At the Long Table

It took three full minutes for the twins to work up the nerve to enter the Refectory, and another two to find seats along the endless dining table. The vastness of the space daunted even them—Summer compared it, half-whispering, to the school gym after hours, when the echoes of your own shoes made you feel like the only person left on Earth. Here, the only noise was the sizzle and pop of fire from some unseen kitchen, and the tick of the overhead lights as they adjusted hue for the night cycle.

They sat at the end closest to the door, their heads bowed over empty plates. Summer scanned the length of the table, which could have seated a small army, but tonight was empty save for the two of them and the Golem behind the buffet, who sliced bread and arranged fruit with a serial-killer's indifference. Autumn’s eyes never left the Golem, following its every movement, as if waiting for it to drop the knife and turn on them.

The twins' sweatshirt hung loose and wrong from their new body. The fabric bunched between their shoulders and exposed the gleam of their collarbone, the cuffs torn apart at the seams when the twins pushed their hands through them. Even the color looked sickly; their favorite shade of blue had curdled to something more like window cleaner, and the screen print—a cartoon dog—clung to their chest like an embarrassing tattoo. The pants fared worse: their usual pair, once snug, had split at the fly and sagged in the seat, the waistband drooping with every breath. Summer had tried rolling the hem, but the result was a dimpled mess, neither capri nor full-length, just wrong.

They had spent the first ten minutes in the room fiddling with their clothes, tugging and pulling, until the Golem stared at them with those blank eyes. Summer flashed a nervous smile—still a reflex—and said, “Thanks, we’re good,” even though no one had offered to help.

They chose small portions from the spread: a bit of cheese, three different breads, a scoop of what looked like hummus. Summer hovered over the choices, dithering over whether to take more, but Autumn quietly filled their plate and moved on. At the table, Summer fidgeted, adjusting the position of the plate with her left hand, aligning the knife perfectly parallel to the edge. Autumn did not move except to eat, slow and methodical, as if trying to draw out the meal into an evening.

They ate in silence for a while, both watching the empty room. The first thing they noticed was how clean everything was—no marks on the table, not even a smear of old candle wax. The second was the light: it bounced off the white marble and the stone, so even when the day’s glow faded, it never got truly dark. The third was the Golem, who did not leave even when all the food had been set out.

Summer whispered, “We could go back to the room, I guess.” Her voice was pitched for Autumn’s ears only, but the Golem twitched in their peripheral vision.

“I’d rather stay here,” Autumn replied, voice barely above a hum. “That thing doesn’t care.”

“We could ask it to leave,” said Summer, mostly to test the waters.

Autumn said, “I don’t think it can. It’s like a Roomba. You can’t make it leave the kitchen.”

Summer snorted. “We could shut it in the closet.”

“Try it,” said Autumn.

They both watched the Golem, which was now polishing a brass pitcher. Summer shook her head. “It’s not worth it. Besides, that Magda might come back.”

“She won’t,” said Autumn. “Not yet. She’s with him.”

“Do you think they’re… together?” Summer trailed off. “No, probably not. I mean, he’s—did you see how he looked at her? It was more like, I don’t know, formal. Not like the others. Not like us.”

Autumn shrugged. “She looks at him the same way.”

Summer ate a bite of bread, chewed, swallowed, and said, “She called us a circus. Did you hear that? In the amphitheater. She asked us what circus did we belong to.”

“I heard her,” Autumn said. Her voice was blank, not even mad—just sorting the fact away.

“Do you think she meant it?” asked Summer. She couldn’t help herself; even now, with everything changed, she needed to know what people thought of them.

“I think she wanted to see what we’d do if she said it,” said Autumn. “Like when the substitute at school made us read two different books for reading hour and then decided we must share a brain.”

“Yeah,” said Summer, and stared at her bread. “I hated that.”

Autumn put her hand on the table, just close enough for Summer to rest her own on top if she wanted. Summer did, and they sat like that, sharing the warmth. Summer’s thoughts circled back, as always. “We should probably talk to him, though,” she said. “If anyone would know what’s going on, it’s the guy who looks like he’s done this before.”

“He’s lied to us already,” said Autumn. “Or at least told us something that can’t be true.”

Summer stabbed a piece of bread, smeared it with cheese, and ate it whole—she hated herself for how fast she was chewing, but her body needed to do something. “What, about Magda? Or about the game?”

“About everything.” Autumn’s hand trembled for a second, then stilled itself against the stone. “He said the Host rewrote Magda’s memory, to make her believe she knew him before. But the rest—Chiara, Selene, the others—they knew him, too. You saw their faces.”

Summer made a noise, not quite agreement, not quite denial. “Maybe he didn’t want us to feel left out?”

