The 88 Club

The 88 Club had changed overnight, as if a squadron of invisible stagehands had swept in and re-scripted the place for a new kind of drama. Velvet curtains that hadn’t existed at noon now framed the stage in royal plum, and crystal lamps hovered above every table, casting gold coin-sized pools of light on the dark wood and glassware. The grand piano gleamed in a fresh coat of lacquer; the microphone stands, once chipped and tarnished, now looked like the kind of equipment you’d find on a real concert tour. There were three of them, two standing side by side, one slightly behind. On the counter sat cold bottles of Champagne, imported whiskey, beers, and a row of slim, pastel cocktails with slices of fruit perched on the rims.

By the time the women started to arrive, the room was already humming, full of the tense, high-altitude oxygen of an event. Each arrival was its own performance, after Sam had taken it upon herself to visit the Annex to get everyone suitable clothes for the evening.

Chloe came first, her nervousness visible in the quick flick of her eyes over every table. She wore a flowing sapphire dress that made her skin look like fresh cream, lace sleeves ending just above her elbows. The neckline was modest, but with her breasts, modest was a matter of scale. She paused at the entry, the club’s light catching in her hair and turning her features soft, then made her way to a table near the front, cheeks flushed with anticipation.

Claire entered next, notebook clutched to her chest, every inch of her posture announcing “please don’t look at me, but also please do.” She wore a sleek forest green dress, knee-length and plain, the kind a librarian might wear if **** to attend a gala. A silk shawl the color of pale moss was draped around her shoulders, hiding the cat tail until she reached her seat. Once there, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and kept her eyes fixed on the stage.

Erin was third, and she did not so much enter as stride in, all bare skin and impossible curves. She wore nothing but a pair of white sandals and a crown of woven wildflowers, her mint-green body shamelessly on display. She sat beside Chloe and offered her a wink, then spent a full minute examining the wine menu, as if pretending this was a normal evening out.

Riley, on the other hand, looked like she’d been dragged out of a noir movie. She wore tailored black trousers, a crisp white shirt with rolled sleeves, and suspenders. Her red-black hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and her boots gleamed. She took her seat at the far side of the room, poured herself a scotch, and stared at the empty stage with a poet’s intensity.

Emi made her entrance half hiding behind Dawn, but her outfit was impossible to ignore: a floating, short-sleeved dress in shades of silver and lavender, the fabric so tight she might as well have been poured inside it. Her upper arms were folded in her lap, but the other four arms each held a different accessory—one a clutch purse, another a sketchbook, another a glass of orange soda, and the last a tiny woven basket of candies.

Dawn—just a hair ahead of Emi—wore a pastel pink sheath dress, sleeveless and simple, that hugged her newly enhanced curves with the ease of a second skin. The black bunny ears on her head stood at full attention, glossy and freshly brushed. She seemed calm, but when she scanned the room and caught Chloe’s eye, her smile lit up the place.

Liesa arrived in a cloud of perfume. Her own outfit was a cream-colored blouse, unbuttoned a little more than was technically proper, tucked into a high-waisted skirt that looked like it had survived three rounds with a charcoal attack. She crossed the floor with a dancer’s sway and perched next to Sam, who had just arrived in midnight-blue pants and a matching jacket. Sam looked more like a superhero than a barista tonight, her posture straighter, shoulders back, chin lifted—the costume bringing out a confidence she usually kept hidden behind the espresso machine.

Myra’s arrival was a hush rather than a splash. She wore a deep indigo gown with a cowl neck that accentuated the length of her arms and the soft tan of her skin. Her hair was pinned up with silver fox pins. She moved easily, her empathic sight exceptionally keen with so many people around, and found her seat at the far end of the table, nearest the exit, as if planning for an escape that she knew she wouldn’t take.

Norah swept in fashionably late, the click of her four-inch heels preceding her like an overture. She wore a fitted maroon cocktail dress, a wide black sash cinched at her waist, and a string of garnets at her neck. As she glided to her seat, she offered a mock bow to Riley, who responded with a two-finger salute and the beginnings of a smirk. Riley leaned back in her chair, the suspenders pulling taut across her chest, and raised her scotch glass in a silent toast that acknowledged their shared history of rivalry and grudging respect. Norah took it as a victory.

Norah, Emi, Sam, Claire, Dawn, Liesa, Chloe, Riley, Myra -300 BP

The room was nearly dark when the last two guests slipped in: Arabella and Anna, arm-in-arm. Arabella wore a shimmering champagne sheath dress, her hair styled in soft waves, and a golden ring prominent on her right hand. Anna, in contrast, wore a flowing blue dress embroidered with constellations, her hair wild and unbound, and a string of pearls at her throat. They made no move to sit, instead lingering at the back of the room, silent witnesses to the unfolding.

As the clock struck nine, the house lights dimmed a little more, and the stage lights brightened. Marissa emerged from the side curtain, her presence instantly magnetic. She wore a simple but elegant black dress, sleeveless and cut just above the knee. Her golden hair fell loose, framing her face and glinting in the stage lights. For a moment, she simply stood between the two microphones at center stage, letting the hush lengthen, waiting for the room to tip all the way into her gravity.

She took the mic. The first few words were almost lost in the hush, but her voice—always precise, always just a little husky—carried perfectly.

“Hi, everyone.” Marissa held the mic with both hands, almost reverently. “Thanks for coming. I promise, I’ll try not to make this weird.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, some of it nervous. Chloe covered her mouth and giggled. Dawn, sitting on Sam's lap as per the conditions of her transformation, squeezed Chloe’s hand under the table. Claire smiled, just for a second, then looked down at her notebook and started to doodle.

