The Family We Choose, Part 2

The world outside the Suite was the same as always—salt breeze, distant birdcall, a hush that made the hotel feel half-abandoned. But Andy couldn’t shake the sense that everything had changed. Not just the Consort’s bedroom, not just the rings, but the air itself, as if every cell on the island now hummed with a new frequency. He kept catching himself glancing down at his left hand, at the glimmer of gold on his finger, half-expecting it to vanish or somehow betray him. Instead it just sat there, simple and perfect, as permanent as anything in this world could be.

Laura was at his side, both bodies moving in sync and only a little slower than her usual clipped stride. She’d insisted on changing into something that “didn’t make her look like a Freshman Dorm Resident,” so now she wore matching blue sundresses, one set of ponytails bouncing with every step. Her two selves flanked Andy like a pair of bodyguards, and from the set of her shoulders he could tell she was even more nervous than he was.

They took the elevator down and paused in the empty lobby. The floors gleamed, and the muted light from the sea made the glass wall look like the edge of a dream. There was no sign of the other Contestants, just the faint echo of kitchen noise drifting from the Banquet Hall.

“Chloe first,” she said, both voices in perfect stereo. “She deserves to hear it from us.”

Andy nodded, and together they crossed to the Banquet Hall, Laura’s two bodies walking perfectly in step at his side.

Inside, Chloe sat alone at a corner table, her hair falling in soft golden-brown waves around her face. She looked tired, like someone who had been up all night worrying, but she’d dressed for company anyway—a cardigan, a sundress with a pale pink floral print, and a careful little line of gloss on her lips. She stared into her mug as if it might offer answers to questions she didn’t dare ask.

When she saw Andy and Laura together, her whole posture stiffened. Her hand hovered above her mug, then settled slowly, fingers fidgeting with the handle. Andy caught the exact moment her eyes darted to Laura, then to Andy, then to the rings, then quickly away, like she couldn’t decide which new rule of engagement applied here.

Andy smiled, as gently as he could. “Hey, Chloe. Mind if we join you?”

She managed a smile of her own. “Not at all.” Her voice was softer than usual, and Andy heard a tremor underneath it.

He slid into the seat across from Chloe, the padding still warm from the morning sun. Laura’s left self settled at Andy’s right, while the right one angled with deliberate care to take the seat directly beside Chloe. Both Lauras synchronized their posture, folding their hands on the table in a move that felt almost ritualistic. Their presence was undeniably doubled, but the effect wasn’t so much uncanny as it was… dignified. Like guards at a coronation.

It was Laura who broke the silence, voices twinned but perfectly harmonized, so the words landed with surprising gentleness. “I know,” she said, and even as she hesitated, both faces wore the same sheepish determination. “About the baby. I know.”

Chloe’s hand jerked hard enough to send a ripple of coffee over the rim of her mug. She stared at her lap, color draining from her cheeks, then looked up with blinking, watery eyes. “Oh,” she said, voice a thin thread. “Did—did Andy tell you?”

“He did,” Laura replied, and now the left self leaned in, careful and earnest, while the right one’s hand reached across the table, hovering over Chloe’s, as if waiting for permission. “But I want you to know, I’m not angry. Not even a little. I’m happy for you, Chloe. Really.” Both Lauras managed to sound so sincere that Andy wondered if there was a kind of resonance effect—compassion squared by superposition.

Chloe gaped at her, mouth slightly open, hands working at the mug as if trying to physically anchor herself. “You… you are?” she stammered. She pressed her palm to her chest, as if to calm the pounding inside. “I thought—I thought maybe you’d hate me. Or be… jealous.”

Laura shook her heads, a movement so completely in unison it would have been comical except for the gravity of the moment. “No more hating,” she said, softly but with conviction. “I’m so tired of hating. And yesterday, when I said I wanted us to be friends again, I meant it. None of this changes that, or what you mean to me.”

The right Laura finally touched Chloe’s hand, palm to palm, gentle as a butterfly. Chloe startled, then gripped the hand tightly, like it was the only real thing in the world. “I wanted to tell you myself,” she confessed, voice wobbling. “But I was so scared. I thought if you knew, it’d ruin everything.”

Laura’s left self leaned even closer, a conspiratorial hush. “It’s okay,” she said, and her right hand squeezed Chloe’s. “Really. I want to be part of it. I want to help.”

