretended to think about it. “Well, there was that one time Erin made pancakes—”

She shut him up with her mouth, not gentle, not careful, just heat and teeth and a sort of wild certainty that left him dizzy. Riley’s hair immediately got in on the act, winding around his wrists, reinforcing the hold. Her body was hot against his, her arousal building fast—maybe because she was the one in control, or maybe because the idea of losing control was now the only thing that got her off.

They kissed until his lips went numb, until the hair’s grip bordered on uncomfortable, until Riley was grinding her hips against him, the **** friction of her bare skin on his cock sending sparks up his spine.

She paused, just for a second, to study his face. Her own expression was open, almost unguarded. “You want this?”

He nodded, breathless.

“And it’s not weird?”

Andy shook his head. He knew what she meant. She didn’t want romance. She wanted friendship, closeness, and this. He could work with that.

“Good,” she said. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Riley released his wrists, but only so her hands could explore the rest of him. She kept him pinned with her thighs, nails scoring his chest in quick, hungry passes. When she finally took him inside her, it was with a sigh so deep he could feel it vibrate through her whole body.

She fucked him like she meant to prove something, her rhythm wild and erratic, sometimes chasing a high, sometimes dragging it out just to watch him squirm. He felt the pressure build and then break, Riley clenching around him, her eyes screwed shut as she rode out the first wave. She came quickly—she always did when she was tied up or in charge, he’d noticed—but didn’t stop, just kept going until he finished, too, body arching up into hers.

Had sex with the Master! +4 VP
Master came inside her! +2 VP

When it was done, she collapsed on top of him, boneless and shaking with aftershocks. She nuzzled his neck, and for a long time, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was, if anything, an extension of the truce they’d made last night on the dock, carried into the morning with all the **** of a promise.

Eventually, Riley untangled herself, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. Her hair, still tangled and damp, fanned out across the pillow, and she used the opportunity to wipe sweat from her face with the back of her hand.

Andy propped himself up on an elbow. “You okay?”

She didn’t look at him, but her smile was clear in her voice. “Yeah. I’m good.” She took a breath, then added, “I’m really good.”

He flopped down beside her, letting the comforter cover both of them. “We should shower,” he said, “or Erin’s going to come in here and **** us for stealing the morning slot.”

Riley snorted, then poked his ribs with her toe. “You go first,” she said. “I need a minute to recover.”

Andy started to protest, but she cut him off. “And bring a towel this time. I don’t want to spend the rest of the day smelling like you.”

He laughed, then kissed her on the forehead again, just because he could. She didn’t stop him.

As he walked naked to the bathroom, Andy glanced back at Riley, sprawled across the bed, limbs akimbo, hair a wild red halo. She looked, for once, entirely at home. He realized he’d never seen her so relaxed. So free.

He showered quickly, scrubbing himself clean, then wrapped himself in a towel and returned to the room. Riley was still in bed, but now she sat upright, arms crossed behind her head, sheets wrapped around her waist. She regarded him with a look that was half challenge, half contentment.

“Your turn,” he said.

She nodded and padded off to the bathroom, not even bothering to cover herself. Andy watched her go, the curve of her hips, the powerful stride, the casual confidence that seemed to radiate from her now.

When she was gone, Andy sat on the edge of the bed, replaying the morning in his head. There was no jealousy, no guilt, not even the ghost of a wound from sharing. If anything, it felt like being part of a team—a weird, dysfunctional, sex-obsessed team, but a team all the same.

The rest of the morning unfolded with an easy, almost domestic rhythm. Riley showered and sang—loudly, off-key—while Andy made himself presentable and rifled the fridge for anything that might count as breakfast. He prepared crepes, cut bananas, poured black coffee for them both, and set the table.

Riley emerged wrapped in a towel, hair a damp cloud around her face, cheeks flushed from the hot water. She eyed the breakfast, raised an eyebrow, and helped herself with a “You spoil me, Cooper.” She ate with the voracity of someone who never quite trusted food to stick around, making the bananas vanish in three bites and then demolishing the crepes with methodical efficiency.

Andy let her eat in peace. The hush that hung between them was companionable, filled with the clink of utensils and the odd scrape of ceramic. There was nothing awkward in it, no sense of needing to perform or apologize.

Riley downed the last of her coffee, then slumped back, her towel barely holding on above her breasts. “God, I needed that.” She wiped her mouth and regarded him, her gaze soft around the edges. “Is it weird if I don’t want to leave yet?”

He smiled. “You can stay as long as you want.”

Riley snorted, then looked at him sideways. “You ever regret it?”

He considered. “You mean the harem thing?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. The whole circus. You ever wish it was just… easier?”

Andy thought about it, then shook his head. “I used to think so. But then I realized—‘easy’ doesn’t really exist for people like us.”

“‘People like us’?” Riley echoed, rolling the phrase on her tongue.

He grinned. “You know. People who feel things in weird directions. People who break and glue themselves back together, but never quite in the same shape.”

Riley seemed to like that. She studied her empty mug, then set it down with a decisive clunk. “So. About last night. And this morning.” Her eyes flicked up, direct and unblinking. “Are you good?”