Autumn shook her head, one slow, heavy motion. “That’s not it. He wanted us to trust him, so he gave us a special story. That’s what you do if you’re trying to win someone over.”

Summer rolled this around. “So, you think he’s the bad guy?”

“I don’t know what he is,” Autumn said. “But I don’t think he’s just some nice professor who stumbled into this.”

They let this settle. The Refectory was still empty, the only movement the Golem wiping down the buffet line for the fifth time. Summer wanted to ask it what it was, who made it, whether it had always been here, but the words stuck in her mouth. She couldn’t tell if it would even answer. The room assignment hovered over both of them, impossible to ignore. Summer said, “I don’t want to go back to the room. Not yet.”

Autumn said, “We don’t have to. There’s nowhere else to be.”

“There are baths,” said Summer, “and the Athenaeum, and the other rooms.”

“They’re probably locked,” Autumn replied, even though she knew it was unlikely. “We could explore if you want.”

Summer traced circles on the edge of her plate. “I just don’t want to walk in on her. Magda. She looked like she’d bite our heads off if she saw us again.” Summer chewed her next mouthful slower. “She doesn’t like us.”

“Most people feel uncomfortable,” Autumn said, which was not a complaint, just an accounting.

“Do you think it’s the—” Summer glanced down at their chest, which looked like it belonged on a swimsuit model or a Greek goddess, and winced—“the new us?”

Autumn looked, then shrugged. “She didn’t like us before, either.”

Summer wanted to argue, but she remembered how Magda’s mouth had twisted the moment she’d spotted them in the amphitheater. She remembered the way the woman’s gaze had gone hot, then ice-cold, as if she’d seen something offensive, then decided it was beneath her notice.

They had finished half the bread and most of the cheese. Summer reached for the fruit, cut an apple slice, and tried to eat it without making a mess, but juice trickled down her chin. Autumn caught it with the back of her thumb, wiped it away with no fuss. For a moment, their hands lingered together, their fingers interlocking without either of them deciding to do it. Summer tried to imagine what the Golem thought about, if it had thoughts. Maybe it watched them and wondered what it would be like to sit at the table and taste food.

Autumn must have been thinking something similar, because she said, “If we ask it a question, do you think it will answer?”

Summer said, “We could try.” She summoned her loudest, politest voice: “Excuse me?”

The Golem did not turn, but the polishing slowed. Its blank, carved head angled toward them.

“Could we have coffee?” Summer asked, then regretted it—what if they didn’t have coffee here? What if it thought she was being rude?

The Golem moved. It did not walk, exactly, just transitioned from the buffet to their side with uncanny smoothness. It poured water from a glass pitcher, then returned with a small pot of black coffee and a sugar bowl.

“Thank you,” Summer said, a little shaken.

The Golem dipped its chin, the way a bird acknowledges another.

Summer poured herself a cup, added two sugars, and offered it to Autumn, who shook her head. “Too late,” Autumn said. “We’ll never sleep.”

“Good,” Summer replied, and drank. It burned her mouth, but the pain felt grounding. “We could run away,” she said, once she’d swallowed.

Autumn didn’t respond. Summer sipped again. “Even if we could, there’s nowhere to go,” Autumn said. “Outside is a volcano. Even if we got out, we’d die.”

Summer finished her coffee and set the cup down. Her heart was going faster. “You’re thinking we should wait.”

“That’s what we do,” said Autumn. “We wait and see. That’s how we made it through high school.”

Summer smirked. “Barely.”

They sat there, side by side, for a while. The Golem finished its work and went still, standing guard at the far end of the buffet.

Drosia entered as if expecting resistance. She slammed the door behind her, the thud vibrating up the walls and into the twins’ teeth. Her boots struck the stone like gunfire, and she took the seat directly across from them, planting her elbows on the table and glaring at the food as if daring it to insult her. She did not acknowledge the twins, or the Golem, or even the room. Without asking, Drosia reached for the nearest plate and piled her own with slabs of white cheese, an entire quarter of a bread loaf, and three blood oranges. She peeled the first orange in a single, angry spiral, then devoured it with the speed of someone who had missed too many meals in a row.

The silence that followed was dense and uncomfortable. Summer wanted to speak first, but didn’t know if she’d be ignored or—worse—mocked. It was Autumn who broke the ice. “Are you okay?”

Summer added, “The food is pretty good here, isn’t it?”

Drosia, mouth full, gave them a look of purest scorn. She reached for another orange, and eviscerated it in two bites. “Food is food. If it kills you, then God has written it so.”

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and shot a look at the twins’ untouched fruit. “You going to eat that, or just stare at it?”