Chloe’s eyes filled at once—it was visible, the way tears threatened to breach the surface and then, miraculously, retreated. She let out a nervous, hiccuping laugh, then wiped at one eye with her free hand. “Thank you,” she said, the words a sigh of relief and gratitude bound together. “I’ve been sick about it. Really.”

Andy watched the exchange, his own chest loosening. He’d braced himself for emotional shrapnel, some old landmine coming up beneath the table, but what came instead was a kind of profound relief. If there was awkwardness, it was entirely eclipsed by the sense of three people, each battered in their own way, deciding to forgive the world and each other.

Chloe’s gaze, at last, shifted away from Laura’s faces and down to their hands—then, inevitably, to the gold bands glinting on both Laura’s and Andy’s left hands. For a moment she seemed to freeze, staring hard enough that Andy thought she might have dissociated. Then her eyes widened, and a slow, dawning smile spread across her lips.

“Are those… matching?” she asked, incredulous.

Andy looked down as if the ring had appeared out of nowhere. “Yeah,” he said, unable to hide the blush in his voice. The morning made everything feel surreal, even his own words. “It’s new. Very new.”

Chloe looked from Andy to Laura and back, her mouth forming a small, perfect O. “Wait. Did you two—did you actually get married?”

Andy exhaled, then glanced at Laura, as if expecting her to have the official answer. The right Laura grinned, cheeks going pink. “We didn’t plan it. There was a portal to Warrenville, we went to the footbridge, and there was this goddess, and—” she cut herself off, aware of how it sounded. She shrugged sheepishly. “She basically called it a marriage. We didn’t even ask for it, she just… saw it, and made it official.”

Chloe stared for a long second, then let out a wild, breathless laugh. “Of course she did,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. “That’s incredible. That’s actually incredible. I—” She looked from Andy to Laura, shaking her head. “You came back from the dead and you got married in, like, two weeks? I’m so happy for you both. I mean that.”

Laura blinked, clearly touched. The right Laura leaned in and, with a surprising boldness, hugged Chloe from the side. It wasn’t awkward—Chloe folded into it, burying her face against Laura’s shoulder as if they’d been sisters all along. Even after the hug ended, Chloe kept holding the right Laura’s hand, the grip slowly calming and settling. The three of them lingered there, the table transformed from a front line into a hearth.

Andy squeezed Chloe's hand. “This doesn’t change anything,” he said. “I still—” He stopped, unsure how to finish.

Chloe did it for him. “You still love me,” she said, the words tiny but certain.

Andy nodded. “Yeah. I do.” He reached out to take her hand.

For a second, nobody spoke. Then Laura leaned in, one body wrapping its arms around Chloe’s shoulders, the other reaching across to hug from the other side. Chloe stiffened, then let herself melt into the embrace, her head resting between Laura’s doubled chins. Andy watched, feeling something in his own chest shift, open up. There was a sense of being invited to a party he didn’t know he’d been missing.

Chloe glanced at Laura, a mischievous twinkle returning to her eyes. “So, does this mean you’re going to be the world’s weirdest aunt?”

Laura grinned. “The coolest aunt,” she corrected. “I’ll teach them all my best pranks.”

Andy laughed, and Chloe joined in, the sound rolling out into the warm morning air. The three of them sat there for a long minute, letting the new reality settle around them. The air felt lighter. Andy watched as Chloe relaxed, her hands unclenching, her shoulders dropping, the haunted look in her eyes replaced with hope.

When the coffee grew cold, Andy stood. “We’re going to go find Erin and Claire,” he said, **** to break the spell. “But we’ll all meet up later?”

Chloe nodded, beaming. “Thank you.”

Laura squeezed her hand again. “See you soon,” she said, both voices perfectly matched.

They left Chloe at the table, eyes shining, head bowed over her mug, her happiness visible in every line of her face. In the corridor, Andy and Laura walked side by side, their hands brushing with every step.

Sam had never been more aware of her own footsteps than she was that morning, picking her way through the dew-wet Inner Gardens with a determination that felt, in its own way, like cowardice. It was almost noon. She was supposed to be rehearsing the moment—the Big Ask, the down-on-one-knee, the whole shebang. But the longer she let the plan unspool in her mind, the more she second-guessed every choice: Should she wait for sunset, or just do it now, before she lost her nerve? Was it corny to hide the ring in a cupcake, or was that level of corny exactly what Liesa would want?