Marissa shifted her weight, eyes scanning the room. “I wasn’t planning to make a speech. And yet here I am, about to do exactly that.” She hesitated, then barreled on: “For the longest time, I thought my job—my life—was to help everyone else and to never need anything for myself. It made sense, when you think about it. My mother did it, her mother did it. My mentor did it. I just assumed that was how you kept from getting hurt by the world.”

She paused, her hand shaking so slightly only those watching for it would notice. “Being the therapist was just a mask. A really convincing one.” Her voice softened. “The truth is, I never learned how to ask for help. Not really. It’s embarrassing to admit, but now I wonder if it’s the reason I was brought here in the first place.”

There was a shift in the crowd, the mood sliding from anticipation to the deep focus of a room that’s just realized someone is bleeding for them, a little, on purpose.

Marissa inhaled, holding it at the top of her lungs. “Since coming to the HH, I started to think maybe I could… do it differently.” She fixed her gaze on Claire, who startled, then met her eyes over the rim of her glasses. “I want to thank Claire. She’s the reason I ever even tried.” Then Sam, who sat up straight and nearly knocked over her water glass. “Sam, too. She told me if I ever needed anything, I should ask. So I’m asking: if any of you ever see me about to disappear into work, or analysis, or the old therapist routine, please stop me. Remind me that I’m a person, too.”

She looked at Dawn, and for the briefest second the hard, professional facade cracked wide open. “Dawn, I envy your kindness. The way you take care of people without even trying. I want to be more like you.”

Dawn’s bunny ears flattened, and she shook her head as if to say No way, but her eyes shone.

Marissa let her eyes roam the table, hitting every face: Liesa’s proud, wry half-smile, Chloe’s brimming eyes, Riley’s skeptical smirk, Norah’s unyielding focus, Myra’s hungry sadness, Emi’s sweet, quivering nervousness. “I want to thank all of you,” Marissa said, and the words, simple as they were, hung in the air like a dare. “For making me feel like I could belong. For giving me a family. Even if it’s an extremely weird one.”

There was a beat, a held breath. Then a smattering of applause—Dawn clapping first, then Chloe, then the rest, until the whole club echoed with it. Marissa looked down, blinking rapidly, then grinned, embarrassed. “Okay. Now I’m officially blushing. Thanks, everyone.”

She glanced down at the piano, its keys gleaming like clean teeth, then at the twin microphones standing sentinel at center stage. “This song is my thank you. To all of you.”

She hesitated, then added, “I almost didn’t play it. Arthritis runs in my family, and the last few years, I could feel it creeping in. I thought maybe that was a sign—maybe the universe was telling me to stick to talking instead of playing. But then Andy did something I never expected.” She smiled fondly. “He fixed it. He gave me back my hands. I owe him, and all of you, more than I can ever say. So tonight, I’m going to play. But I won’t do it alone.”

She gestured to the side of the stage, where, on cue, Emily strode out with her bass slung low on her hips. The audience burst into cheers—Chloe’s voice first, then Sam’s, then all at once. Emily wore nothing but a pair of sparkling silver heels and a spray of wildflowers woven into her hair; her body gleamed with an impossible cleanliness, skin glowing under the lights, her nipples and pussy just barely shielded by the waterfall of her hair. She took her place next to the piano, holding her bass like it was an extension of her body.

Emily waved at the crowd, beamed, and then tuned her instrument with a few quick, expert plucks. Norah whistled low, a sound almost lost in the cheering.

Marissa smiled at her, then addressed the room again. “Emily’s here for the rhythm. She brings it better than anyone I know.”

Next was Andy. He walked onstage with a kind of deliberate calm, dressed in a tailored black vest over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He carried a guitar—beautiful, honeyed wood, polished so it seemed to drink in every drop of stage light—and stood at the first microphone, adjusting it with practiced ease.

The room responded with a different energy: Dawn and Chloe both gasped, and even Liesa, usually unflappable, let her eyes linger a long second before she blinked, hard. Andy nodded at the room, took his place beside Emily, and—after a quick check on both women at his side—looked out into the audience. He caught Erin’s eye, and she instantly flushed a deep, impossible green, her hand darting to her own throat as if to keep her heart from escaping. Erin gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles paled beneath the mint skin, her nipples standing out in hard relief. She never broke his gaze, not even when the rest of the crowd hooted and stomped.

Marissa leaned into the mic again, her confidence rising. “And for the vocals, there’s only one person who can do it justice.”

For a second, there was uncertainty. The room went quiet, all ears straining for a clue. Then, from the side wings, Laura walked out—both of her, in matching black dresses, hair twisted up into high, severe ponytails. The dresses were simple but perfectly tailored, showing off the soft line of her collarbones, her arms toned and pale against the dark fabric. Each Laura approached a microphone and stood, hands clasped behind her back, in perfect mirror symmetry.

If the room had been excited for Andy, it now tipped into chaos: Chloe gasped again, unable to stop the tears from spilling over; Riley let out a long, low whistle; Emi squealed and bounced in her seat, her lower arms windmilling in the air. Even Norah’s face went slack for a heartbeat before she snapped back to her usual poise.

Laura said, “Thank you for coming.” Her voice was softer than Marissa’s, but it reached every corner of the club.

For a second, nobody moved. Then the applause began, rolling and swelling, table to table, until even Myra stood and clapped, her ears pressed flat to her head in something like awe.

