Domestic Bloom, Part 2

By midday, the terrace had filled with a scatter of bodies, a slow-building din of voices and clattering cutlery. The sun hung high enough to paint everything in gentle gold, but the broad-leaf palms overhead filtered the worst of the heat into shifting mosaics on the table. The sea breeze, briny and insistent, found its way past the low wall to riffle napkins and hair. Someone—probably one of the Mildreds—had set out a long, mismatched spread: glass pitchers sweating citrus, plates piled with crusty rolls, salad in a big wooden bowl, fruit heaped so high it threatened to collapse.

Erin sat near the head of the table, basking. The sunlight did something to her skin, made the green deeper, the freckles luminous. It also made her the subject of the moment.

“I’m telling you,” Sam said, a breadstick wagging between two fingers, “by next week, she’ll be rooted to the patio. We’ll have to water her twice a day.”

“Ha ha,” Erin deadpanned, but she didn’t look away from the sun. “If you keep up the jokes, I’m growing a vine just for you. And it’ll have thorns.”

Chloe giggled, her hands wrapped around a glass of juice so big it looked like a prop. “Honestly, I’m jealous. You’re the only one who doesn’t have to slather on SPF eighty before coming out here.”

Marissa arched an eyebrow, unamused but not immune to the humor. “Some of us have reputations to maintain. If my cleavage turns a new color, I expect a full refund from the production company.”

The group settled, food and jokes passing back and forth. For a few minutes, nothing serious surfaced. It was enough just to eat, to breathe, to be outside and not inside, to have nowhere to be and no one breathing down their necks about “personal arcs” or “camera angles.” It was nice.

The women sat with their spines loose and their faces open. Not that all the tension was gone, but it felt less like a bomb and more like a joke they’d already heard and gotten over.

After the second round of drinks—someone had spiked the lemonade, but it was impossible to tell who (Sam. Sam did.)—Marissa leaned back, hands laced behind her neck. “So. Now that we’re all together, I have a question.”

“Is it about the salad?” Erin asked. “Because if it is, I swear I didn’t pick the dandelion on purpose. It just looked happy.”

Marissa shook her head, a smile ghosting her lips. “No. I want to know what everyone’s planning for when we get out of here.”

Sam groaned theatrically, slumping over her plate. “You mean, like, after the show? Do we get to have a life again? I thought we’d be in a compound forever, like Sister Wives.”

Chloe giggled, and Norah made a face, but nobody dismissed the question out of hand.

Marissa looked around the table. “No, really. What’s your plan?”

The pause that followed was not, for once, uncomfortable. It was the silence of people thinking hard, and knowing they didn’t have to fill the air with fake answers.

“My turn first?” Erin asked, glancing around for permission. She seemed more at home with the group than ever. Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was the fact that Andy had, in a hundred small ways, told her that she belonged here, and that she was wanted.

“I told Andy yesterday, I want a place by the water,” she said. “Not the ocean, exactly, but a lake, or a river. With a lot of sun. Big garden. Maybe a greenhouse, if I can talk someone into building it. And enough bedrooms that no one has to fight about who gets the one by the bathroom.” She looked at Norah, who made a rude gesture. “Also, enough bathrooms.”

“I want to grow things,” Erin continued. “Food, but also flowers. I want to be able to walk outside and pick a tomato and eat it without washing it, because I know exactly what went into the soil.” She looked at Marissa, then around the table. “I want all of us to live close by. Not just for the harem bond, but because… I think we make a pretty good team.”

“Team is not the word I’d use,” Norah said, but her smile was genuine. “But I get it. I can’t picture living alone either, not anymore. I think I’d lose my mind if it was just me and a bunch of strangers. I’d get bored, or worse, lazy.”

“You? Lazy?” Sam snorted. “I’d love to see it.”

Norah shrugged, then let herself smile a little wider. “I want a job where I get to be the boss, not just the person who fixes everyone’s mess. Maybe consulting, or maybe something that isn’t even a job yet. But I want to make more money than Andy, and I want to rub it in his face whenever possible.”

Chloe let out a startled laugh. “You’re going to have to work pretty hard, you know.”

“I know,” Norah said. “But that’s the fun part.”