The Inner Gardens weren’t really a maze, but Sam had managed to get lost in them anyway. It wasn’t the first time, either. She zigged and zagged along the mossy flagstones, the entire proposal speech ricocheting in her head—sometimes a monologue, sometimes a disaster-movie narration, occasionally something so mortifying she actually blushed and had to shake it off physically.

She kept checking the little velvet box in her pocket, like it might detonate if she forgot about it for more than a second. “Is it weird to propose before you’re even out of the game? Should I wait until after?” she muttered, half out loud, then stifled herself as an actual pair of Mildreds rounded a bend, pushing a cart laden with breakfast trays. The Mildreds didn’t react; they never did. Sam wondered, not for the first time, if the whole army of them were just simulations, running on loop until someone needed emotional trauma with a side of eggs benedict.

She took the next curve at a brisk walk, telling herself she was just getting steps in, definitely not avoiding the possibility of running into Liesa before she was ready. The sun was high enough that the garden’s shadows were tight and tidy. Bougainvillea blazed along the walls, the little electric-pink blooms fluttering in the breeze. Sam liked it here; the air was always just the right temperature, the shade smelled like citrus, and no one could sneak up on you if you kept your eyes peeled.

She pulled out the box again, flipped it open, and stared at the ring. It was simple. Silver band, one blue glass stone, a little oval. She’d agonized for hours over what to get. “She doesn’t even like jewelry,” Sam whispered, for the millionth time, but then snapped it shut and nodded like she’d just given herself a pep talk. “Plus, I’m sure Shar’ll be sending the wedding bands, or I’m a corgi. Doesn’t matter. It’s the thought. Not the rock.”

It was in the act of shoving the box back in her pocket that she nearly crashed into a hedge—the garden path took an abrupt left, and she had to sidestep to avoid eating a mouthful of leaves. There was a little archway ahead, one of those vine-wrapped trellises that looked like a wedding decoration even when it was just sitting there, and she instantly imagined walking Liesa through it, hand-in-hand, maybe with Arabella officiating, maybe with—Nope, too much, back it up, Collins.

She was halfway through rehearsing her vow—something about building a life together, maybe with a reference to coffee or bad architecture—when a flicker of movement caught her eye. Up ahead, just past the koi pond, Andy and Laura were walking together, moving with the kind of focus that said this was not a social stroll. Sam ducked behind a palm and watched as they stopped, surprised, when Claire turned a corner and saw them, equally caught aback.

Sam hesitated. The rational part of her wanted to go over, say hi, check in. But another, more cautious part—the part that had grown since coming here—recognized that the thing Andy and Laura were carrying was bigger than Sam, bigger than whatever joke or emotional fix she might have ready. She didn’t want to interrupt. Not this time.

So she waited, hidden behind the palm, until Andy and Laura vanished down the far path. Only then did she loop around, taking the scenic route through the sculpture garden. She counted every bench as she passed, making sure she didn’t end up sitting down and losing her nerve entirely. Once, she’d joked that the Gardens were like a boss-level video game: easy on the eyes, but full of traps if you let your guard down. Today, the only boss she was fighting was herself.

She emerged from a winding path and blinked, surprised to find herself at the foot of the Atelier. The building looked different in this light; the sun made the whitewashed walls almost vibrate, and the shadows from the overhanging palms cut jagged stripes across the door. Sam paused at the threshold, hand hovering at the knob, and told herself she could still turn around and leave. She could go back to her room, eat something, play with the ring a little longer, write a new speech. But then she pictured Liesa—really pictured her, standing by the window, maybe painting, maybe laughing—and realized she didn’t want to wait another second.

Sam took a breath, then opened the door.

The Atelier was cool, a hush falling over her as soon as she stepped inside. The air smelled of oil paint and something sharp, almost like ozone after a storm. The main studio room was flooded with light from overhead panels and tall windows, but it wasn’t empty. At the far end, back to the door, stood Liesa.