Onstage, Marissa took her place at the piano. She set her hands, took one deep breath, and nodded once at Emily, once at Andy, and finally, at Laura.

The club went dead silent.

For a moment, in that hush, there was nothing but the promise of what was about to happen—a tightrope tension, strung high above the safety net of the ordinary.

Then Marissa touched the keys.

The music began quiet: a handful of notes, almost tentative, from Marissa’s left hand. Andy’s guitar joined, delicate at first, each pluck of the strings placed with surgical care. For a moment, nobody breathed. Then, with the barest hesitation, Laura stepped forward and let her voices slip out—soft and high, as if she’d spent years singing in secret, only now letting anyone hear.

Emily’s bass crept in under the melody, a heartbeat in the hush. The sound wound through the club, and as the first verse unfurled, something strange happened: every woman at every table felt as if the music was wrapping around them, one at a time.

He built a lighthouse out of broken code, / A signal in the dark where the river once flowed. / We came like ghosts with our hands half-closed, / Carrying stories nobody chose.

Chloe’s mouth formed the words as Laura sang them, even though she’d never heard the song before. She grabbed Dawn’s hand so tight Dawn lost feeling in two fingers. By the second line, tears ran in clear tracks down Chloe’s cheeks, her smile bright through the waterworks.

Dawn, for her part, did her best to hold steady, but the sight of Chloe’s open, weeping face melted her composure. She bent her head, pressing her lips to Chloe’s knuckles. When the chorus hit, her own eyes shimmered.

Arabella smiles like she knows the cost, / Of every girl the island’s lost. / She deals us truth with a careful hand / And calls it healing. Calls it planned.

At their table, Liesa listened with her whole body—head canted, lips parted, sketchbook balanced on one bare knee. The lyric about the “lighthouse” made her pause, then begin to draw. Every line was bold, nothing erased, as if she could capture the entire performance in a single page. When the song called out “Arabella,” she looked up at the woman in the back of the room, eyes full of questions. Arabella, catching Liesa’s gaze, smiled: a rare, almost maternal expression.

Doors stand open down the hall, / Some of us brave, some scared to call.

Erin felt each word as a push, a test. She sat up straighter, staring at the stage. Every time Andy’s gaze flicked toward her, her nipples stiffened, and by the second chorus, she was so slick she had to clamp her thighs shut just to stay in her seat. She tried not to let it show, but when the lyric circled back to “nothing left to lose,” she bit her lip so hard it left a mark.

The song pressed on, the lyrics circling each woman at the table in turn, like a hand brushing each shoulder, inviting but never forcing. When the verse landed on Sam—Sam holds us up when the ground feels thin, / Rolling the dice and letting us in—she let out a bark of laughter and knocked her glass over. Water pooled instantly, but she just grinned and watched it spread, like it was the best mistake she’d made all day.

Claire’s line—Claire holds mirrors steady and bright, / Quiet-spoken courage dressed in light—made her tail whip behind her, fast enough that Dawn had to dodge. Claire kept perfect tempo with her left hand on the table, never missing a beat, even as her right hand scribbled notes in the margin of her notebook. She watched the stage through her glasses, unmoving, as if imprinting the performance forever.

Emi’s turn came, her lyric about “counting the ways it broke.” At the word “forgiveness,” she squeaked so loud the neighboring tables turned to look. All six arms folded in on her, as if she could fold herself smaller than air, but when she peeked out again, her face was radiant with embarrassment and delight.

Riley’s verse—Riley runs where the river bends, / Trying to circle back to friends—hit her harder than she’d have guessed. She lifted her glass, nodded to the stage, then, in a rare move, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She didn’t bother to hide it; she just let it hang there, a badge of honor.

Norah heard her own name in the line—Norah lights fires in the quiet rooms, / Says warmth is something we can choose. She pressed her hand flat to the table, steady as a judge, but when the chorus landed again, her lips parted. She set her pen down, unable to write, and just let herself listen.

At the far table, Myra sat alone, her cane balanced across her lap, ears tipped low. She listened with her whole body, her sightless eyes focused on a spot in the middle distance, as if the song itself had color and shape. She smiled at the verse about “kneeling in shards,” and when the music called her out by name, she bowed her head, lips moving in silent echo to Laura’s.

Some of us brave, some scared to call. / No one knows who stays or goes— / Only the tide and what it knows.

Sam, who had just managed to right her glass, glanced sideways at Liesa. Liesa didn’t look back, but her hand reached under the table and found Sam’s, their fingers lacing up together like a secret. When the next chorus hit, Sam’s face went cherry red, but she squeezed Liesa’s hand so tight it left imprints.

In the back, Anna and Arabella stood, silent, not even bothering to sit.

We are more than a challenge, more than a dare, / More than the weight of what happened there. / More than the bridge and the things unsaid, / More than the water that left me dead.

For a moment, the entire room felt the drop, the way it had haunted all of them, the bridge and the water and the history that bound them. Even the non-Warrenville women shivered at the lyric, each seeing themselves in the echo.

If this is a test, then let it be light— / Let it be mercy more than might.

By now, Chloe was openly weeping. Dawn stood and tried to hug her, but with the difference in height and the size of Chloe’s breasts, it just ended up with Chloe in Dawn’s arms, clutching at her like a life raft. Neither seemed to care. Riley kept lifting her glass and downing more of her drink, nodding at every line as if it was a personal challenge.

If love survives the undertow, / Maybe that’s all we need to know.