Myra, who’d been quiet, cleared her throat. “I want to go back to medicine. Maybe not hospital work, but I want to help people. I feel like I can do it, now that I can see again… kind of. I just…” She hesitated, tail curling around her thigh. “I need to prove to myself that I’m not broken. That I can still matter.”

There was a moment of quiet, but it wasn’t pity; it was respect.

“I’m going to take a year off,” Chloe said. “No school, no work, just travel. I want to go to Japan, see the cherry blossoms. Maybe Italy, for the food.” She paused, then added, “But I don’t want to go alone. I’d bring Dawn, or Emi, or whoever wanted to see the world with me.” She glanced around the table. “I think it would be weird to go back to being by myself. Like, really weird. Even on vacation, I think I’d want someone around.”

Marissa nodded, then said, “I’d open a private practice. Not for the money, but because I think people deserve a place where they can talk about weird things and not feel judged.” She smiled at Myra, then at Chloe. “There’s a lot I wish someone had told me, when I was younger. So I want to be that person for someone else.”

Sam sat up, grinning. “I’m just going to keep running the Blue Bean. Maybe open another one, if my brother ever gets his act together. And I want to keep hiking, and maybe adopt a dog, and—” She caught herself, then shrugged. “Honestly? I just want to see how long I can stay happy. I never really thought it would be an option, so I want to try.”

The table went quiet, not sad, but full. Like everyone had made a promise and set it on the table, and no one wanted to be the one to knock it over.

After a while, Norah said, “So we’re all planning on sticking together, huh?”

Sam groaned. “We don’t have a choice! We’re literally bound to Andy for life. If I don’t see his face for a week, I’ll probably turn into a puddle of gay despair.”

Erin grinned. “You found Liesa, though, so you’ll be okay.”

Sam made a show of pouting. “Unfair, you know. I get one girl. Andy gets twelve.”

“That’s why he’s the Master and you’re not,” Norah said, deadpan. The table erupted in laughter.

Marissa sipped her drink, then said, “What about you, Chloe? You and Riley seem to be getting close.”

Chloe blushed, but didn’t deny it. “She’s really nice. And funny. And… she understands me. I don’t know what will happen, but I really like being around her.” She looked at Sam. “She said something yesterday that made me think.”

“What was it?” Sam asked.

Chloe hesitated, then said, “She told me that sometimes, when you lose everything, it’s the best time to start over. Because there’s nothing left to be afraid of.”

Myra nodded, then said, “Riley’s been taking long walks, right? I see her when I’m in the gardens sometimes.”

Chloe nodded. “She told me she used to be scared of being alone, but now it feels different. Better, in a way.” She smiled, then added, “She’s still Riley, though. She’ll be a little feral no matter what.”

The group laughed, the sound bright.

Marissa stretched, then said, “I hope we can keep this. Not just the space, but the… the feeling. I know it won’t be the same outside, but if we can keep even a little of it, I’ll be happy.”

“You say that now,” Erin teased, “but when you’re living with all of us, my cat, Dawn’s cats and whatever other bizarre pets you guys have back at home, you’ll want to throttle us.”

Marissa grinned, the expression rare but sincere. “I’ll risk it.”

The conversation drifted, looping through old stories and new plans, with the sound of the ocean threading it all together. They stayed at the table long after the food was gone, the plates pushed aside in favor of the simple pleasure of being together.

No one wanted to be the first to leave. No one did, for a long, golden hour.

The rest of the day threatened to go slack. Andy spent the hours after the group lunch in a sort of aimless drift—he’d told Liesa he’d meet her in the late afternoon, but until then he was free, really, for the second time in two days. He hadn’t had this much time to himself since the second round. The walkways between the buildings were white-hot with reflected light; the only shade was found in the corridors, or the thready shadows cast by the sculpture garden’s odd shapes. He let himself wander, past the memory wall and the echoing silence of the empty Dance Hall, until he found himself in a spot he rarely visited—a tiled promenade that wrapped the outside of the main building, three stories above the ocean.

He stood there, listening to the wind fret the railings, and tried not to think about anything.

“Hey,” said two voices in stereo, behind him. They were a little uncertain, pitched low, as if their owner expected to be ignored. As if speaking were a risk.

He turned, already smiling.