She was dressed in her favorite overalls, paint-splattered in the most deliberate way possible, a plain white T-shirt underneath. Her hair was loose today, the color so bright in the morning sun it almost seemed to glow. She stood at a tall easel, brush in hand, her posture loose but attentive, hips cocked just so. There was music playing softly, something with an accordion and an almost indecent amount of optimism.

Liesa hadn’t noticed Sam. The Dutch windows were cracked open, letting in a little breeze and the sound of birds, but Sam’s entrance made almost no noise. She crept closer, careful not to startle her—though part of her wanted to just shout surprise, hand over the box, and get it over with.

The painting on the easel was massive, at least six feet across. It wasn’t finished, but the composition was clear: a group of women, some seated, some standing, all gathered loosely around a long table. There was laughter in the painted faces, even the ones that weren’t smiling; a warmth that didn’t come from sunlight, but from the sense that everyone on the canvas wanted to be exactly where they were.

Sam stared, not quite breathing. At the head of the table was Andy, but not in any dramatic way—he was slouched, a little rumpled, mid-laugh, as if someone had just told the world’s dumbest joke. Around him were the others: Dawn reaching for a bread basket, Emi twisting her hair and giggling, Chloe with both hands up as if she’d just dropped something and was about to apologize. Norah and Marissa were deep in conversation, their heads close, eyes alive. Riley lounged at the far end, one boot up on the bench, hair wild and face half-hidden.

Sam found herself, too—caught mid-gesture, coffee mug in hand, mouth open and one eyebrow arched. She looked like she was about to say something, probably something inappropriate, and she loved it. Liesa, of course, was there too, but not in the center, not at the edge—she’d painted herself into the periphery, half-shadowed by a houseplant, a faint smile ghosting her lips.

Beneath it all, ghostly underpaintings showed earlier versions of the same scene, each layer more raw and frantic, as if Liesa had repainted it over and over, searching for the exact right way to bring them together.

Sam’s heart stuttered. She saw the group as Liesa saw them: not a lineup, not a contest, but a constellation. A family. The way Sam had suddenly realized they were all becoming, to one another. Sam felt her eyes get wet, and blinked hard.

The proposal speech in her head vanished like a popped soap bubble. All the nerves, the rehearsals, the panic about timing—none of it mattered now. She knew what she wanted, and she knew what Liesa wanted, too.

She cleared her throat.

Liesa startled, dropping her brush and spinning around. A streak of blue paint landed across her cheek, but she barely seemed to notice. “Sam!” she yelped, then laughed, her voice cracking a little with surprise.

Sam grinned, walking the length of the room with long, sure strides. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, hands out in apology. “But, uh… damn. That’s beautiful.”

Liesa’s eyes flicked to the painting, then back to Sam. “Is not done,” she said, but there was pride in her voice, and her hands fluttered nervously at her hips. “But thank you. You really think so?”

Sam nodded, so hard it made her hair bounce. “I do. I really do. It’s like… I don’t know. You made it look like we all belong.”

Liesa bit her lip, brushing at the streak of paint on her face. She didn’t meet Sam’s eyes. “I wanted to remember it this way. Not how it ends, but how it was, in the middle. Before we all—” She stopped, shaking her head, then smiled crookedly. “You know.”

Sam didn’t wait. She crossed the floor in three strides, then she dropped to one knee, her cargo shorts rumpling against the concrete. She didn’t have the box out yet; she just needed to look Liesa in the eye.

“Will you marry me?” Sam blurted as the chimes outside started announcing midday, and immediately snorted at herself, half-laughing, half-crying. “That’s it. That’s the speech. Will you?”

Liesa stared, her mouth an O of shock. She looked from Sam, to the painting, to Sam again, and her hands covered her mouth. For a full ten seconds, she was utterly silent.

Then she started to laugh—real, gut-deep, delighted laughter. She bent forward, arms around Sam’s neck, and pulled her upright as the chimes faded. “You absolute idiot,” she said, tears in her eyes. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

Committed to the Lovey Contestant! +5 VP
Achievement Earned! Steel and Support +5 VP

A gong suddenly echoed in the distance, though for the faintest moment, Sam thought it was actually two, in synchrony. She blinked, having never heard that before, but it didn’t matter. Sam hugged Liesa back, nearly crushing the velvet box between them. “I was going to make a whole speech,” she confessed into Liesa’s hair. “Like, with metaphors and stuff. But you made this, and it was already perfect, so…”

Liesa leaned back, both hands on Sam’s cheeks, her face still wet with laughter. “I like your way better,” she said, kissing Sam on the forehead, then the tip of her nose, then her lips.