At the bridge, Andy took the harmony, his voice blending with Laura’s in a way that was neither strictly musical nor strictly erotic, but some hybrid of the two. Erin moaned, just barely audible, and flexed her thighs together. Myra’s fox ears rose, trembling, the sensation of pleasure so overwhelming that she nearly bit her lip through.

When the song reached the final chorus, the whole club seemed to lean forward, as if pulled by gravity.

If there’s a shore beyond this tide, / If there’s a way we don’t divide— / Then let it start with something small: / A hand held steady. / Not letting go at all.

As the last note faded, there was a heartbeat of silence—an inhalation so sharp it threatened to shatter the glassware on every table. Marissa’s hands stilled on the piano; Laura’s two bodies bowed as one; Andy let his fingers go slack on the guitar, staring out at the women in the crowd, his eyes wet.

And then the room erupted. Chloe’s first sound was a wail, then a laugh, then more crying; Dawn wrapped both arms around her, patting her shoulder with a rhythm entirely unrelated to the song. Riley banged her glass on the table and shouted “Fucking hell!” loud enough to get the next table over to cheer. Emi’s six hands all clapped, out of time, while she wiped her eyes with a napkin and giggled through the snot.

Sam hollered, her own voice echoing off the ceiling. Liesa kept sketching, but now her hand shook and the lines went wild. Norah bit her own fist, eyes shining, then quickly composed herself, straightening her posture as if nothing had happened. Myra, for the first time in her life, let herself cry in public, and she didn’t bother to hide her face.

In the back, Anna hugged Arabella. Arabella inclined her head, just the barest nod, but it was enough: everyone could see her approval.

Onstage, Emily grinned and whooped. Marissa, hands still shaking, blinked away tears but didn’t bother to hide them. Laura, both of her, smiled, then turned to Andy and hugged him, a fierce, hungry embrace that for a moment made him forget they were in front of anyone at all.

The applause came in waves, as if the women had to relearn how to make noise after what they'd just heard. Chloe let out an actual sob, face buried in Dawn’s neck, and Dawn just rocked her, repeating over and over, “It’s okay, it’s okay, let it out.” Erin stood, walked to Claire, and threw her arms around her; Claire, surprised, let her notebook fall and hugged back, her tail winding around Erin’s leg and not letting go. For a minute, Erin just clung, face pressed to Claire’s hair, breathing her in.

Riley pounded her glass on the table again, then stood and whistled through two fingers, a perfect stadium whoop. Next to her, Norah bit down on her own hand to keep from doing the same, and then gave up and joined in, stamping her foot and adding her own voice to the cacophony.

Emi covered her face, then squealed and hugged all six of her own arms tight to her chest, as if worried she’d explode otherwise. She wiggled in her seat, then leaned into Liesa, who wrapped an arm around her and gently squeezed. Sam grabbed Liesa’s hand and didn’t let go, even as Liesa’s fingers left black charcoal streaks across Sam’s skin.

Myra’s cheeks were slick, but she was smiling, a real, unguarded smile, and she seemed to drink in every scrap of noise like it was medicine.

At the far end of the club, Arabella joined the applause, her movements slow and dignified, but her eyes burning with a fierce, parental pride. Anna, beside her, simply glowed; she clapped three times, then folded her arms and nodded as if to say Yes, this is what I wanted for you.

Onstage, Marissa was a mess. Her hands trembled, tears wetting her cheeks, and when Emily came to hug her, Marissa let it happen, clutching Emily tight and laughing through her sobs. Andy joined, and for a moment the three of them held each other, the hug awkward and tight and necessary.

Laura stood just behind them, both bodies trembling, both wiping their eyes with the backs of their hands. After a moment, Andy turned to her, held out his arms, and both Lauras stepped forward and embraced him. The hug went long, and Andy whispered something that only Laura could hear. Both her bodies nodded, her blue eyes shining.

Marissa finally broke away, and as she did, the room erupted with another round of applause. She looked down at her hands, still unable to stop shaking, then up at the crowd of women now streaming toward the stage. Chloe and Dawn led the charge, followed by Sam and Liesa, then Claire and Erin arm-in-arm. Riley and Norah trailed at the edge, keeping a respectful distance, but grinning at each other as if they’d shared some private joke.

When Chloe reached Marissa, she hugged her, hard, and didn’t let go for several seconds. “Thank you,” she said, voice thick. “I needed that more than I can say.”

Marissa wiped her eyes, then managed a laugh. “I think we all did.”

Dawn hugged her next, and then Emi—Emi who, despite her six arms, seemed to want to make herself as small as possible in Marissa’s embrace. When she finally pulled back, Emi said, “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Thank you for letting me be part of it.”

Marissa knelt down, looked Emi in the eye, and said, “You’ve been part of it since the beginning, Emi.”

Emi blushed, then clapped a hand over her mouth and squeaked again. Liesa stepped up, her usual poise unraveling just a little, and said, “That was art. Real art.” She hugged Marissa, then, almost as an afterthought, kissed her on the cheek.

Claire, who had managed to retrieve her notebook, wrote a message and held it up for Marissa to see: Thank you for letting me know you.

Marissa read it, blinked rapidly, then reached out and touched Claire’s hand, squeezing it. “Thank you for making it safe to do that.”

Sam lingered at the edge, hands shoved in her pockets. When Marissa caught her eye, Sam grinned. “See? I told you it would be worth it.” She pulled Marissa into a brief, hard hug.

The crowd on stage grew, women holding each other, swapping positions, talking and laughing and weeping in equal measure. It was like a family portrait—messy, crowded, everyone half on top of each other, but nobody wanting to be anywhere else.