Laura stood there, both of her, one a step behind the other, hands clasped behind her backs. Her posture was careful, almost rehearsed, like a child waiting to be told whether she’d done something wrong. Her smile was awkward, like a kid who’d been called in front of the class and told to recite a poem from memory. Each of her wore a pair of shorts and a loose T-shirt, the same on both bodies, the only difference being the twist of hair: the left one wore her black hair in a high ponytail, the right one loose.

Andy blinked, then let out a laugh. It was pure relief, and something else, too. Something fragile.

“Hey, yourself,” he said, grinning.

Both of her blushed, the effect amplified by the duality of it. But she held his eyes, defiant, as if daring him not to look away first.

“Are you busy?” she said in stereo.

He shook his head. “Just standing here like a creep. What’s up?”

Laura hesitated, then stepped forward. “I found something,” she said, “and I wanted to show you.” Then, almost in a rush: “If you have time.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “I do.”

She smiled, the kind of smile that was private, like an in-joke only they shared. But there was relief in it, too. Then, in perfect sync, both of her extended a hand, one to each of his.

Andy took them, feeling the cool, dry press of her fingers against his palms. Then he let himself be pulled, gently, wherever she wanted to go.

They made their way through a maze of breezeways, past the sun-bright main lobby and down a hallway he recognized from infrequent visits. At the end of it was a set of double doors, etched with patterns of steam and waves. Above, a sign: Hotel Spa.

Andy glanced at the sign, then back at the Lauras. “You want to go in here?”

Laura nodded. “I’ve never been to a spa before.” She smiled, almost apologetic. “I know it’s dumb. But I wanted to try it, and…” She trailed off.

He squeezed both her hands, since she was still holding him in stereo. “It’s not dumb,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

They stepped inside. The entry was hushed, all humidity and the low burble of water. A Mildred in a tailored navy dress greeted them, handed each a towel, and nodded toward the gendered changing rooms. Andy let go of Laura and ducked into the men’s, where he stripped down and pulled on a pair of black swim trunks conveniently placed there.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused, still not used to the transformation. His shoulders stretched wider than before, tapering to a narrower waist. The compact muscle that had begun in his first year at the gym had somehow multiplied during his time here, sculpting his chest and arms into clean, defined lines without the bulky excess of a bodybuilder. Even his posture had changed—he stood taller now, filling more vertical space than he once had. He looked, he thought, like a real person, not a fictional character. The thought pleased him more than he expected.

He stepped out into the spa proper, expecting to have to wait, but Laura was already there, perched on the edge of the mineral pool.

Andy had seen her naked before, during that impossible moment in the garden, but he’d been numb—high on adrenaline and grief and awe and too much magic. This was different. Here, now, both of her wore simple one-piece swimsuits, cut high on the hip and low on the back, the colors so bright they seemed to pulse. She was small-framed, but her body was undeniably womanly: the long legs, the waist cut in sharp relief, and her chest, which was now nothing short of spectacular. He noticed it, but what struck him more was how uncertain she seemed inside it. The curves were dramatic, but the effect was not cartoonish—she looked, to him, exactly like herself, just all grown up.

She saw the way he stared, and it made her blush in tandem. She tucked her hair behind her ears, folding her arms across her chest, then seemed to remember it was pointless. Her hands hovered there a moment anyway, betraying the instinct. She grinned at him, an impish, doubled old-Laura smile.

"Do you like it?" she said, voices perfectly synchronized. She didn’t need to clarify which she meant.

He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked. "It's a lot," he said. "But it's… really good." He searched for better words and found none. He felt himself flush, and so did she.

She stuck her tongues out at him, then let herself laugh, the sound light and unguarded. The laugh came easier than the question had. "Come on," she said, and before he could react, both bodies seized a hand each, yanking him toward the hot mineral pool. The heat was immediate, the water perfectly clear, and as soon as he sank in, Andy felt every muscle in his body let go at once.

Laura followed, the blue-suited one to his left, the red to his right. Both of her slid down until the water just covered her shoulders, and then, in perfect stereo, she exhaled, a slow, melting sigh.

Andy leaned his head back, letting the humidity soak into his hair. For a while, no one said anything. Laura just floated, arms spread, hair fanning around her like ink in water. Andy noticed she closed her eyes in both bodies, the effect almost meditative. When she finally opened them, her gaze was bright, a little shy.

"I always wanted to try this," Laura said. "But I never got to." She stretched her necks, rolling them side to side. "Before the river, I mean. I was too young."