Summer slid the plate across without comment. Drosia grabbed a handful and began to work through it. The Golem observed all this with its usual nonreactive stare. Drosia shot it a dirty look. “These things give me the creeps,” she muttered. “They don’t even try to pretend to be human.”

Summer said, “I think that’s the point.”

“Then I hate the point,” Drosia said, and picked up a piece of cheese. “And what are you meant to be? You look like something painted on a chapel wall, only with a blade through the ribs.”

Summer bristled. “We’re—”

“American,” said Autumn, before Summer could defend them. “It’s genetic. Sometimes it happens. Our cousins, Dora and Lara, too. A little different, though.”

Drosia mulled this over. “I’m surprised they didn’t drag you to a shrine and call you blessed. Or chain you to a post and charge coins.” She seemed almost nostalgic, then, for a second, caught herself. “At least you’re not a wretch like that Oudemia. She’s the worst.”

Summer contained her irritation and said, “We haven’t spoken with her. Only in the amphitheater.”

“Lucky you,” said Drosia. “We’re bunkmates.”

That got Summer’s attention. “You’re sharing a room?”

Drosia finished another orange, then said, “A chamber, a bed, and maybe a grave when it’s done. Does it seem just to you? They don’t even keep spare blankets. I looked.” She said this with the sullen pride of someone who has done the inventory and found it wanting.

Summer leaned forward. “What’s it like? The rooms.”

Drosia shrugged, then gestured with her chin. “Like barracks after inspection. Clean, quiet, nothing creaks. The doors don’t bar. The beds are too soft.” She grimaced, as if admitting the last part hurt her. “That girl, Oudemia, the one with the hair—she sits in the corner and watches. Says nothing. Just… stares.”

Autumn asked, “Did you try talking to her?”

Drosia made a face. “Why would I? She’s not alive in any way that matters. She’s like one of those stone servants, only with more hair and less wit.” Drosia scowled at the Golem, which, unhelpfully, picked that moment to start rearranging the silverware at the next table. “You see? We’re not people to them. We’re furnishings.”

This was closer to how the twins had always felt about most of the world. Summer said, “Maybe if we all worked together—”

Drosia cut her off. “Why? What good would it do?” She drove her knife into the cheese so hard it gouged the wood beneath. “If that man thinks we’ll dance to his tune and smile for it, he’s mad. I’ll show him what comes of trying to command Nikephoros Kallistratos’s daughter.”

Summer asked, “Did you go see him? In his room?”

“No.” The answer was hard, unqualified. “What would I say? ‘My thanks for making a spectacle of me’? I have better uses for my time. I tested the doors. I tested the shutters. I looked for steel.” She gave them a level look. “If you have sense, you’ll do the same.”

Autumn said, “Is there a way out?”

“Not unless you can swim in fire,” Drosia replied. “The mountain is no illusion. I saw it.”

Summer said, “Do you… do you remember him? The man?”

Drosia went still for a moment, her hands tensing around the bread. “Yes,” she said, then tore off a piece and chewed it as if it had insulted her. “I remember him.”

Summer wanted to ask more, but she was too afraid. Autumn held the silence, letting the question breathe. After a while, Drosia said, “He was a healer. Once.” She let the words float. “He patched my leg after I broke it. The field-physician said I’d never walk right again. But this healer showed me how to walk better.” Drosia looked down at the table, suddenly unsure.

Summer said, “That’s actually kind of sweet—”

Drosia’s gaze snapped up. “There was nothing ‘sweet’ in it. It was a debt. In my regiment, if someone saves your life, you repay it, or you are theirs.” She made the words hard-edged, as if afraid to let sentiment get traction. “He told me, after, that he had known all along what I was.”

The twins exchanged a glance—no coordination needed. “What you were?” asked Summer, voice carefully soft.

Drosia rolled her eyes, picked at the bread with a fingernail, then, in a tone that dared mockery, said, “A woman. Dressed in a soldier’s cloak, giving orders to men who would have gutted me for the truth. He did not speak of it. That is why I thought he might be worth trusting. For a time.”

Summer was almost giddy—she’d never met a real cross-dresser, not one who lived it like life or ****. “That’s… incredible. I mean, you must have been brave as hell—”

“Not bravery,” Drosia cut in. “Need. My father was dead. There was no one else to hold the command.” She said it as if reciting a fact from a manual.

Autumn said, “Why did you stop?”

Drosia shrugged. “I did not stop. They uncovered it. Tribunal. The axe. Simple.” She let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. “And now here I sit, head returned to me, meant to bow to the same man whose craft allowed me to walk, rather than crawl, to the wheel.” She stabbed a finger at the twins. “But he will have to do more than bind a leg to claim my loyalty.”