Andy blinked. “Good as in…?”

“Good as in, not gonna spiral, not gonna overthink it, not gonna regret it later. Because I don’t want to do strings, and you…” She gestured at him, her hand cutting through the air. “You’re a softie, Andy Cooper. Even when you pretend not to be.”

He laughed, surprised by how much the words didn’t sting. “I can handle it. If you want to be friends with benefits, or whatever you want to call it—I’m in.”

“Fuckbuddy?” she suggested, a sly grin curving her mouth.

He winced theatrically. “Sounds like something you order off a late-night infomercial. Let’s stick to ‘friends with benefits.’”

She laughed, a little too loudly, but the sound was rich with real amusement. “Deal.” The tension left her shoulders. A brief, content silence followed. Riley stood, letting the towel slip a little, and stretched her arms above her head. “I should bounce. I told Chloe I’d help her in the garden after breakfast.” She hesitated, then, softer: “Thanks for last night. And for not giving up on me. Even when I made it impossible.”

He shook his head, sincere. “You never made it impossible.”

She met his eyes, something serious behind the joking. “If you ever hurt Laura, I’m going to **** you. With a shovel. And no jury would convict me.”

He grinned, but the message was heard. “I’ll do my best to avoid homicide.”

She nodded, then leaned in and kissed him, quick and chaste, on the cheek. Not a lover’s goodbye—a friend’s.

“See you around, Cooper,” she said, and padded out, still barefoot, the echo of her steps trailing down the hall.

He watched her go, feeling strangely proud. Last night’s confessions hadn’t broken her—they’d freed her up, given her room to be something other than angry or lost. He hoped Chloe would see the same version of Riley today, and maybe let her in.

Andy started clearing the table, humming to himself, then paused. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window glass: rumpled, but undeniably content. He wasn’t sure what came next, but for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to it.

He gathered the dishes, washed them, and made a mental note to check on Erin—today would be her date, and he looked forward to spending time with her.

He set the last mug on the rack, wiped his hands, and headed out to find what the morning had for him.

He set off down the corridors, hoping to catch Erin before she burrowed too deep into her own day. The search was pointless—her room was empty, the gym unoccupied, even the Inner Gardens showed no trace of her. If Andy had to guess, she’d gone to ground in whatever new sanctuary she’d created, prepping for their “surprise” picnic with the thoroughness of a woman who couldn’t let herself fail.

Rather than chase, he let it go. He wandered the halls, then drifted out the double doors that led to the Inner Gardens, following the stone path through arches of clematis and sweet-pea. He found the old wooden table near the wisteria bower—the very spot where he’d once talked with Marissa during the third round, back when the future felt both distant and manageable.

The wooden chairs were cold from overnight dew, but he sat anyway, propping his chin on his hand. The hotel loomed just behind him, all glass and green shadows, but here, it might as well have been a world away.

For the first time in days, Andy let himself do nothing. He didn’t rush around, didn’t rehearse conversations, didn’t try to plan his next move. He just sat, letting the hum of bees and the lazy drift of leaves pull him into the moment.

And that’s when he let reality hit.

Laura was alive. Here. With him.

He’d spent every hour since her return on autopilot, bracing for crisis or joy, but never allowing himself the luxury of awe. Not until now. He let the memory of her on the beach replay in his mind, the way her eyes had gone wide and wild when she woke, the hitch in her voice when she said his name. He remembered the touch of her hands, the echo of her laugh, the way she’d hugged him with both bodies at once after the transformation round. Every tiny detail lodged itself in him like shrapnel.

She was back. And the world, for all its insanity, was somehow right again.

Sitting at the table where he and Marissa had talked, he thought about Marissa now, and about the others. About how they’d looked at him the last few days—some with hope, some with curiosity, some with a new wariness that hadn’t been there before Laura’s return. He tried to figure out if it was even possible to live up to any of it. He wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t fair, not to the others, not to himself. The world had been simpler in the sense that it had had fewer variables when she was a memory, a ghost to honor and regret but never truly possess. Now that she was back, the equation had changed. She was back. She was alive, more real than the version of her Andy had carried for sixteen years.

He felt the direction of her, always. Now, she was somewhere east, a little ways off, maybe on the beach. He had the sense she was okay—not happy, not sad, just “upright,” as she’d put it. It was a comfort, even as it unsettled him.

Some of the women had told him it was all right to love her more than the rest. Some had told him it wasn’t even a fair comparison, that what they had with him was real but different. Andy tried to believe it, but it felt like cheating. It felt like being handed an answer key to a test everyone else had to take blind.

He tried to rehearse what he’d say to the harem when the time came to explain it. Maybe there was no right answer. Maybe the only honesty was to say, “I don’t know what this is yet, but I want to find out with all of you.” He wondered if it would be enough. He wondered if it was possible to love so many people, or if the heart would just divide and divide until nothing left of it was true. The thought of nearly a millennium in which to find out was daunting.