Off to the side, Andy and Laura lingered, slightly removed from the swarm. He hugged both of her again, then said, “Tomorrow, I want to see you. First thing in the morning.”

Laura—both bodies—froze, then looked at him, searching. She still carried the weight of being “toxic,” the fear that she’d poison whatever touched her. But Andy, reading her face, just smiled. “It’s not an order,” he said. “It’s a wish.”

She nodded, and the smile that broke over her faces was pure and raw. “Okay,” she whispered, both voices in perfect sync.

He leaned in and kissed her—both her, in turn. “I love you,” he said, the words casual, but true.

Laura’s blush was visible from three tables away, but for the first time she didn’t flinch from it. “I love you, too,” she said, and this time her voice was strong.

Emily, having hugged every woman on the stage at least once, now stood at the edge, admiring the chaos. She caught Andy’s eye and winked, then called out, “Thank you, everyone!” She raised her hands in mock-conductor style, then took a graceful bow.

In the back of the room, Arabella watched the scene, her expression thoughtful. She made her way to Marissa, waited for the crowd to thin, then took her hands in both of hers. “You did beautifully,” Arabella said.

Marissa looked up, stunned. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”

Arabella’s grip tightened, just for a moment. “I know exactly how much it means,” she said, then released her and disappeared into the crowd.

Meanwhile, Emi had edged her way to the back, where Anna still stood, arms folded, watching it all with a proud, almost parental satisfaction. Emi approached cautiously, not wanting to interrupt, but Anna smiled and beckoned her closer.

Emi hovered on the edge of the crowd, uncertain if Anna would even want to be interrupted. She told herself she was being polite, but really she was afraid—afraid that if she stepped forward, the spell would break and Anna would look at her like a stranger The goddess (she could only call her that now) looked up and smiled with a warmth that made Emi’s knees go weak.

“Come here, sweet girl,” Anna said, not needing to raise her voice. The words cut through the noise like a flute over an orchestra.

Emi obeyed. In the moment, her six hands trembled, each fighting the others for composure. Two of them tried to smooth her hair. One fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. Two fidgeted with her purse. One hovered uselessly in midair, as if waiting for instruction.She stood before Anna, only now noticing the detail work in the constellation dress, the tiny beads shimmering like stars. It felt impossible—meeting your distant, mythological ancestor at a bar, after an evening of perfect music—but that was exactly what the HH had trained her to expect.

Anna smiled wider. “You know now, don’t you?” she said, voice lower and more private.

Emi nodded, then blurted: “Is it true?” Her voice cracked on the last word. She immediately felt ridiculous, but Anna nodded as if the question was not just sensible, but necessary.

“It’s true,” Anna said. “I left him a piece of my soul. Your line has always kept it safe for me.”

Emi’s breath hitched. Her vision blurred suddenly, violently, like someone had tilted the world and shaken it. “Why me?”

Anna’s eyes danced. “You were always my favorite. Of all my sons and daughters, you alone knew how to dream.”

That did it. Emi made a small, strangled sound that she did not recognize as her own. All six of her hands flew to her face at once, as if trying to contain something that would not be contained. “I always felt like—” she started, and then stopped, because the words were too small. She swallowed and tried again. “Like I was just… there. Around other people’s stories. Not the important part.”

Anna’s expression softened. “You are the important part, sweet girl,” Anna said simply.

Emi shook her head, crying openly now. Not graceful tears—ugly ones. Loud ones. The kind she would normally apologize for. “So I’m not just—” Her voice broke completely. “I’m not just an extra?”

Anna stepped forward. “Never.”

Emi laughed and sobbed at the same time. “Oh my God,” she choked, and then, impulsive and unfiltered as ever: “Can I call you something? I don’t know what the word is. Great-great-great—” She gave up and just said, “Grandmother?”

Anna’s smile turned luminous. “You may.”

That was when Emi collapsed into her. Not a polite embrace. Not a quick one. She wrapped all six arms around Anna’s waist and shoulders and back, clinging like someone who had finally found solid ground after years of pretending she didn’t need it.

“I always wanted this,” Emi confessed into the fabric of the constellation dress. “I always wanted to belong to something bigger than my mistakes.”

Anna held her, firm and real. “You do. With my family, and with the one you have made here.”

Emi pulled back only enough to look up at her, face blotchy and unguarded. “Are you proud of me?”

Anna nodded. “I’m so proud,” she said, and this time the words felt like a benediction. “Every choice you made, I watched. Even the mistakes—maybe especially those.” She reached out, and for a moment Emi wondered if she was about to be anointed or electrocuted. But Anna just patted her on the cheek, gentle as a breeze. “You belong here, Emi. You belong with them.”

“With my sisters?”

“Yes.”

“With Andy?”

“Yes.”

Emi’s breath shuddered out of her.

“Does this mean I have to do something big now? Like, save the world?”

Anna laughed, delighted. “No, sweet girl. You don’t have to do anything except live. Be happy. Leave a mark, if you like.”

“I think I already did,” Emi said softly. “I just didn’t know it counted.”

Anna tilted her head. “It always counted.”

Emi pondered this, her six hands unconsciously braiding themselves together. “Do you have to go?”

Anna looked at her, eyes a thousand years old, and said, “Not yet. I want to see what happens next.”

Emi nodded, wiping her face with the back of one hand. She took one last look at Anna as if trying to memorize her. Then she leaned in again, fierce and unembarrassed. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

Anna hugged her back, arms warm and real. “Now go,” Anna whispered, “and make some mischief.”