A silence grew, not from awkwardness but from the weight of a shared secret. Drosia demolished another slice of cheese, then said, “You’re not what I expected.”

Summer smiled, out of reflex. “What did you expect?”

“A horror. Or an idiot.” She didn’t soften the words. “You are neither. That is useful.”

Summer bristled at the word ‘horror,’ but Autumn placed a restraining hand on her sister’s. For once, she grinned. “We can try not to be idiots.”

Drosia grunted, a sound that might have been approval. Summer said, “If it helps, I think we’re here because we’re the most useless people in our family. This is kind of an upgrade, honestly.”

Drosia looked at them, long and assessing. “If you say so.”

They sat with her in silence, the three of them consuming food at very different speeds and with very different priorities. The Golem passed by once, checking the spread, and Drosia glared at it until it retreated to the far end of the buffet. “If I ever see that thing with a knife in its hand,” she said, “I will not wait for it to finish.”

“Do you think they sleep?” Summer asked.

“Nothing sleeps in this place,” said Drosia.

Autumn said, “Maybe the others do.”

Drosia shrugged. “Maybe. Not that girl with the hair. She is never not watching.” She flexed her hand as if to emphasize the point. “I caught her standing over me last night, when I woke. She did not move. Did not blink. Just waited until I rolled over and saw her, then sat down again.”

Summer shivered. “Did you talk to her?”

“About what?” Drosia said. “She does not want to talk. She only wants to watch. If you want my advice, don’t let her get too close. She is like a viper. Leave it, and it may slide away. If it does not, you cut off the head.”

A pause. Summer said, “Did you ever… I mean, do you think he saved you because he liked you?”

Drosia snorted. “No. He is not that sort of man.” She glanced at them, measuring their faces. Autumn nodded, thinking of their own dad, who had left when they were a few years old, and never come back.

Summer pressed, “Do you think he’ll try to save us, too?”

Drosia shrugged, then said, “Perhaps. But not if it endangers him.” She flexed her jaw. “Men like that do not stake their lives. They do what they can, then vanish when true peril comes.”

There was bitterness there, not so much in the words as in the way she sliced the next orange, peeling it with careful precision and flicking the rind away. “Maybe he’s changed,” said Summer, unsure if she believed it.

Drosia smiled, hard. “They do not change. They only age.” She popped a wedge of orange into her mouth, chewed, and said, “If you have sense, you watch him and learn how to make him useful. That is the only loyalty that endures.”

Summer thought of all the times she’d tried to impress teachers by being the teacher’s pet, only to end up resented by everyone else. She wondered if maybe Drosia was right, and the only thing that mattered was making sure no one had power over you for free.

They fell into a silence made comfortable by food and the low, ever-present thrum of the volcano’s heart. After a while, Drosia leaned back and said, “So. Who are you, then? Not just the names. Why are you here?”

Summer said, “We’re just us. We went to school. We worked. We didn’t stand out. We never did anything special.” She hesitated, then said, “I think we’re here because we wanted to be someone.”

Autumn added, “But not like this.”

Drosia smirked. “No one wants it like this.” She rolled her shoulders. “But sometimes, it’s the only way you get out.”

Summer asked, “Do you hate him for what happened to you?”

Drosia looked at her for a long time, her eyes sharper than before. “I hate the world that let it happen,” she said. “He had no part in it. He is only a man. Men do what they must to endure. I do the same.”

Autumn said, “But you remember it all.”

“I remember it,” said Drosia. “That’s why I’m not afraid. If I have to walk that road again, I will walk it better.”

Summer nodded, awed. Before she could say anything more, the door at the end of the hall opened, and Chiara entered.

She moved with careful grace, her skirt trailing behind her, the bodice perfectly fitted to a frame that suggested nobility or, at least, the expectation of being admired. Chiara’s hair was braided back in a style more suited to her own century; her face was a study in self-command, the mouth set in a line so soft it almost read as welcoming, unless you noticed the eyes.

She took in the room at a glance, then walked to the buffet with deliberate calm, choosing a small portion of everything, and arranging her plate as if the placement of olives beside bread mattered deeply.

She sat two seats away from Drosia, across from the twins, and said, “Good evening.” Her voice was low and carefully schooled, but with a lilt that didn’t match any English accent Summer had ever heard. It was the kind of voice that invited confidence while revealing nothing. Drosia nodded at her. Chiara added, “So. The beds are too soft, and the light is strange, but I have slept in stranger places.” She cut a slice of cheese, balanced it on her knife, and added, “If you do not mind, I would sit with you.”

Summer said, “Of course. There’s plenty.”