He heard the crunch of gravel a few feet behind him, a subtle step—too careful to be Erin, too light to be Sam. He didn’t turn.

“You know, in some old stories,” he said, “the hero who brings someone back from the dead is supposed to die in their place.”

A pause. The presence behind him waited, patient and perfect.

Andy smiled, a little. “I was never much of a hero, though.”

Arabella glided around the table and took the seat opposite. She wore a dark green dress, with a daring neckline, her hair swept into a ponytail, a look of grave intent that made him wonder if she dressed this way for his benefit, or for hers.

She folded her hands on the table. “You sell yourself short, Andy. You’re a survivor. In my experience, the world is built more on those than heroes.”

He snorted, not unkindly. “That sounds like something you’d say to a contestant before the next round.”

“It is,” she said, and smiled—real, with edges. “You’re not a contestant, though.”

He let the quiet fill in. Arabella didn’t fidget, didn’t scan the horizon, didn’t let her gaze wander. She looked at Andy as if he were the most interesting equation she’d ever been given. It was a little unnerving.

He finally broke the silence. “Do you ever regret it?”

Arabella cocked her head. “Regret what?”

“All of this,” he said. He gestured at the hotel, the garden, the whole apparatus of the Harem Hotel. “Building a world that only works if someone is always a little unhappy.”

Arabella didn’t answer right away. She looked at her hands, and for the first time, Andy thought he saw a seam in her composure. “It’s not supposed to be a world of unhappiness,” she said, softly. “It’s supposed to be a world of second chances.”

He waited for her to go on.

She did, her voice barely above a whisper. “Every wish comes at a price. You’ve read enough of the classics to know that. I don’t decide what the price is, Andy. I just… manage it.”

He wanted to push, but her face stopped him. She looked tired, more tired than he’d ever seen her, and he remembered what Sam had said about Arabella at the last party—that she seemed different now, thinner at the edges, as if holding herself together was a more complicated task than it used to be.

He decided to change tack. “Sam told me something,” he said. “She said that Laura and I are both like… black holes. That we bend everything around us. And that maybe the only way for this to really go wrong is if we don’t acknowledge the pull we have on each other.”

Arabella’s lips curled. “Your Sam is a sharp one. She’s not wrong.”

“Is that how it feels, from your side?” Andy asked. “Like you’re always trying to manage the gravity?”

She actually laughed—a small, clear sound. “It’s a fine line. Too much gravity, and the system collapses. Too little, and everyone floats off alone.” She leaned in, elbows on the table. “Would you like my advice, Andy?”

He shrugged. “I’ll take it.”

Arabella met his eyes, unflinching. “Don’t try to level the scales. It’s not possible. Love is not a pie that must be divided equally. Sometimes, someone is the center of your universe. That doesn’t mean the rest are satellites. Or that that center will never change. It just means the universe is a little more complicated than it used to be.”

He thought about it. “That sounds like a justification.”

“Everything I say is a justification,” she replied. “That’s my job.”

Andy smiled, unexpectedly. “I appreciate the honesty.”

Arabella smiled back, but there was sadness in it, too. “Just be as honest as you can with them. That’s all you can do. The women here, they don’t expect perfection from you. They just want to know you care about them.”

He nodded, letting the words sink in.

They sat in easy silence, the only sounds the slow buzz of bees and the distant bark of a gull. Arabella seemed content to let the conversation lie, but Andy felt there was something else unsaid, hovering between them.

He found it. “Is this hard for you, Arabella? Watching us—me—fumble through it all?”

She looked at him, and for a split second, Andy saw a flicker of something he couldn’t name. “It’s hard,” she said. “But it’s beautiful, too. You surprise me, every day.”

He felt his throat tighten, a lump of gratitude and grief stuck together.

He thought, briefly, about the strange comfort of always knowing where Laura was—the psychic awareness of her mood, her presence, her sadness and fear. Sometimes he worried he’d lose himself in it, become a man who only existed in relation to someone else. But for now, it was a relief.

He caught Arabella’s gaze, saw the glimmer of a challenge there. “You ever get tired of being in charge?” he asked.

She smiled, slow and sly. “Wouldn’t know how.”

He snorted. “I don’t buy that. I think you hate it sometimes. I think you hate that you doubled Laura with the first transformation.”

Arabella didn’t blink. “You do?”

“Hard not to,” he said. “You put her on display for everyone. You could’ve kept her in the Suite, let her acclimate, but instead you paraded her through the crowd, gave her the keycard, set her up to get in the fight with Erin and Claire. The ten o’clock curfew—the locked door—was the first time you’ve ever enforced a rule that precisely. It was out of character.”

Arabella’s mouth curved. “You think I was being cruel?”

He hesitated. “No. I think you were making a point.”

She inclined her head, approving. “And what do you think that point was?”

He considered, then said, “You said it yourself, the day after Laura’s return. You couldn’t punish me for what happened in the Fourth Challenge, because I didn’t actually break the rules, but you couldn’t let it go, either. So you made Laura do all the work, because you knew I’d feel it more if she suffered for it than if you just… called me to your office and wagged a finger.”