Emi laughed wetly. “I can do that.”

One of her hands shot out, unsure if it was going to shake Anna’s or just grab her sleeve. Anna took it, squeezed, and then let go.

“Go on,” Anna said, “celebrate. You’re free of the old story, now. You, and your Andy, and your sisters are making a new one.”

Emi inhaled like someone tasting air for the first time.

She turned and ran back to her friends, tears still drying on her cheeks, no longer hovering at the edge of the crowd.

The main floor of The 88 Club was more like a party now, the afterglow of the performance breaking down every last wall. Dawn and Chloe had managed to attract a satellite group: Marissa, still pink-cheeked and exhausted, sat with both women, letting Dawn ply her with stories and Chloe ply her with hugs. Chloe’s face was radiant, free of the old wariness, and she kept repeating the same thing: “It was beautiful. It was beautiful.”

Claire and Erin had migrated to the piano, where Andy stood talking with Marissa about old songbooks and how Andy had once memorized the entire ABBA discography as a joke. Claire’s tail flicked back and forth, betraying a pride she could never have put in words; she scribbled a note, handed it to Marissa, and waited while Marissa read and nodded.

Riley and Norah, after a round of mutual teasing about who had better stage presence, settled at the bar. Norah poured Riley a glass of champagne and toasted her with a wink. Riley tried to act unimpressed, but when she tried to get off her stool, she wobbled. Norah caught her, steadying her with a strong arm.

“You did good, Red,” Norah said. “You’re one of us now, whether you want to be or not.”

Riley opened her mouth for a comeback, but then closed it and just nodded.

Sam and Liesa claimed a side table. Sam was still riding the high of the song, bouncing in her seat, and Liesa was making furious, wild sketches on napkins, capturing every angle of the performance as if she could save it all for later. At one point, Sam leaned over, kissed Liesa on the neck, and Liesa didn’t even pause—just blushed, giggled, and kept drawing.

Emily found herself at the center of a small mob—Chloe, Dawn, and Emi—all talking over each other about how the performance felt, what it meant, and whether or not Andy should be **** to wear the black vest every day from now on. Emily smiled, basked in the warmth, and every so often interjected with a joke that made Chloe snort her drink or Dawn blush pink to her ears.

Myra, who had been so quiet before, now sat with her cane propped beside her chair, fox tail coiled around her waist like a scarf. She listened to the conversations, let herself be included, and laughed—sharp, bright, genuine. At one point, she stood, found her way to the stage, and ran her fingers along the piano, as if memorizing the song one more time by touch.

The night unspooled. Plates and glasses vanished, replaced by new rounds. The bar shifted to “late night” mode, and a jazz playlist curled through the air, adding a smoky undertone to the revelry. The women rearranged themselves, mixing and matching, forming new pairings and triads and little collectives, as if each wanted to test the new chemistry set the evening had made of them.

Andy circulated, sometimes talking, sometimes just watching. He saw the way Liesa and Sam gravitated toward each other, the way Myra listened more than she spoke, the way Norah and Riley’s teasing had turned into a true camaraderie. He caught Chloe and Dawn holding hands under the table, saw the way Emi beamed at Marissa, and the way Claire kept checking in on all of them, even as she quietly doodled song lyrics in her book.

And Laura—Laura, who even now kept a small distance between herself and the others, except when Andy drew her in. He saw her smile, the real one, and it was enough.

As the hour drew late, Marissa, her voice mostly returned to its usual measured calm, stood up and tapped her fork against her water glass.

“Thank you, everyone,” she said, her voice carrying just fine now. “For listening. For caring.” She hesitated, then added, “I know tonight was… different. I hope it’s just the first of many. But, um—” She faltered, then recovered. “If anyone wants to try a duet next time, let me know.”

The whole room laughed, and the laughter wasn’t awkward, just happy.

Achievement Unlocked (Marissa)! Silent Harmony +5 VP
Achievement Unlocked (Andy)! The Professionals

After the last echo of applause, after the spontaneous hugs and the swarm of congratulations at The 88 Club, after the circle of women thinned into smaller knots of conversation, Erin and Claire slipped out into the corridor together. The heavy doors fell closed behind them, sealing out the after-party hum. For a moment, neither spoke—or wrote, in Claire’s case. They just stood, side by side, in the honeyed light of the hallway, not quite looking at each other.

Erin’s skin, mint-green in the evening light, shimmered faintly with perspiration; she hadn’t bothered to dress for the party, so her only concession to modesty was a pair of white leather sneakers and a jacket tied around her waist that served only as a prop for her arms. She kept glancing back at the doors, where Andy was still inside, half-expecting him to appear and drag her back into the crowd for a last dance, or maybe to rescue her from whatever this was about to be. But he didn’t, and she was **** to face it head on.

Next to her, Claire clutched her green notebook like a shield, eyes fixed on the floor, tail wound anxiously around one ankle. She wore a simple black sheath dress, the hemline hovering just above the knee, and her ears—both the feline and the human set—were pressed flat in perfect parallel, a semaphore of embarrassment and intent.

Erin took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders. “Let’s just do it,” she muttered, and took the lead down the corridor toward the bar’s back exit. “Rip the Band-Aid.”

Claire followed, her steps soundless as always, eyes scanning for escape routes. Her mind spun through all the ways this could go wrong, each one accompanied by a brisk, calligraphed note in her notebook: catastrophic embarrassment, public shaming, actual expulsion from the HH for breaking some unwritten rule about reproductive etiquette.