"You picked a good one," Andy said. The heat made him drowsy, but he liked the feeling—like his whole body was unwinding, floating away from all the bad things.

He looked over, and Laura was watching him, both bodies angled in just slightly, almost as if she was afraid she’d tip the balance if she moved any closer. Her cheeks were flushed, and for a second Andy was reminded—painfully—of the way she’d look at him when they were twelve and alone on the playground, inventing secret languages, sharing snacks, pretending nothing else in the world existed.

"You look really happy," he said. He meant it. She did. Or she was trying very hard to be.

Laura looked away, then back at him. "I am," she said. "I didn’t think I would be, after… everything. But this is nice." She closed her eyes again, letting herself relax into the water. Both bodies in perfect sync, perfect calm.

Andy found himself smiling. "I missed you," he said. "A lot." The words surprised him with how heavy they felt.

She nodded, a strange, small motion. "Me too." There was gratitude in her voice. The words echoed, neither needing to explain.

They drifted that way for a while, and when Andy found himself sliding down in the water, both Lauras mirrored him, their legs now stretched out so they could sit just below the surface, knees bumping against his on either side. He realized she was bracketing him, and it made something in his chest ache in a way that was almost pleasant.

"Can I ask you something?" Andy said, softly.

"Anything," Laura said, though he saw the glimmer of doubt in her eyes. As if she were bracing for a question she might not be ready to answer.

"How are you doing?" he asked. "What’s it like? Now?"

She thought for a long moment. Both bodies went still, not frozen but attentive, as if she were sorting through sensations that didn’t quite have names yet. "It’s weird. Sometimes I feel like I’m just watching everything from far away, and other times it’s like I’m in two places at once. I’m learning new things every second. I like the food here. I like the way people look at me, now that they don’t think I’m a freak. And I like this." She gestured, left and right, at him, at herself. At the fact that she was here at all.

"I like it too," Andy said.

Laura leaned in, both bodies at once, until her shoulders touched his on either side. The contact seemed to steady her. "Is it hard?" she asked. "Being around me?"

He knew what she meant, but he played dumb anyway. "Why would it be?"

She laughed, the sound rippling the water. "Because I’m two people. And sometimes, when you look at me, you look a little dizzy."

Andy blushed, then shrugged. "I’m getting used to it." He paused. "I want to."

Laura smiled, wide and lopsided, just like the girl he remembered. "Good."

They sat in silence, the water slowly leaching the tension from their bodies.

"You know," Laura said, a little impish again, "you always used to say you wished there were two of me. That way you could always have a backup if the first one was mad at you."

Andy groaned. "I was ten. I didn’t know any better."

"Do you still wish it?" she asked, both faces turned toward him now, expectant. Not teasing. Testing.

He didn’t answer. He just looped an arm around the shoulders of each Laura, drawing them in close. It felt shockingly natural, like hugging a pair of twins who’d never learned the meaning of personal space.

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

She laughed, and both bodies let themselves lean into him. The sound was looser now, less guarded. He wondered if the sensation of being held in stereo would ever stop being miraculous.

After a long while, Laura said, in her quieter voice, the one she used when she was trying not to sound like she was asking for reassurance, "I keep checking myself."

Andy tilted his head slightly. "Checking what?"

"Whether I’m going to wake up angry." She shifted, the water lapping softly. "Or resentful. Or… left out." She exhaled. "I already told you I wasn’t jealous anymore—well, not as much. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is that I understand why I thought I would be."

Andy waited. He’d learned not to rush her when she was finding her footing.

"I didn’t think I deserved this," Laura said simply. "You. Them. Any of it. So I kept expecting it to hurt." She glanced sideways at him. "It hasn’t. They’re good to you. And they’ve been… gentle with me." As if gentleness were still something she was learning to trust. “I talked with Erin, Sam and Liesa. They… gave me some really good advice.” She made a small, encompassing gesture. "But if you hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t have survived any of this. Not the magic. Not the remembering. Not myself."

Andy considered, then nodded. "Now that you are back, I don’t think I’d survive it without you, either." The admission felt steadier than nostalgia, heavier than comfort.

She smiled at him, a little wistful. "But do you ever wish it was just us again?"

He didn’t even have to think about it. "No. I mean, sometimes. But I like this. I love them. I love you. It doesn’t have to be one or the other."