A shadow crossed Arabella’s eyes, not regret, but something close. “I cannot break the rules, Andy. Even if I wanted to. Even if it hurt you, or her, or anyone. I was made this way.” She said “made” with a weight that made him realize it was literal. “I’m not like you. I don’t have the option to defy my nature. I was built, not born. My name is a placeholder, a mask. I am… function. The human face is for you.”

He said nothing, just let her talk. She seemed to want it.

Arabella glanced at the sky, as if checking the position of the sun for a cue. “You know, I was never a child. I never had parents, or a first love, or even a first day of school. I was created with my power, the knowledge of what I am, and what I must do. At the beginning, there were twelve of us. Twelve Hosts. First-generation, all made at the same time. We were the ones that started the Harem Hotel. You could not pronounce the names by which we were made. Humans approximated. Anor, Tir-Eph, Aru-Thes, Horun, Is-Khar, and others. I was the third, and now I am the last one standing.”

He blinked. “You’re the last first-gen?”

She nodded. “I’ve been here a long time, Andy. Not as I am now, of course. I know Anna mentioned other names to you. It’s true. I’ve worn many names and many faces. I have been Hecate, Geshtinanna, Seshat, and many others. I have changed, very much, over time. Had I been human, you could have called them growth spurts. Not in power or appearance, but in… perspective. My age has no meaning for you, but from the point of view of your linear time, I have been on Earth for over seven thousand years, give or take. I have run three thousand and seven hundred seasons on Earth alone.” She paused, her voice faintly wistful. “We were made to prevent waste, you know. To ensure that which was imbued in us would not get lost. We were connected, all twelve of us. When one of us ‘died’—or lost our function, however that happened—the power, the essence, whatever you wish to call it, flew to the others.” She paused, eyes distant. “The last of my siblings was gone before the Roman Empire fell. When I say I am the last, I don’t just mean the last of my series. I mean I carry the power and memories of my eleven fallen siblings with me.”

Andy had never heard her talk about herself this way. It was as if the mask had fallen, not by accident but by deliberate act.

She went on, softer now: “That’s why this is my last season. The contract was over centuries ago, but they kept extending it—partly because I’m very good at my job, but mostly because there was no one else to take it up. The new Hosts… they’re not like us. They borrow power, and so they glitch. They break. There’s a reason Arabella is the name that keeps coming up, even when it’s not supposed to. But even a contract like mine can only be extended so many times.”

Andy tried to picture it: the endless rotation of faces, seasons, harems, stories, all watched over by this unaging, unyielding woman, behind different guises. It made his head spin. There was something strangely sorrowful about it all. Arabella, always on the edge of life, watching others come and go, and always staying behind.

Andy studied her. “And after, what—another Arabella shows up?”

She shook her head. “No. When I finish, the line ends. The game continues, but the pattern changes. The new ones—they aren’t like us. They’re… lighter, but less stable. They don’t remember the old things. They glitch, sometimes fatally, or end up joining the harem.”

“So what happens to you, after this?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She shook her head. “Not my place to say. But I hope, if I’ve done enough, I’ll get to rest.”

He wondered if she was sad. She didn’t look sad, but she looked tired. “You said you carry the power of all the others. That means you remember every harem, every Master, every Contestant the twelve of you ever brought on the show?”

Arabella nodded. “All of it. I remember the first Contest, the first wish, the first woman who ever made it to the end. It’s… a lot to carry. But it’s the only way I know how to be.”

Andy felt a chill. “That sounds lonely.”

She met his eyes, and for once, there was nothing Host-like about her. “It is.”

Andy studied her face. “Is that why you brought Laura back?”

She shrugged. “Not exactly. There was a debt that had to be paid.”

He wanted to ask what debt, but he suspected she wouldn’t share that. He remembered something, then. “When you brought her back, it looked… complicated. You said it was the only way it could have been done.”

Arabella nodded. “Usually, it’s easy. Souls are traceable, like files on a disk. I just go back, tag the last point of consciousness, and restore it. If that does not work, I can tag them while they are alive. With Laura, there was no marker. No echo. It was as if the moment she died, she slipped out the side door and vanished. And the tag simply would not take, when she was alive.”

Andy felt goosebumps raise on his arms. “So what did you do?”

“I had to bring her back through you,” Arabella said. “Through the bond you share. It was the only anchor left. Everything else had dissolved.”

He swallowed. “That’s why you needed the ritual. The others were there, but it had to be me.”

“Yes. The more connections, the stronger the pull, but it had to be you at the core. Your will, your want, your grief. It was the only thing strong enough to pull her back. And even so, the ritual was needed to open the way.”

He let that settle. “Why was she untraceable?”

Arabella looked at him, then glanced away. “I don’t have an answer that you’d understand. It could be the Soulbond you share, or something else entirely. It’s not a bug. It’s not a feature. It just… is.”

He waited, knowing she’d tell him if she wanted to.

Instead, she changed the subject. “You’ve been using your Gifts more, this round,” she said.