The hall was empty except for Arabella, who leaned elegantly against the marble banister of the grand staircase. She was halfway through a flute of champagne, her dress a pale gold that made her skin glow like candlelight. Anna, standing beside her, had Emi tucked under her arm, the two of them in deep and animated conversation about—of all things—the moral implications of “magical inheritance.” Emi’s six hands flew through the air, gesturing, while Anna’s eyes sparkled with an ancient, mischievous amusement.

Arabella noticed them first. She straightened, finishing her drink in one slow swallow, and set the flute on the rail. Her gaze was impossible to meet directly; it was too clear, too knowing, and Erin instantly regretted coming here. But they had a question, and there was only one person who could answer it.

The instant they came within earshot, Arabella disengaged from Anna and Emi and met them in the center of the hall. “Erin. Claire. Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, actually,” Erin said. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been nervous talking to Arabella, but now every inch of her skin felt like a lightning rod. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

Arabella smiled gently. “Of course. My office?”

Erin and Claire exchanged glances. "You have an office?" Erin blurted out.

Arabella's lips curved with amusement. "Where did you think I went when not entertaining all of you? Did you think I slept hanging upside down in the attic?"

Claire scribbled something in her notebook and held it up: We thought you just... materialized when needed?

Arabella laughed, a sound like wind chimes. "Come along."

She led them down the corridor, stopping at a stretch of wall Erin could have sworn was just solid marble a moment before. Now a heavy oak door stood there, complete with an ornate brass nameplate reading A. - Host in flowing script.

"That wasn't—" Erin started.

"Wasn't it?" Arabella asked, her eyebrow arched as she turned the knob.

The door swung open to reveal a space that couldn't possibly fit within the building's dimensions. Arabella stepped aside, watching their faces with undisguised pleasure. "Come in."

They entered Arabella's office, which was lit only by a single lamp on the desk. The walls were lined with books, real ones, and the far window overlooked the silver-lit ocean—despite the fact they were in the middle of the building.

"But we're not even facing—" Erin gestured vaguely at the window.

"You certainly didn't expect the Host not to have an office?" Arabella asked, amused by their wide-eyed stares. She gestured toward the seating area. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."

Erin dropped onto the arm of a velvet chair, too keyed-up to relax, while Claire hovered just behind her, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

Arabella waited until the door clicked shut—seemingly on its own—then took a seat behind her desk. "So," she said, folding her hands in her lap, "what's troubling you both?"

Erin tried to start, then faltered. “I, uh. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Arabella raised a perfectly-arched brow, but her tone was gentle. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Claire stepped forward, her notebook open to a new page. She scribbled quickly, then tore out the sheet and set it in front of Arabella.

We both missed our periods. Erin missed two. She is nervous to ask, but we need to know: is it possible we’re already…?

Arabella read the note. Her lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Is it possible you’re both pregnant?” she finished aloud.

Erin’s face went an even brighter green. “Yeah.”

Arabella didn’t so much react as let the question settle over the room, a gauze of silence in which the only noise was the faint, salty wash of tide outside the window. She made a steeple of her fingers, her smile gentle, and studied both women—Erin with her neon embarrassment, Claire with the notebook already trembling in her grip.

“It’s a fair question,” Arabella said. “And not the first time I’ve been asked, believe it or not.” She glanced from one to the other. “Would it be a problem if you were?”

Claire wrote fast, then hesitated, then underlined something twice before ripping the page out and setting it on the desk:

I want children. Always have. But—will they be like me? If they inherit what I have, they’ll never fit.

Arabella read it aloud, then looked up. “You mean your diagnosis.”

Claire nodded, a single, deliberate dip, then added with a quick scribble: Not just autism. What if they have cat ears, or a tail? Or can’t talk, like me? Will they be bullied?

Erin jumped in, voice loud enough that even she seemed surprised by it. “I told you you’re not broken. It’s just how you are. Andy and I love you just the way you are.” She smiled at Claire, then she scowled at her own hand. She folded her arms across her chest, realizing her breasts were in the way, then just let them hang. “But I’m not gonna lie, I worry too. About the other stuff. Like what if my kids have skin like mine? Or can’t wear clothes? Or, I dunno, get all the plant stuff?” She jerked her thumb at her own body. “This isn’t normal in the real world, you know?”

Arabella actually laughed—soft, not mocking. “Believe me, I understand. But the rules for inheritance here are… different than what you’d expect.” She leaned in, elbows on the desk. “Each Season—each Hotel, if you will—does it their own way. This place is no exception.”

She looked at Claire, then at Erin. “Would it help if I told you what happens in other worlds?”

Claire, still clutching her notebook, gave a nervous nod. Erin shrugged. “Might as well. It’s not like I can get any more mortified.”

Arabella folded her hands in her lap. “There’s a world where the animal traits given that harem are so dominant that eventually, there’ll be no more fully human women. The Hotel-given genes win. Someday, in that world, everyone will have ears, tails, or some other lovely accessory. You’ve met the Master of that season.” She smiled at Claire, whose tail was now wound in a double helix around her ankle. She didn’t elaborate on what Master she was discussing.

Erin blew air out of her cheeks. “Great, so I could start a green-skinned dynasty.”

Arabella shook her head. “No. Here, the transformations don’t pass on in the same way. Children born from this Hotel will inherit the best of their mothers and their father, nothing more. They won’t inherit clothing restrictions, or compulsions. Physical changes that stand out from humankind they might inherit, but only with the Master’s consent. Otherwise, they’ll be healthy. And unless you or the Master ask for it, no child will ever be given a disadvantage they didn’t choose.”