Chiara smiled, then began to eat, slow and precise. She did not look at the Golem, but her eyes tracked its movement every time it passed. After a moment, she said, “I do not believe we have been formally introduced. I am Chiara Vendramin, of Murano in Venice. Or I was, once. And you are?”

“Summer and Autumn Weaver,” Summer said, then, “We’re from Wyoming, America.”

Chiara inclined her head slightly. “I do not know this place. It lies beyond Christendom?”

Summer hesitated. “It’s… far west. Across the ocean. Past everything you’d know.”

Chiara’s brows lifted just a fraction. “Across the Ocean Sea? You do not appear as if from the Indies.”

Autumn nodded. “Yes. And no. Europeans discovered it in 1492.”

Chiara considered this, giving no indication the news affected her, then said, “You are twins, yes?”

“Conjoined,” Summer said. She had learned to say it without a hint of apology.

Chiara regarded them with calm interest, then said, “You are very beautiful. I hope you do not mind if I say so.”

Summer felt her face flush, then said, “We don’t mind. Thank you.”

Autumn added, “You’re not the first to say it.”

Drosia barked a laugh. “They get that a lot. It’s why they’re here.”

Chiara took a sip of water, then said, “It is seldom the only reason. But beauty opens doors.” She looked at Drosia. “You are the soldier. I remember you from the amphitheater.”

Drosia nodded. “That’s me. And you are the one who smiles even when the world is falling down.”

Chiara did not deny it. “If one does not smile, one becomes the tale, not the teller of it.”

Summer wanted to ask about her story, but Autumn caught her eye—a signal to listen first. Chiara turned to them. “And what is your story? Why are you here?”

Summer hesitated, but Chiara’s gaze made her want to speak. “We don’t know. We just… showed up. One minute we were home, the next we walked through a door and we were here.”

Chiara nodded, as if this confirmed something. “That is better, I think. There is less to miss.” She looked at Drosia. “You remember all?”

Drosia’s jaw tightened. “I already told them.”

Chiara smiled. “Then we are all friends, yes?”

Drosia snorted. “We’ll see.”

The twins laughed, Summer because she meant it, Autumn because it was easier than not. Chiara said, “If you permit it, I will dine with you. I do not favor eating alone. It tastes too much of convent walls.”

Summer said, “Of course.” They ate together, a strange new group of two survivors and two girls who had never known what it meant to survive anything at all. The Golem refilled their water, and Chiara thanked it as if it were a person, which made it pause and bow slightly.

Drosia watched the exchange, then said, “I still do not like them.”

Chiara said, “They are not fashioned for our comfort. They are here to serve.”

Summer thought about that. “Do you think that’s true?”

Chiara’s smile was enigmatic. “Truth is what endures. We shall see what endures here.”

And with that, the four of them settled into a rhythm of eating and quiet conversation, the only sound the soft chime of cutlery on stone. Outside, the volcano’s glow cast the Refectory in shifting shades of gold and orange. Inside, the women learned each other by increments, as if preparing for a test they did not yet know the rules for.

The four of them fell into the pattern of a proper dinner, which was somehow more awkward than the chaos before. Summer watched Chiara, a woman accustomed to measured company, sampling each thing in turn and never smearing a crumb. Even the way she held her cup looked rehearsed, like a portrait pose.

“Are you also sharing a bed?” Summer asked, unable to hold back her curiosity.

Chiara dabbed her lips with a napkin and nodded. “Yes. With the Egyptian. The one who does not blink.”

Drosia grunted. “May Christ have mercy on you.”

“I doubt she’ll be any trouble,” said Chiara, with the absolute confidence of someone who has already run all the risk calculations. “She seems… tranquil. If anything, I suspect I’ll be the one to disturb her.”

Autumn said, “Do you know her?”

Chiara’s smile was all surface. “Not yet. But I have met women like her. They are easy, as long as you don’t try to own them.”

Drosia snorted. “Let us know if she tries to embalm you in your sleep.”

Chiara laughed—a bell-like sound that made the Golem, two tables away, pause as if it had been programmed to register etiquette. “If she does, at least I’ll be in good hands.”

Summer said, “You don’t seem scared.”

“Should I be?” Chiara cocked her head, inviting a challenge.

Autumn said, “You’re the calmest person we’ve met here.”

Chiara’s eyes flicked to Drosia, then back to Autumn, reading the room for threats and alliances. “In Venice, fear is scented like blood. If you show it, someone will follow.”

Drosia said, “You sound like a patrician.”

Chiara’s smile thinned, almost vanished. “No. If you must know, I was—how do you say it?—a courtesan. A useful one, sometimes.” She said it like a joke told a thousand times before. “But not a patrician.”

Summer was delighted. “That’s amazing. I mean, you must have so many stories.”