He shrugged. “I felt called out. Mark Garret gave me a hard time in the last fan mail about not leveraging my advantages, and he was right. I was always holding back, thinking I’d save people by being passive. But lately… I don’t know. I feel more comfortable just doing what I need to.”

She smiled, a glint of the old Host coming through. “You’ve done well with Katherine. And with the other women, as well.”

He winced. “It feels good, helping people. But I don’t want to become the kind of Master who just—” He broke off, searching for the right word. “Commands.”

Arabella studied him. “And you’re not afraid you’ll become like the others? Masters who can’t stop themselves from using power on the people they’re supposed to care about?”

Andy shook his head. “I don’t want to be that. I want them to choose, every time. If they say no, I back off.”

She considered, then nodded. “It’s a fine balance. But you’re learning to lead, not just react. That’s good.”

He was surprised by the pride in her voice. “You sound like this is what you hoped for.”

Arabella laughed—a low, almost private sound. “Of course it is. I care. Why do you think I arranged this particular set of women for you? Why do you think I brought you here at all?”

He looked at her. “How much time do we have left?”

Arabella shrugged, a gesture that seemed both exact and theatrical. “Depends. You’re past the halfway mark. Only three or four more challenges, Andy, depending on how quickly your girls reach the 100 VP mark.”

He felt a little shiver at the thought. “And then what?”

She smiled, mysterious. “Then it ends. One way or another.”

He waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked, “Is there anything you want to tell me, off the record?”

Arabella’s lips quirked. “You know I’m not allowed to talk about the third path.”

He froze. He remembered their conversation from a few weeks back. Harmony, Corruption. Or the third path she had hinted at, the path she had said she hoped he’d take. “Are we still… on that trajectory?”

She looked skyward, as if the answer was written there. “That depends on you. But I will say: you’re closer to it than you were before.”

A silence lingered, thick with things unsaid. Andy picked a random flower petal from the table and twirled it between his fingers, as if it might give him some kind of clue.

Arabella rose, smoothing the skirt of her dark green dress, and inclined her head. “I hope you make the right choice, Andy. I really do.”

He watched her go, the click of her heels receding into the hush of the Inner Gardens. And for a while, he thought about everything she’d said—and everything she hadn’t.

The rest of the morning moved in slow, honeyed beats, each one lighter than the last. Mildred delivered a message from Erin that she would see him at lunch. So Andy, spurred by the conversation with Arabella—and the memory of all he’d neglected in recent days—set himself a mission: he would find Marissa, Chloe, and Emily, and he would make it right. He would not let the old cycle of guilt and distraction take hold, not this time.

He started with Marissa.

He found her in the Library, which made sense. There was never a time—before or after the transformations—when Marissa Holt didn’t default to a safe place with sunlight, books, and the faintest aroma of wood polish. She sat at a long table, her blue suit jacket off, the sleeves of her blouse rolled to her elbows, hair twisted up in a messy French braid that only highlighted the casualness of her morning. A legal pad lay open in front of her, but Andy noticed she was writing on the back of the page—old habit. Her handwriting was elegant, clinical, impossible to decode from across the room.

He approached, careful not to interrupt the silence. She looked up, reading him instantly.

“Good morning, Andy.” There was a warmth there now, not the brittle politeness of earlier rounds. Her gaze flickered to his hands, his posture, his mood—a therapist’s once-over, as always. “You look well.”

He smiled. “You, too. What are you working on?”

She considered her answer, a micro-smile barely flickering at the edge of her mouth. “Just a letter,” she said, and then, softer: “Something for later.”

He didn’t pry, but he didn’t miss the way her hand hovered over the page, as if unwilling to let the words go unguarded.

“I was hoping you could join me outside. I want to do something… fun, for once. No rules, no stakes, just…” He hesitated, but she was already nodding.

“I’d like that,” she said. She closed the legal pad and set it aside. “With anyone else?”

“Chloe and Emily,” Andy said. “I figure we all need some sun.”

Marissa rose, smoothing her skirt, then looked up at him. She took his hand, and he could feel the gravity of her, the certainty.

“Lead the way,” she said.

Chloe was in the kitchen, as he guessed she would be. She stood by the oven, hair pinned up with a pair of pencils, breasts straining the loose white tank top she’d paired with a bright yellow cardigan. Her face was serious as she inspected a tray of scones through the oven door, her tongue caught between her teeth. The oven timer beeped, and Chloe snapped to life, oven-mitted hands moving in a quick, careful rhythm. She placed the tray on the counter, then, catching Andy’s presence, flushed and almost dropped a scone.

“Hey!” she said, blowing at a stray lock of hair. “I was just, uh, trying a new recipe.” She eyed the scones, then Andy, then Marissa, a question forming but not asked.

“Do you have a minute?” Andy asked.

She nodded, nervous but eager. “Of course. Are we—” Her eyes darted to Marissa. “Is it a… group thing?”

“Just for fun,” he said, then gestured to the basket in his hand. “Picnic? We’re painting, too.”