Sam fumbled for the box, then thrust it between them, awkward but earnest. “You don’t have to wear it,” she said, voice muffled. “It just felt right.”

Liesa took the box and opened it, her breath catching. She stared at the ring, then at Sam, then back at the ring. “Is this… is this glass?”

“Blue Murano,” Sam said, suddenly self-conscious. “I saw it and thought, ‘That’s the color of Liesa when she’s happy.’ Or, you know, in sunlight.”

Liesa laughed again, wiping her face with her sleeve. She plucked the ring out, then, without hesitation, slid it onto her finger. “It fits,” she said, marveling. “How did you—?”

“I measured one of your other rings,” Sam admitted, and Liesa snorted.

She hugged Sam again, rocking them both in a tight, swaying circle. For a while, neither spoke. The music kept playing, something weird and happy and European, and Sam lost herself in the feel of Liesa’s arms, the heat of her skin, the scent of turpentine and lavender.

Eventually, Liesa pulled back and led Sam over to the painting. “I was going to put you in the middle,” she confessed, “but you looked better here, at the edge. Like you’re about to stand up and make a toast.”

Sam grinned, squinting at the painted version of herself. “I like that,” she said. “I always wanted to be the wild card.”

Liesa bumped her with a hip, then set her chin on Sam’s shoulder, arms wrapped tight around her waist. “You always were. Even when you pretended not to be.”

They stood like that, the two of them together, looking at the half-finished future on the canvas. For a moment, Sam wanted to freeze time. It wasn’t a wedding, it wasn’t a grand gesture—but it was the exact right thing, at the exact right time.

A soft knock broke the silence. They both turned to see a Mildred standing in the doorway, hair tied back and arms crossed. The effect was pure school principal.

“Sorry to interrupt, honey,” said Mildred, her voice syrupy with customer-service, “but Arabella wanted me to pass along an invitation. Banquet Hall, two o’clock, sharp. There’s going to be a special announcement.”

Sam’s gut flipped. “Special, how?”

Mildred shrugged, expression blank as stone. “You’ll have to see for yourself. Congratulations, by the way.” Then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

Liesa smiled, her eyes still glassy from tears and laughter. “Should we go tell the others?”

Sam shook her head, slipping her hand into Liesa’s and squeezing it tight. “No rush. Let’s stay here a minute.”

So they did. Liesa dipped her brush in blue and put the finishing touch on the painting: a tiny oval of color on the ring finger of the painted Sam, just visible in the corner of the canvas. Sam watched, grinning, her heart so full it felt like it might knock over every easel in the room.

They stood together, in the hush and the light, the future unwritten and waiting for them just on the other side of the next door.

Andy and Laura crossed into the Inner Gardens, the sky above them pale and restless, the air cut with the smell of damp earth and wild ginger. The winding paths bent their sense of direction, each turn a chance for the world to rearrange itself, which was probably the point. It was easy to get lost, especially if you needed to buy time, and Andy got the sense that Laura was letting him set the pace for once, neither self rushing him.

Laura’s right hands brushed unconsciously against the rings on her fingers as they walked, as if checking they were still there.

They’d agreed to find Claire and Erin together, but with each turn Andy’s nerves prickled higher. He could feel Laura’s anxiety in the way she walked, her arms folded across both chests, heads slightly ducked as if she expected to be ambushed by the past. He thought about all the things they’d said to each other in the last twenty-four hours—about belonging, about the future, about not making a mess of everything. He wanted to say something, but Laura beat him to it.

“Do you want to do the talking, or should I?” Laura asked, both voices perfectly synchronized.

“I’ll start,” Andy said, steadying his nerves as they walked. “But you can jump in any time.”

He took the lead on the winding garden path, Laura’s right self shadowing his left shoulder and her left keeping a half-step behind. The Inner Gardens were dense with heat and flower-scent, every turn in the path revealing a new burst of color or a shock of foliage that made Andy forget, for a moment, that they were on an island specifically designed to break and remake them.