Chiara’s eyes slid over her, weighing whether to answer. “Yes, but not all are worth the telling.”

Drosia said, “I bet you know how to win a fight with a knife.”

Chiara shrugged. “I prefer to win before the knife is drawn.”

Autumn admired the logic, and said, “That’s the better way.”

A long pause. The Golem had returned to its station at the far end of the buffet, resetting glasses and cutlery, a silent metronome to their conversation. Chiara finally said, “Did any of you go to him? The man in the Axis Mundi?”

Summer looked away, embarrassed to admit it. “Not yet.”

Drosia said, “I see no reason to.”

Autumn added, “We thought about it.”

Chiara inclined her head, considering. “I will not climb his tower unasked. And I will not be summoned unless there is advantage in it.”

Drosia said, “You don’t want to know what he wants?”

Chiara spread her hands. “He wants the same as any man. To be chosen. To be irreplaceable. But he is not, and he knows it. That’s why we are here.”

This made Summer’s skin prickle, in a way she did not expect. Autumn said, “You’ve met him before?”

“In Venice,” said Chiara. “He was a scholar. A collector. I was—” she shrugged, “—a companion, in those days. He came and went. But he was already old. Older than he looked. Even then, I thought he might be some kind of demon, or spirit.”

Drosia, eyes narrowed, said, “You think he’s a demon?”

“Not a demon,” said Chiara, “but something not entirely alive, either. Or at least, not as we know it.” She sipped her water, then added, “He ate little, if at all. I watched him at table. He would touch the bread, lift the cup, but seldom swallow.”

Summer said, “Did he—was he nice to you?”

Chiara’s smile was patient. “He was never unkind. But he was never entirely there. You know the look of a man who is already planning to be somewhere else?”

Autumn nodded. “Our father was like that.”

Drosia said, “Most men are.”

Chiara allowed herself a little laugh. “Then you understand.”

Summer said, “Why do you think he brought us here?”

Chiara considered. “To measure us. To weigh what remains. Or perhaps to learn which of us will pardon him.”

Drosia barked, touching her neck, “Not likely.”

Chiara said, “No. But hope is a habit difficult to break.”

Summer said, “He told us he was a professor. That he was just as trapped as us, and had no idea what would happen.”

Chiara’s eyes glinted, sharp as a scalpel. “A man who claims helplessness often seeks mercy.”

Drosia laughed, a short, sharp bark. “Or he knows we can’t kill him.”

Autumn said, “I don’t think he can be killed.”

Drosia shrugged. “Everything dies. It’s just a question of when.”

Summer asked, “Do you think he’s human?”

Chiara did not answer for a long time. When she did, her voice was gentle, almost kind. “In Venice, they said there were whispers of Adepti who could not die. Men who chased the Lapis Philosophorum as if it were salvation. Perhaps he is one of those.”

Autumn said, “We heard a story once, about a man who wandered forever.”

“The Wandering Jew,” said Chiara. “Yes. And in the ports we heard of al-Khidr, who walks unseen, and of Hermes Trismegistus, whose name is older than memory. Or Longinus, cursed for striking Christ. Or maybe, he is Prester John, deprived of his kingdom. Men who do not die gather many names.” She shook her head. “He may be any of these, or none of these. Yet none of them are known for keeping a serraglio.”

Drosia grunted. “What’s that?”

Chiara offered a faint smile. “A house of women, kept for a man’s pleasure.”

Summer’s cheeks colored. “I don’t think we’re here for that.”

Drosia said, “Maybe not. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Autumn said, “Do you think he remembers you?”

Chiara’s smile was enigmatic. “He remembers everyone. Even if he pretends not to. He certainly remembered me, and the Roman, and the Egyptian, and the Greek.”

Drosia reached for the last piece of bread and tore it in half, passing one to Summer without comment. Summer took it, then broke it to share with Autumn. It was a little ritual, a habit from home, but it felt out of place here, where everything was performance. Chiara saw it and said, “You two are very close.”

Summer said, “We have to be.”

Autumn added, “It’s not always easy. But it’s better than being alone.”

Chiara nodded, looking almost wistful. “Yes. It is.”

Drosia watched her, as if trying to guess whether the sadness was real or a tool. Summer watched all of this, trying to fit the two women into a map of who to trust and who to fear. Drosia was a wall: if you could climb it, you were safe. Chiara was a river: she ran cold and fast, but she would never let you drown unless it served her. Summer did not know what they were, only that they had to keep moving.

The Golem cleared away the last of the food, and the table was left with only the four of them and a silence that was almost comfortable. Chiara said, “I am curious,” she said, “how each of us came to be here. I do not mean the volcano, or the moment, but how we know the man.” She didn’t say Adrien’s name. None of them did, as if to do so would risk conjuring him.