Chloe’s relief was visible. “Okay!” She wrapped a tea towel around the scone tray, balancing it with both hands. “Let me get some fruit, too, or maybe—” She caught herself. “I’m doing it again. Sorry.”

Marissa smiled at her. “You’re fine, Chloe. Bring what you like.”

Chloe grinned, the tension sliding away. “Thanks, Marissa.” Then, to Andy: “I’ll meet you on the lawn. Emily’s with the paints already, isn’t she?”

“Yep,” Andy said, having checked with Mildred, and Chloe flashed a knowing smile.

Emily was indeed in the courtyard, kneeling in the grass, surrounded by a ring of supplies—canvas boards, paint jars, cheap brushes, even an array of smooth stones that looked pilfered from the Zen fountain. She wore nothing but a pair of baby blue trainers, her long, pastel-pink hair falling in waves that only barely covered the curve of her breasts, the ends tickling the tops of her thighs as she worked. Her skin was clean and flawless, sunlight bringing out the blue in her eyes, and every inch of her seemed immune to embarrassment.

She did not look up when Andy approached. She was already lost in the swirl of color she was brushing onto her canvas, her eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. The grass below her knees was already spattered with drops of aquamarine and orange.

Andy set the basket beside her. “I brought company,” he said.

Emily blinked and looked up, blinking at the sudden shift from focused work to human interaction. When she saw Marissa and Chloe, she lit up. “Oh, you’re here! I thought it was going to be just me. That’s awesome.”

Chloe, a step behind Marissa, held her scone tray like a shield. “I hope you’re hungry,” she said, and her eyes flicked over Emily’s body before she could stop herself, immediately followed by a blush. “I, um, also brought strawberries?”

Emily, unbothered, grinned. “You can never have too many strawberries. And those scones smell incredible.”

Chloe beamed, the praise flushing her with arousal at once. She set the tray on a wide, flat stone nearby, then fussed with the fruit arrangement to cool down, adjusting and re-adjusting the strawberries and blueberries in their bowl. Marissa, meanwhile, eyed the set-up, then took the second canvas and a jar of paint, sitting cross-legged with her skirt tucked neatly around her legs.

Andy waited for the group to settle. Then he opened the basket and doled out the picnic supplies: sparkling water, cheese and crackers, a tiny Tupperware of honey, and three battered paint smocks. He handed the first to Chloe, who struggled with it for a moment, her L-cup chest simply too much for the slim cut of the smock. She looked at Andy, cheeks burning. “Sorry, I can’t—” she started, but he grinned and motioned her over.

“Let me help,” he said, and he could see the way her breathing changed, just from being singled out. He slipped the smock over her head, then helped tie the back, his fingers brushing the soft skin above her shoulder. She trembled, a little, but didn’t flinch.

The second smock was for Marissa, who accepted it without fuss, slipping it on and rolling her sleeves higher to avoid any paint. Andy, himself, put on the third one. He caught Emily’s glance, and she smiled. He deadpanned: “I take my paint supervision very seriously.”

The four of them settled onto the grass, supplies arrayed, the midmorning sun warm and forgiving overhead. Andy took a brush and tapped it against the rim of a paint jar, the sound signaling an impromptu session.

“So, what are we painting?” Marissa asked, twirling her brush.

Emily shrugged. “Whatever you want. Still life, landscape, self-portrait, bad fan art of Chloe’s scones—go wild.”

Chloe smiled, relaxing into the playfulness of it. “Can I paint a scone with a face?” she asked, and Andy gave her a thumbs up. “You can even give it a dramatic backstory.”

Emily smiled as she used a sheet from the drawing pad to sketch a quick, cartoonish scone with angry eyebrows and a bandolier of blueberries. “He’s a freedom fighter,” she announced.

Chloe, glancing over, grinned. “Mine’s just colors, really. I like the way they mix.” Her canvas was a blur of swirling aquas and reds, with no pattern or plan.

Marissa, for her part, started with careful lines, painting what looked like an abstract of the hotel itself—glass walls, the swoop of the gardens, the arching paths traced out in pale blue and yellow. “Are you painting the hotel?” Andy asked, curious.

Marissa smiled, soft. “It’s what I see the most,” she replied. “But I’m trying to make it look…” She stopped, searching for the word.

“Hopeful,” Emily suggested, peeking at the canvas.

Marissa nodded, surprised but pleased. “Yes. Exactly that.”

They worked in a comfortable hush for a while, the only sound the occasional buzz of a bee or Emily’s giggling as she added more detail to her “Scone Guerrilla.” Andy moved among them, sometimes painting, more often just watching. He felt himself loosen, the knots of guilt and duty unspooling as he let the moment be what it was.

He looked at Emily, who was washing the tip of her brush, a stripe of pink across her cheek. “You’re really into it,” he said, and she laughed.

“You know I used to paint all the time,” she said, a touch of nostalgia in her voice. “But it’s more fun with friends.”

He nodded, letting that settle, then turned to Chloe. “Yours is… a lot.”