She smiled again. “So if you’re worrying about them being bullied for being ‘weird,’ you can rest easy. They might be a bit more beautiful than average, or perhaps more clever, or more curious—but that’s all.” She fixed her gaze on Claire. “Erin’s right. You’re not broken. You’re extraordinary. And if your children inherit even a fraction of your gifts, the world will have to reckon with them.”

Erin’s face, which had been a mix of mortification and relief, suddenly softened. She looked at Claire, then reached over and awkwardly put her arm around her. “Told you. Nothing wrong with you.” She squeezed once, then let go as if embarrassed by her own affection. “But what about me?” she asked. “You’re telling me my kids will be… just normal?”

Arabella shrugged, playful. “I suppose that depends on your definition of normal. Yours will be human, but perfectly healthy, with strong constitutions and long lives. They’ll have a knack for growing things—a kind of green thumb, or maybe green soul.” She winked. “They might be good at sports. And have a fierce loyalty to their family.”

Erin relaxed, just a touch. “And the breasts?”

Arabella actually grinned. “That will carry. There’s a strong chance your daughters will be… impressive.”

Erin groaned, slapping a hand to her face. “Of course.” Then, recovering, she gestured at Claire. “What about her? Will her kids have the, uh, cat stuff?”

Arabella turned to Claire, letting the question hang in the air as an invitation. Claire scribbled, then turned the page: Do they inherit my ears? Or my tail? Or just my “gifts”?

Arabella took her time before answering. “You’ll pass on your courage, your thirst for knowledge, your empathy. Without the Master’s consent, your children may inherit your agility and grace, your ability to move quietly, your empathic gifts. Most likely, you’ll just have a family full of brilliant, lovely people. With a fondness for soft things and occasional climbing, perhaps. And a propensity for fertility, though nowhere near what Feline Fertility did for you.”

Claire’s ears flicked, as if that possibility startled her. She put her pen to paper, then hesitated, then simply looked at Erin.

Erin tried to smile back, then frowned. “You’re dodging. You didn’t answer the original question: are we pregnant or not?”

Arabella blinked, as if surprised to be reminded of the practical. “Oh, right.” She pressed a palm to her chest, then looked at the two of them. “Yes. Both of you are. It happened quite fast, actually.”

Erin’s eyes went huge. “How many?” She sounded half-joking, half-terrified.

Arabella laced her fingers. “Erin, you’re expecting twins.” She paused for the effect, then turned to Claire. “Claire, just one—for now. You received Feline Fertility after you were already pregnant, so it does not affect the current pregnancy. Starting from the next one, though, you may expect multiples.”

Claire’s face did something between a gasp and a sigh, her shoulders dropping, her tail uncurling in a slow exhale.

Erin, for once, was speechless. She looked down at her own stomach, as if it might already be rounded. “Jesus. I don’t feel any different.” She looked up. “Is that bad?”

Arabella shook her head. “No. The pregnancies that start here are much easier on you than in your world. No morning sickness, no real pain, even once you return to the real world. You’ll have time to adjust.” She cocked her head, suddenly maternal in a way that made both women shift in their seats. “You’ll be wonderful mothers. I promise.”

Neither woman seemed to know what to do with that.

Arabella looked between them. “Do you want to know the genders?” she asked, all impish. “Or do you want to wait?”

Both shook their heads, almost violently.

“Suit yourselves,” Arabella said, standing. “Your VP totals will be adjusted as soon as you share the news with Andy. That’s the tradition. Until then, you can keep it your secret.”

Erin opened her mouth, then closed it. Claire just stared at the desk, breathing hard.

Arabella gathered herself, smoothing her dress. She gestured for them to rise. “Congratulations, by the way. It suits you.”

Stunned, they walked out, the door closing behind them. For a while, Erin and Claire just stood there, in the corridor. Neither wanted to be the first to break the hush.

Finally, Erin snorted. “Twins,” she said, and the word was so ridiculous she had to say it again, softer, almost in awe. “Twins.” She blinked in a low panic. “Twins, Claire, twins!”

She looked at Claire, who only now met her gaze, blue eyes as wide as coins. Erin stepped forward, hesitated, then wrapped Claire in a hug so fierce it nearly lifted the smaller woman off her feet. For a second, Claire was rigid, but then she melted into it, her own arms winding tight around Erin’s waist.

They stood like that for a while, two women holding onto each other as if for dear life.

“We have to tell Andy,” Erin said, when she finally let go. “He needs to know.”

Claire shook her head. She scribbled in her notebook, then held it up: Tomorrow is Laura’s day. We can’t. If we tell him, and he keeps it from her, she’ll feel betrayed. If we tell her first, it will ruin her day.

Erin frowned. “But what if she’s upset that we waited?”

Claire wrote: She’ll be less upset than if we ruin her date. Let’s give her the time. It’s what she needs.

Erin thought it over, then nodded, slow. “We’ll tell him after Sam’s game?”

Claire nodded back, almost relieved. We should tell both of them together.

For a moment, they stood in the corridor, neither sure what to do next. Then Erin reached for Claire’s hand, squeezing it. “Let’s go. I want to be with you for a bit. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Claire nodded, her hand small but strong in Erin’s grip. Together, they slipped down the hall, not talking, not needing to. The secret shimmered between them, a strange and sudden bond, and for the first time in weeks, finally, Erin felt less like a mutant and more like a miracle.