Autumn said, “We were hoping you’d tell us.”

Chiara’s lips curled. “Very well. I met him in Venice, when I was young and still learning how to survive.” She smoothed her skirt as she spoke, as if brushing away the residue of the memory. “He was not a fixture, but an occurrence. He would arrive—sometimes for a season, sometimes for a single night—then vanish for months, years. He spoke every language in the city, and a few no one else did. He was never sick, never frail, never angry. He taught me—” She paused, as if judging how much to give away. “He taught me how to read a contract, how to drink without ever being drunk, how to listen for the truth under what is said.”

Drosia said, “He sounds like a courtier.”

Chiara shrugged. “He was a man of learning. At first I thought him a Jew, or a Greek from the islands, or perhaps a Turk in disguise. He was none of these. He belonged nowhere.”

Summer leaned forward. “Was he kind?”

“He was never cruel,” said Chiara, voice dropping. “But he was always a step removed. He could make you feel singular, then vanish before it cost him anything.”

Drosia made a noise like she’d heard it all before. “He was a healer. That’s all.” She flexed her hands, remembering, sharing the story with Chiara who had not heard it earlier. “I shattered my leg once. Bone through flesh. They swore I would never ride again. He set it, bound it, and when I healed, I was stronger than before. He knew I was no man, but he kept his silence.”

Chiara said, “Was it enough?”

Drosia considered. “It was more than anyone else would have done. But eventually, I was found out and put to the sword. Not because of him. I will grant him that.”

A long pause. Summer said, “We don’t know him at all. We never met him, until we showed up here.”

Drosia stared. “That’s not possible. Why would he bring you?”

“We’re not even sure we’re supposed to be here,” said Summer. “He told us we could say no.”

Chiara’s eyes went sharp. “He said that?”

Autumn nodded. “He also said Magda only remembered him because the Host rewrote her memory.”

Drosia snorted. “Memory is not parchment to be scraped and written over. It is blood. Either it was, or it was not.”

Summer said, “He said the Host did it, not him. So Magda would have a reason to come.”

Chiara tilted her head, then nodded, slow and thoughtful. “That is a good tactic. If you want someone to fight, you give them a grievance. True or false matters little.”

Drosia looked disgusted. “Then she is not our enemy. She is a victim.”

Autumn asked, “Why would they do that to her?”

Drosia shrugged. “The same reason you parade a cripple before the Emperor, then have the lions eat him. It amuses the crowd.”

Summer went cold at that. “So we’re just here to be a show?”

Chiara’s smile was soft, almost sad. “There is always an audience. Even if it hides behind a curtain.”

Autumn said, “That’s not what he told us.”

Chiara looked at her, not unkindly. “Did you believe him?”

Autumn hesitated. “We wanted to.”

Drosia turned to Chiara. “When did you see him last?”

Chiara answered, “In Venice, when I was twenty-three. He was unchanged. I was not.”

Drosia said, “How old do you think he is?”

Chiara looked at Summer and Autumn, as if assessing their features for some hint of his age. “Older than any republic. Older than my city’s oldest stones. A thousand years or more would not surprise me.”

Drosia snorted, but it was less certain than before. “That’s impossible.”

Autumn asked, “What year is it, for you?”

Chiara smiled, amused. “It is the Year of Our Lord 1491, when last I counted. Venice is sinking, as it always does.”

Drosia’s face drained of color. Her hand gripped the edge of the bench until her knuckles whitened. “Fourteen hundred and...” She swallowed hard. “For me, it is the year 736 in the Christian reckoning. The Empire is fractured, yet it still breathes.”

Chiara' s eyebrows lifted slightly, the only sign she registered the seven-century gap between them. Her gaze flicked to the twins. “And for you?”

Summer said, “2023.”

The silence that followed was total, even the volcano seeming to hush in respect. Drosia’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, her earlier composure shattered, her eyes darting between the other women. “That is—” She crossed herself, quick and fierce. “The thousandth year came and passed? And the second thousandth, too? Without Judgment? Without the graves opening?” Her voice thinned. “The priests swore the world would end.” Drosia’s head jerked, and for an instant her hand flew to her neck before she **** it down. “So he endured. All the way to the ending that never was.”

Chiara did not pale, but her fingers tightened in her skirts. “That clarifies much. He was always a step ahead of his century. I did not imagine he would outlive so many of them.”

Summer said, “Are you mad at us?”

Chiara shook her head. “No. I envy you.”

Drosia let out a hollow laugh. “Of course he would choose the most improbable of us. Not even **** could claim him.”