She grinned, basking in the attention. “Emily’s freedom fighter has a nemesis,” she said, pointing to a new figure: a lopsided cookie, drawn with wild, swirly eyes. “It’s a metaphor, probably.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Chloe shrugged, blushing anew. “For, um, breakfast?”

Emily and Andy both burst out laughing, and the sound was infectious. Even Marissa, who rarely broke composure, allowed herself a bright, open laugh.

It was then that Andy noticed Marissa humming—a faint melody, low and warm, threading through the silence. At first, it was barely audible, but as she focused on her painting, the tune grew clearer: an old lullaby, something familiar but impossible to place. Andy felt his skin tingle, a gentle, rising warmth that seemed to build from his chest outward. He glanced at Emily, who’d gone still, the color rising on her cheeks, her breath coming a little quicker. Even Chloe, so easily flustered, seemed to drift, her brush movements slower, more deliberate.

Andy realized he was aroused, not sharply, but as if the air itself had gotten thicker and more charged. He remembered Marissa’s transformation, ASMR—her voice, especially in close company, made everyone who heard it more aroused the longer she spoke. He wondered if she noticed, or if she was just that at ease here.

He glanced at her, and she smiled, a quiet, knowing curve of her lips. He grinned back, letting the feeling wash through him. If he was honest, it made everything a little brighter: the colors, the company, the way the grass brushed against his skin.

Marissa caught his gaze and said, “You can join us, if you want to paint, Andy.”

He hesitated, then picked up a brush and a blank canvas. He wasn’t an artist, but it didn’t matter; he painted bold, ugly strokes of blue, letting the randomness take him wherever it wanted. Emily peeked over his shoulder, giggling.

“You have to name it,” she said. “That’s the rule.”

Andy stared at his mess of color, then pronounced, “Descent into Madness, Number Three.”

Chloe, beside him, nodded sagely. “Very avant-garde.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “It’s beautiful. Even if it looks like a storm ate a swimming pool.”

Andy looked at her, and for a moment, the gentle teasing was replaced by something quieter. He’d brought them here because he’d needed to remind them that he cared. And he needed a reminder of what he’d been fighting for, in all the chaos of the last weeks. He watched as Emily lost herself in the act of creating, Marissa’s eyes soft and focused, Chloe so eager to share what she made that it was impossible not to love her for it.

He moved, sitting beside each in turn, offering encouragement or a gentle nudge of humor. When he reached Chloe, she blurted, “Do you really like it? Or are you just saying that?”

Andy looked at her drawing—now a ridiculous tableau of badly drawn pastries in battle, complete with hand-lettered sound effects—and said, “I love it. I want to hang it in the Suite.”

Chloe’s face lit up. “Really?”

He nodded, solemn. “Really.”

She looked like she might cry, but instead she laughed and dabbed a blue spot on his nose. “You’re a softie,” she said.

Marissa, watching from the side, said, “He’s good at making people feel safe.”

Emily nodded, then said, “He makes it easier to forget all the weirdness, for a while.”

Andy was a little embarrassed by the praise, but he let himself enjoy it.

The painting went on for another hour, each woman absorbed in her own world, but always orbiting back to each other. When they tired, they flopped onto the blanket, eating scones and strawberries and stealing honey from the jar with their fingers. Chloe, true to her earlier indecision, spent five minutes arranging the perfect berry trio for everyone, then gave up and just dumped them all in the middle.

Marissa, lying on her back, eyes closed to the sun, said, “I could stay like this forever.”

Andy glanced at her, and for a moment, the world did feel infinite—time suspended in the warmth and laughter and paint-stained hands.

Emily propped herself up on one elbow. “It’s perfect,” she said, then bit her lip. “We should do this every day.”

Chloe agreed, her voice muffled by a mouthful of scone. “I vote for it.”

Andy smiled, and felt the knot inside him ease another notch. “Sounds like the motion passes.”

As the picnic wound down, Marissa gathered her painting supplies, then touched Andy’s arm. She drew him aside, her hand warm and steady.

“Can I ask you for a favor?” she said.

“Anything,” Andy replied, surprised by the gravity in her tone.

She hesitated, glancing at the others, then leaned in close enough that her hair brushed his cheek. Her lips were near his ear, her voice as intimate as the memory of a dream. “I know it’s Erin’s night and I don’t want to take time away from her. But tomorrow morning,” she whispered. “I want to show you something. Just us, for a while.”

He nodded, not sure if he could trust his voice.

Marissa smiled, squeezed his arm, and turned away, returning to the clean-up as if nothing had happened.

Andy was left, heart pounding, thinking that maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d needed this morning. Maybe they all had.

When it was time to go, at lunchtime, Emily lingered behind. The others gathered their things and drifted back toward the Hotel, Marissa humming softly, Chloe chatting about her plans to make “scone art” for the next breakfast. Emily stood, her canvas tucked under one arm, her hair sweeping down in thick waves to shield her bare skin from the sun.

Andy looked at her, taking in the small, careful movements she made to keep herself covered. They walked together in silence, the path winding through beds of lemon thyme and chamomile. Andy didn’t say anything at first; he let Emily lead the way, letting her set the pace.