They found Claire purely by accident: at a crossroads in the path, notebook in hand, one foot already tapping in impatience. She wore a blue-and-white striped sundress and looked freshly showered, hair still damp and tucked behind her new, perfectly-furred cat ears. The sight of her made Andy’s heart do a dumb little flip.

When she saw them, Claire startled—her whole posture going stiff, ears popping upright—but she didn’t run. Instead, she squared her shoulders, flipped her notebook shut, and gave a tiny, resigned wave.

“Hey, Claire,” Andy said, waving back. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

She rolled her eyes, then pantomimed a tiny explosion with her hands and pointed to herself. She showed them a pre-written message on her notebook. I was in the Sky Archive, turned the corner, and found myself here. Chekhov’s Girl decided the story requires me to show up.

Laura snorted, both bodies grinning. “Sorry about that,” she said. “But it’s not an erotic mission. Promise. Just… news.”

Claire relaxed a fraction, then gave a shy little smile and a catlike shrug that said, What else is new? She glanced at Andy, then at Laura, then at the gold rings, and Andy was shocked at how much that simple glance communicated. There was hope in it. Relief. The tiniest spark of disappointment, so faint it barely registered, but Andy caught it anyway, echoing through their bond like a piano’s last dying note.

Laura caught it too, her left body tilting its head. “Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”

Claire hesitated, then nodded. She pointed to Andy, mimed a ring on her own finger, then drew a big, open circle with both hands, looping it twice. The sign for “happy” was different from the sign for “jealous,” but the way she made it—flicked at the wrist, palms out—made Andy smile. He could feel her joy for them, even if she was still a little uncertain about what it all meant.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Andy said, meaning it.

Claire looked away, a blush rising to her cheeks. Then she wrote in her notebook, big and bold so they couldn’t miss it: Where is Erin? My transformation insists she should be here too. She underlined it twice.

She tapped the page again and glanced toward the paths around them, a faint crease of urgency between her brows, as if something inside her was insisting the scene wasn’t complete yet.

“Not sure,” Laura said. “She’s probably on the cliffs. Or in the Hall. Or just… not here.” Laura’s right body made a helpless gesture.

Andy remembered Erin’s Always On Time transformation, and a sudden, idiotic urge overtook him. “Hold on,” he said, and closed his eyes. “I want to try something.”

He focused all his attention on Erin, thinking of her as hard as he could: the way her hair smelled after a rainstorm, the color of her skin now that it was more plant than person, the sharp, exasperated laughter she reserved just for him. He didn’t say her name—he just thought it, over and over, like a secret password.

There was a faint hum in the air, like static, then a sharp pop, and suddenly Erin was there, standing right beside Claire. She had a half-eaten donut in one hand and wore nothing but a pair of battered sneakers, her skin green as new mint and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Her breasts, J-cups now, bounced with the effort of materializing out of thin air.

Erin didn’t drop the donut, didn’t flinch or scream. She just looked at Andy, then at the group, and then at the donut as if it might be the source of all her problems.

“I see the transformation still sucks,” she said, voice dry as winter grass. She took another bite of the donut, as if personally affronted by it.

“Sorry,” Andy said, fighting the urge to laugh. “I thought it might work.”

Erin shrugged, wiped a crumb from her mouth. “Figured it was you. No one else would have the balls.” She looked down, then up at Andy. “What’s going on?”

He was about to answer, but Laura beat him to it. Both bodies stepped forward, both faces suddenly serious. “We needed to talk to you,” she said. “You and Claire.”

Erin looked at the rings, at Andy, at Laura. For a moment something flickered across her face—recognition, maybe, or the quiet realization that whatever this conversation was about, it might collide with the secret she and Claire had been carrying since the night before last. She set her jaw and said nothing, but her whole posture bristled with old loyalty and new suspicion.

Claire, for her part, watched the exchange with quiet intensity. Go on. I feel like we’re on a clock.

Andy blinked, startled. “Oh,” he said, realizing her transformation also included an urge to do the right thing to advance the narrative. He looked at Claire, at Erin. “This is about yesterday. Something happened. Something big.”

He started at the beginning, giving them the full story: the portal in the hallway, the impossible return to Warrenville, the walk through his parents’ house, the footbridge, the song. He tried to tell it straight, not minimizing the weirdness, not trying to make himself look better or braver than he was. He told them about Anna’s appearance, the revelation of her true identity as Inanna, the way she’d “officiated” a wedding neither of them had expected.