Laura absorbed that, both bodies quiet. Then she leaned in a fraction closer, satisfied. They let the silence stretch, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Eventually, Laura said, "Do you think about what comes next? I heard the other women talking about it."

Andy shrugged. "Sometimes. I try not to. I don’t want to jinx it."

She nodded. "I think about it all the time." She looked at him, both faces shining in the steam. "If we get out of here—if this all ends—I want to go somewhere. Anywhere. Everywhere. With you." A pause. "And maybe with the others, too."

Andy felt the truth of that settle in him. "I’d like that," he said.

Laura grinned, both faces at once, then wiggled her shoulders in a way that was pure mischief. "Even if you have to deal with two of me forever?"

Andy squeezed both shoulders, hard enough to make her laugh. "Especially if I get two of you forever."

She relaxed into him, both bodies now melting into his embrace, the water swirling around their legs. The sense of peace was absolute, and for the first time since the river, Andy felt a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be good again.

"You should check out the Commissary sometime," he said, suddenly remembering. "You might be able to upgrade your transformation. Maybe even… I don’t know. Merge together if you want."

Laura looked at him, wide-eyed. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Claire’s a pro at it. You should go with her."

At the mention of Claire, Laura’s body tensed, just for a second. Then she exhaled, letting it pass. "She’s nice," Laura said, after a moment. "I still don’t know if she likes me, but I think she wants to."

"Claire likes you," Andy said, certain. "She just thinks you’re…intimidating."

Laura made a face. "Me?"

He grinned. "You’re pretty impressive."

She rolled her eyes, but blushed. "You’re ridiculous. I’m tiny and I weigh just around one hundred pounds wet. No one is intimidated by me." Andy laughed, and she grinned in turn.

They sat in the warmth, letting the hours stretch. Laura talked about her transformation—what it felt like to be two people, to see the world through four eyes, which each of her felt every sensation both bodies felt. She asked Andy about the others, how he felt about them, what he liked best about each. It wasn’t probing; she genuinely wanted to know. He answered honestly, telling her about Erin’s resilience, about Marissa’s calm, about the way Claire always made him feel seen.

At some point, Laura laced her fingers through his, her hands a perfect match on either side of his body. She said, "You know what I wish?"

He looked at her, both faces soft and open.

"I wish I could have more time with you. I lost so much already." Her voice broke, just a little.

Andy squeezed her hands. "You can have as much as you want. If Arabella’s right, we’ve got around one millennium to spend together."

She nodded, but didn’t let go.

Time blurred, and eventually Laura’s bodies stilled, faces slack in perfect peace. Andy wondered if she could sleep in stereo, if she dreamed in double.

He didn’t notice at first that he was crying, until Laura looked at him, both faces worried.

"What’s wrong?" she said, gently.

He shook his head, wiped his face. "Nothing. Everything. I just—" He laughed, the sound raw. "I’m so fucking glad you’re here, Laura."

She hugged him, both bodies at once, arms locking around his neck and waist, and for a long time neither of them spoke. He held her, and she held him, and for the first time since the river, Andy let himself mourn and hope at the same time.

He held on until the tears passed, and when he looked up, Laura was smiling at him, her eyes wet but happy.

"You can be happy, you know," she whispered, both mouths in sync. “I’m not leaving you ever again.”

He nodded. "I’m working on it."

They pulled themselves from the water, wrapped in towels and in each other. The world outside felt brighter, somehow, and when Andy left, he knew that the absence of her would feel immediate, like the instant a light goes out.

But he knew, too, that it would never be as dark as before. Not with her alive, and with him, and doubled, and happy.

The air was blue, and humming.

Emi led the way down the corridor that terminated in the black door. Behind her, Chloe and Dawn padded in step, their voices low, their curiosity bright and open. The moment Emi pushed the door open, the world on the other side unspooled—a hush, then the sensation of being pulled into a room made of slow, breathing light.

They stepped inside together. It was cooler than the resort, the air sharpened with ozone and sweet with something wild. The ground underfoot was soft and springy, dusted in blue spiral moss. Chloe laughed, a tiny sound, as the moss left faint curls of color on her ankles.