She spoke, finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I wish I could be stronger, you know.”

Andy considered. “You are strong, Emily.”

She shook her head, making the pink-blonde waves shiver. “Not like that. I mean, I wish I could be stronger. Like the others. They’re all… tough, or smart, or brave in a way that means something. Sometimes I think I’m just… here.”

Andy stopped, reaching for her hand. It was small, warm, a little sticky from paint. He squeezed it, letting the words settle before answering.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Emily,” he said. “But you should not be so self-deprecating. You have a lot to offer, and you aren’t any less tough, or smart, or brave.”

She smiled at him, the hint of doubt still in her eyes. “You think so?”

He nodded. “I know so.”

They walked a little further, then Andy said, “How are you, really?”

Emily was quiet for a moment. Then, “I’m okay. Not perfect, but okay. Sometimes I feel like I should be more grateful, you know? For the second chance. For the friends. But I also know I’m damaged. That there’s stuff in my head that will probably never go away.”

Andy stopped again, turning to face her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She laughed—a soft, bright thing. “Don’t be. You didn’t do it. And you try to help. I’m grateful for that.”

She squeezed his hand, then let go, quick as a bird. “I should get cleaned up,” she said, lifting her paint-streaked arm. “If I don’t, Dawn will try to wash me herself and we’ll both end up blue.”

Andy grinned. “Thank you for today.”

She leaned in and gave him a quick, genuine kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Andy. It was fun.”

Before he could answer, she hurried off, her hair swinging behind her, her shoes leaving damp prints on the stone.

Andy watched her go. He knew he couldn’t fix everything for the women in the Hotel. He knew, sometimes, he’d fail. But today, at least, he’d done something right.

By midday, the air over the Hotel’s courtyard had gone still and heavy, pressing every leaf and blade of grass into sharp relief. Erin waited beneath the open sky, a picnic basket at her feet and her hands clamped tight around its handle. She was the picture of composure from a distance: chin up, legs braced, eyes on the horizon where the walking path curved out of sight. Up close, though, Andy could have clocked every pulse of her nervous energy a mile away—she kept glancing down to double-check the basket, then back at the Hotel, then scanning the grounds in a circuit that never quite landed anywhere for long.

She was, of course, naked—save for battered black sneakers. The only other ornament was a woven band around her wrist, a homemade affair crafted from grass and wildflowers, clearly something she’d made to distract herself from the anticipation.

She didn’t see Andy at first, even as he crossed the gravel and slowed to take her in. He let himself watch for a moment, as a man who saw a woman he loved, and remembered every reason why he had fallen for her in the first place. He saw her shift her weight, the subtle flex of her thighs as she re-centered herself, the way her lips compressed and uncompressed with every new check of the basket.

He closed the distance quietly. “Nervous?” he asked, just loud enough for her to catch it.

“Gaaaah!” Erin jumped, then composed herself with a snap, glaring at him for a moment. “Way to give me a heart attack! But… no. Maybe. Mostly annoyed at myself for being so…” She shrugged, the gesture bouncing her breasts in a way that would have destroyed the self-possession of a less-disciplined observer. “It’s stupid. I planned for everything, but I can’t stop thinking I’m missing something.”

He smiled, genuine. “You’re not missing anything. It’s perfect.”

She risked a glance at him, and Andy saw the way her pupils dilated, how the blush spread—more blue-green than pink—across her cheeks. He knew, by now, that every time he looked at her, it did something to her. That his attention wasn’t just desired, but necessary. The knowledge made him want to be careful, but also to never look away.

She gripped the basket tighter. “You’d say that even if I forgot the food.”

He leaned in, just enough to brush a kiss across her lips. He felt the shudder run down her spine, and she closed her eyes, steadying herself before she spoke again.

“Ready?” she asked, voice low, almost shy.

“Always,” he said. He offered his hand. She took it without hesitation, but with a kind of practiced bravado—her grip was firm, and the edge of a smile broke through the shell.

They made their way down the path, Erin’s stride lengthening as they hit the soft grass beyond the gardens. The basket bumped gently against her thigh, and the sunlight caught the sweat beading on her neck and collarbone.

Andy squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, firmer this time.

She didn’t speak for a while, and neither did he. The quiet was companionable, charged with a tension that had nowhere to go but forward. He liked the way she walked now, head up and shoulders back, the wary, defensive energy of earlier rounds replaced by a kind of determined calm.

He remembered, with a sudden flash, what Arabella had said: Don’t try to level the scales. Let it be what it is. The memory felt apt here, walking beside Erin, both in love and not pretending otherwise.

Behind them, the sound of the Hotel faded, replaced by the hush of wind and the low drone of insects. He turned back to Erin, and let himself fall into step beside her, matching her pace, their shadows fusing and separating with every stride. He felt the rest of the day opening up ahead of them.

“Where to?” he asked, letting her lead.

She grinned, fierce and bright, and set off toward the old oak grove at the far end of the grounds. Her stride was a challenge and a promise both.

Bonus art: Andy's Wenar Clockblood!

Tomorrow: Duck!