Through it all, Erin stayed stone-faced, her only giveaway a tiny tremor at the base of her throat. Once or twice her eyes flicked toward Claire, the silent exchange between them heavy with the same unspoken question: Do we tell him now? Claire listened with her whole body: leaning in, one hand curled around her notebook, the other on her knee, eyes darting from Andy to Laura and back again.

At the end of the story, Andy took a breath. “So, yeah. I think we’re married now. The gold bands didn’t come off, not even when we woke up. Arabella said it’s for real.”

Erin stared at him for a long, long time. Then she looked at Laura. “And you?”

Laura’s two bodies nodded, solemn and certain. “I didn’t want it to diminish what you and Andy have,” she said. “Or what Claire and Andy have. I meant it, Erin—none of this was planned. But it felt… right.”

Erin’s jaw worked. She looked down at her hands, at the pale green skin and the thin traceries of gold where veins should be. “I believe you,” she said at last, slowly. “And I’m not mad. I was afraid I might be.”

Andy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Actually, I’m relieved,” Erin went on, more softly now. “I was worried it would turn into some kind of contest.” She glanced again at Claire before finishing. “But if we’re being honest… Claire and I have been worrying about a different kind of bombshell all morning.”

Claire looked at Andy, eyes wet and wide, and for a moment he felt her heart through the bond—hope, a flash of disappointment, then fierce loyalty and a bit of anxiety. She smiled at him, held his gaze, and Andy understood without words that she didn’t feel slighted at all. She felt chosen, in a different way.

Andy reached for her hand, and Claire took it. She pressed her palm to his, then wrote in her notebook: I love you.

He smiled, and whispered it back. “I love you too.”

For a while, nobody spoke. The Inner Gardens seemed to hush, waiting for them to reset the balance of the world. Claire shifted her weight, tail flicking once behind her as if something inside her was pushing her forward. Then Claire, uncharacteristically fidgeting, prodded Erin with the back of her hand.

The plant woman blinked, biting her lip, but Claire nodded again, more urgently this time, and Erin finally broke the silence with a small, nervous laugh that didn’t quite hide the tension in her shoulders. “Okay,” she said. “If we’re airing life-changing secrets today…” She looked at Claire, who nodded once, the Chekhov instinct in her expression sharpening with quiet certainty. “Then here’s ours.”

Erin’s words fell into the hush and seemed to echo, bouncing off the garden walls, rippling through the group in a way that left Andy’s mind blank for a full second. For an irrational moment, Andy was so sure she was about to confess some new evolution of her plant-girl status that he almost missed the beat. But as the hall’s distant chimes began to ring, Erin didn’t hesitate, and she didn’t look away.

“We’re pregnant,” she said, and this time her voice was flat, no hesitation, as if she was reciting a diagnosis. “Both of us.”

Pregnant! (Claire) +5 VP
First! x2
Pregnant! (Erin) +5 VP

Claire didn’t move for a moment. Then she nodded, a tiny, imperceptible gesture, her face blank with the effort of holding everything in. She didn’t write it out, didn’t sign. She didn’t have to.

The chimes faded and Andy just stared, blinking, as if the words were a puzzle in a language he’d never studied.

Laura was the first to react. Both of her mouths opened—one in a perfect O, the other in a sideways, choked smile. Both bodies whipped their heads to face Erin, then to Claire, then to Andy, searching his face for confirmation that this was, in fact, real.

The joy didn’t come immediately. Instead there was a flicker of something rawer—shock, calculation, the echo of last night’s conversation about Chloe’s pregnancy, and today’s denouement—before Laura’s expressions softened into something complicated and fragile.

“You—” Andy started, then stopped, then swallowed. “You’re… both pregnant?” It felt ridiculous to say out loud. A gong rang in the distance, punctuacting his disbelief.

“Yep,” said Erin, in a tone that almost dared him to call bullshit. But the bravado didn’t quite hold; the hand holding the last piece of donut tightened, crumbs breaking loose between her fingers.