Emi didn’t bother with shoes and kicked them off her feet. She liked the way the chill bit at her soles, the way each step left a little phosphorescent ghost behind. Sometimes she imagined she was painting with her feet, trailing a story that would only last until the ground decided to reclaim it. She turned to see if the others noticed, but Chloe was too busy staring up at the trees: columns of glass, curving and twisting, each trunk alive with ribbons of iridescence. The light didn’t come from above; it came from inside.

Dawn walked over to the nearest trunk, her face tilted in awe. She pressed her hand to the surface. “It’s warm,” she whispered. “Like a heartbeat.”

Chloe drifted toward a pool in a small clearing, where the water reflected nothing but points of light. She knelt, mesmerized, and touched the surface with one careful fingertip. The pool didn’t ripple; instead, a soft corona of color expanded, then vanished.

“It’s like the stars are floating,” Chloe said. “Is it always like this?”

Emi nodded, her six arms folded around her waist. “Every time I’ve come here, it’s a little different. But it always feels safe.” She stepped closer to the edge, then sat, knees to her chest. The pool shimmered, cool blue, and the woods hummed with the gentle static of life.

The three sat in companionable silence for a long time, listening to the faint chime of the air. There were no birds, no bugs, just the vibration of the place itself—like the echo of a music no one remembered how to play.

Dawn was the first to break the quiet. “I’ve never been in a forest like this,” she said. “Back home, you can hear everything. Animals, cars, even the wind. Here it feels like nothing’s ever been here except us.”

Chloe nodded. “I like it.” She let her fingertips drift along the rim of the pool. “I like the way it glows. The way it’s so soft.”

Emi hugged her knees, watching the way the lights on the pool swirled and shifted. “Do you think we’ll ever see a place like this again?” Chloe asked, her voice thin and hopeful.

“I don’t know,” Emi said, honest. “I hope so. Even if we don’t, I think we can remember it, though. We can make something like it, maybe.” She looked at Dawn, who was still standing with both hands pressed to the glass trunk. “You’re good at growing things. You could plant something in the garden. We could bring a piece of this with us.”

Dawn smiled, her eyes soft. “I’d like that.” She slid down beside Emi, her arm brushing against Emi’s. “You know what it reminds me of?” she said. “When I was little, my grandma would take me to church sometimes. I liked the quiet. I liked the way everyone was careful with their voices, the way even the old wood felt special because people remembered to be kind in there. This forest feels like it remembers kindness.” She looked at Emi, then at Chloe. “Maybe that’s why it’s alive.”

Chloe leaned her head on Dawn’s shoulder, and Emi felt something warm pulse through her chest. It was the same feeling she’d had when she was younger and someone, usually Laura, made space for her in a group without making her prove she belonged. Here, none of them had to prove anything.

Time bled away, uncounted. The sky outside the glass canopy never changed, always that deep, even blue, the stars stubbornly fixed. Eventually, Dawn laid her head in Emi’s lap, her black hair tumbling across Emi’s thighs, soft as moss. Chloe scooted closer and let her fingers thread with Emi’s, both girls breathing slow, synced to the pulse of the woods.

Emi thought, for a second, that she could stay here forever. She thought maybe that was the trick: you found a place that made you feel whole, and you let yourself stay, even if the world said you couldn’t.

After a while, Chloe spoke, the words so quiet they barely moved the air. “Can we come back here? All of us, together?”

Emi nodded. “Whenever you want.”

Dawn let out a gentle sigh, and Chloe’s eyes fluttered closed.

They didn’t move until the hour grew heavy, and the air inside the woods dimmed to a softer blue. When they finally rose and walked to the door, Emi looked back. The lights on the pool had faded, and the footprints they’d left glimmered for a few seconds longer before vanishing entirely.

She thought it was perfect that way—a memory only for them.

Andy cut across the courtyard, the soles of his shoes slapping out a lazy metronome on the old hotel tile. The afternoon air had thickened into that honeyed, impossible-to-hurry stretch between three and dinner, the kind of hour that belonged to people who had nowhere urgent to be. He’d towel-dried his hair but not bothered with anything more, and his limbs still hummed from the hot mineral pool. It felt good. For the first time in weeks, the suit of anxieties he’d been wearing was shed, sloughed off somewhere between the locker room and the fountain at the courtyard’s center.