Autumn said, “If it helps, we still have no idea what we’re supposed to do.”

Chiara’s smile returned, thin as glass. “If one refuses the game, one forfeits. That much is constant.”

Drosia grunted. “Then I will play to win. Even if I must break him to do it.”

Summer tried to picture Adrien old and breakable, but her mind refused. Instead, she saw him as he was in the amphitheater—quiet, impossible, a man who carried centuries in his bones but never let them show. She wondered what he would think of them now, these four women from three different ages, trying to puzzle him out. For a long time, none of them spoke. The volcano’s low hum filled the air, and their shadows overlapped on the obsidian floor, a tangle of histories that could never truly touch.

Selene entered without sound, the first sign of her the faint glide of silvered coils in the corridor. She paused at the threshold, close-cropped hair stark against pearlescent skin, the gray t-shirt hanging soft against her frame. She wore it with quiet pride, as if it marked her.

She moved forward with controlled grace, each measured coil silent against the polished stone. A small, private smile curved her mouth. She inclined her head to the group, then gathered a modest bowl of fruit and a round of pale bread. Settling at the far end of the bench, she tucked her tail neatly beneath her and placed the plate before her. For a while, she did nothing, only ate and watched, her eyes following each speaker as if cataloging their moves. Drosia was the first to acknowledge her. “You have gotten used to the new shape,” she observed.

Selene inclined her head once, then traced a slow spiral on the tabletop with her fingertip. The motion was deliberate. She wanted them to continue. Chiara said, “You met with him, then?”

Selene nodded. She touched her lips, then pressed her hand lightly to her chest, eyes softening. It was the most intimate gesture Summer had ever seen, and it made her feel a little like a voyeur. Drosia said, “Did he tell you what he wants from us?”

Selene considered, then shook her head. She held up two fingers, then mimed a question by tilting her hand. It was clear: two things, or two choices, and no answer.

Chiara accepted the ambiguity. “As I suspected. Then the contest serves to test us, not him.”

Summer wanted to ask if Selene had enjoyed the visit, or if she found him comforting, but the words stuck. Autumn said, “Was he kind to you?”

Selene smiled, soft and shy, and nodded. Then she looked away, as if embarrassed to have admitted it.

Drosia said, “If you trust him, you are a fool. He does not love us. He loves only the idea of being the last one standing.”

Selene did not argue. She took a bite of bread and chewed slowly, her gaze fixed on the table.

Chiara said, “I am not certain of that. I think he feels, in his fashion. But it is the affection of a collector, not a lover.”

Selene lifted her eyes, and for the first time she met Chiara’s gaze directly. She held it, then gave a small shrug.

Summer said, “Do you think he chose us? Or is this happening to him, too?”

Drosia snorted. “He stands at the center of it. That is no captive’s place.”

Chiara said, “Even a prince may find himself confined.” She looked at Selene. “And you?”

Selene hesitated, then made a motion with both hands—palms up, then together, then apart again. Summer read it as: bound, yet separate. She wondered if Selene meant it for them, or for him. Autumn said, “Even if he’s a prisoner, he has more power than the rest of us.”

Selene nodded, then pointed to each woman at the table, including herself. She placed her hand on her heart, then on her mouth, then on her heart again. Summer puzzled it out: we are all the same. Or maybe, he cares about us.

Drosia rolled her eyes. “She is hopeful, this one. You should learn to wield a blade, woman.” Selene’s smile was brief but genuine. She flexed her tail, muscle rippling beneath shining black scales, then tapped the table twice with her knuckles. Summer wondered if it was a code, or just a habit. Drosia said, “If any hand is raised against you, tell me. I will answer it.”

Selene made a small, graceful gesture of thanks, then returned to her food. She seemed content to sit with them—near enough to belong, distant enough to remain herself.

They talked, after that, in lower voices. They discussed Adrien’s role in all this, how they should approach him, if they should play the game or make him beg. Selene listened. She never interrupted, but sometimes she’d look at Summer, or at Autumn, with such intensity that it felt like a charge laid at their feet. When the food was gone and the air had cooled, Selene rose without a word. She left her bowl and plate immaculate. At the doorway, she paused and looked back at each of them in turn, her eyes bright in the dimness. She inclined her head once—a quiet acknowledgment—then slipped down the corridor, her tail tracing a single, perfect curve before vanishing from sight.

She waited until she had turned away before her face settled into stony disapproval, filing away what had been discussed, and each other woman's attitude towards him. Her tail flicked as she slithered to her room, contemplating the next day.

Recurring Author's Note: The (older) sister season, The HH, can be found here: https://chyoa.com/chapter/Andy-Cooper%2C-a-29-year-old-app-developer-and-entrepreneur.1741953

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