He saw Liesa before she saw him. She was standing by the edge of the big tiled fountain, one hip braced against the stone, her hands busy with the roll of a thick pencil across her palm. Even at a distance, Andy could see the faint smudge of charcoal on her knuckles, the black dust ghosting up the side of her wrist. She wore a t-shirt with a faded Antwerp university logo and a soft, paint-stained apron tied haphazardly at the waist. Underneath, her skirt flared out in ruffled tiers, each one a different shade of green or blue.

It wasn’t the clothes that made her stand out, though. It was the way she held herself—a little off-balance, always about to turn, like she was only borrowing the shape of a human woman for as long as the afternoon would let her. The sun glinted off her strawberry hair, still damp in places, the braid only half-woven, curling like ivy across her shoulder.

She was the last person on the island who didn’t try to be in three places at once. She waited.

Andy slowed, soaking in the sight, and as he did, he saw her notice him. She didn’t wave, just watched him approach, her lips pulled into a thin line of consideration. When he got close, she said, in her clear, soft accent, “You look very much like a man who has been cooked alive.”

He grinned. “I was only in for an hour.”

She eyed him skeptically. “You were pinker than this, once.”

He reached for the words to say he was glad to see her, and found them already gone, replaced by the simple fact of her standing there, close enough that he could smell the graphite and the faint, familiar perfume she never stopped using. He settled for: “You’re not painting on the walls?”

She shook her head. “Not today. I am on break. I wanted to meet you, if you are not busy.”

There was a pause, and then—so quiet he nearly missed it—she added, “I hoped maybe you could stay with me, for the rest of the day.”

It was a plain sentence, but Andy felt the shape of it in his bones. The rest of the day. He remembered how, in the old Chicago winter, Liesa used to count down the hours until dusk so she could drag him to the all-night waffle place on Damen, just for the comfort of filling the hours together, just to be somewhere safe and bright until the world reset itself.

He said, “I’d like that,” and the small smile that crept onto her face was worth every uncomfortable minute of the last two months.

She tapped the pencil on her palm, then stuck it behind her ear, where it left a gray streak in the curve of her braid. “Then come with me,” she said. “We will take the long way. The weather is perfect.”

As they fell into step, Andy realized how much he’d missed this—walking together, side by side, no need to look at each other or fill the air with anything but the rhythm of their strides. Her hip brushed his every so often, and every time, she’d course-correct, but the correction was never quite complete. He felt the ghost of her arm reach for his, then withdraw. Instead, she twisted the end of her apron, knotting it and unknotting it with practiced speed.

“You still fidget when you’re nervous,” Andy observed.

She smiled, a little embarrassed. “I have more things to fidget with now.” She wiggled her fingers, each tipped with black. “I am always drawing, even if it is only in my mind.”

They passed through the shaded arcade that looped the inner courtyard, the tiles beneath them cool and patterned with sun. A Mildred stood by a potted fern, watering each leaf with exaggerated delicacy. Liesa watched her go, then said, “They remind me of mannequins in the windows, when I was little. My sister and I used to make up stories for all of them. We thought the real people were trapped inside, and every night when the shop closed, they could come out and dance.”

Andy glanced at her, remembering she had never liked to talk about her family. He considered saying something about sisters, about the way the hotel seemed to generate new ones out of thin air, but let the story hang where she left it.

Instead, he said, “How are you doing?”

She frowned. “With what?”

“All of it. The changes, the—” He made a vague gesture with his hand, meant to encompass everything from the transformations to the weirdness of the place.

Liesa considered, then shrugged. “I do not think I want to get used to it. If I did, maybe I would forget who I am.” She looked up, meeting his gaze straight on. “Would you?”

Andy shook his head. “No. I just worry, sometimes, that it’s making me someone I won’t recognize.”

She stopped walking and turned to face him, her hands balled in the folds of her skirt. “Andy,” she said, voice low and even, “you are still the boy I met. Even when you try not to be.” She reached out, brushed his knuckles with her own, quick as a heartbeat. “You remember everything. I think you feel too much, not too little.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the certainty of her words.

She laughed, a small, throaty sound. “You see? I know you better than you think.” Then, softer: “I missed you.”

He felt himself flush, the words landing in a place he’d managed to keep numb for weeks. “I missed you, too. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “We have time now. The rest of the day, at least.” Her smile widened, more real than before. “I want to show you something, if you don’t mind.”

“Lead the way,” Andy said, and she did.