Claire managed a small, apologetic smile and gave a thumbs-up, then took her notebook and wrote: Two nights ago, Arabella confirmed it. We were going to tell you after today’s game, but my transformation told me we had to tell you now…

She held up the page, then gestured at herself and Erin with both hands, as if that explained everything. Which, Andy supposed, it did.

There was a long, dizzy moment where time just stopped. Andy’s mind ran through every possible variable: the timeline, the physiology, the genetics, the impossible magic that had turned his girlfriend into a plant, the fact that his catgirl could purr, the recent revelation that the entire harem could be anchored to Laura as a “proxy Master,” the very real possibility that the kids would emerge with tails or green hair or fur, the fact that he was now—right now, right this second—about to become a father three times over.

One of Laura’s right hands drifted unconsciously to the ring again, thumb brushing the gold as if grounding herself.

It was too much, and it was also not enough. It was perfect. The silence held for exactly three heartbeats. Laura broke it first. One of her bodies reached out automatically and caught Andy’s sleeve, steadying herself as much as him. “Wait,” she said softly, both voices quieter than usual. “Just—give me a second.”

She looked back and forth between Erin and Claire, her expressions shifting as the implications settled into place.

One of her bodies let out a slow breath. “Okay,” she murmured. “That’s… a lot of news for one morning.”

Erin’s expression flickered—half apology, half stubborn pride. “Yeah,” she said. “Tell me about it.”

Laura studied her for another long second, the old jealousy ghosting faintly across her features before dissolving. Then, slowly, the tension left her shoulders. “Well,” she said finally, voice steadier now. “Congratulations.”

Andy let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, one hand still half tangled in his hair. For a second he just stared at Erin and Claire like the world had tilted sideways and he was trying to find the horizon again.

He caught his breath, then looked at Erin again. “I—I don’t even know what to say,” he managed.

“Say you’re happy,” Erin said, her lips twitching. “Or say you want a paternity test.”

The joke landed a little too fast, like a shield thrown up before anyone could look too closely at her face. He grinned anyway. “I’m happy.” Then, to Claire, softer, “Are you okay?”

She nodded, the motion small but certain, and scribbled: You always said you wanted a family. I want this, if you do.

Andy reached for her hand, and she took it, her fingers cool and trembling. He looked at Erin, and—God, her eyes were different now. Less guarded, more open. But there was still tension in the set of her shoulders, the posture of someone braced for a reaction that might have gone very differently. Even so, she took his other hand without hesitation. Laura hovered a half-step away for a moment, watching the three of them with an expression that still held the aftershocks of the news.

Then both of her moved closer. One pressed her head lightly against Andy’s shoulder while the other reached carefully toward Erin. “I’m serious about the congratulations,” she said. “Both of you.” Her tone carried a faint note of wonder, as if she were still adjusting to the reality of the words. “I want to help,” she added after a moment. “If you need it. Or if you want a break. Or if you ever want to sleep for more than six hours.” She made a face. “Not that I have any idea how to actually take care of a baby.”

Erin barked out a short laugh. “Neither do we.” The admission came out rougher than she probably intended, and for a second she looked almost relieved to have said it.

The four of them stood like that for a while, all holding hands, nobody willing to break the moment. Andy felt it settle over them like a weather system—first disbelief, then the slow rise of wonder, then something steadier beneath it. The excitement was there too, but it came carefully, like sunlight pushing through cloud.

“Do we, uh… do we know anything about the kids?” Andy asked, half-joking, half not. “Are they—normal?”

Claire wrote: Mine is just one. Arabella said they will be normal unless you want otherwise.

Erin rolled her eyes, but there was a crooked grin in it now. “Twins. At least, that’s what Arabella said.” She touched her stomach, which was still as flat as ever, and shrugged. “They’re not even showing yet.”

Laura gave her a look—half astonishment, half something like delighted disbelief. “Okay,” she said quietly. “That’s… impressive.” Andy couldn’t speak for a moment. He just stood there, trying to hold all three women at once, trying not to break down.

He thought of his parents. Of Warrenville. Of the quiet way his mother had once asked if he thought he might want kids someday, back in those years when he had never imagined himself worthy of loving someone or being loved in return. He thought of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. And then he looked at Erin, at Claire, at Laura—he thought of the others, at the impossible constellation his life had become.

“I love you,” he said, to all three of them, and didn’t care how corny it sounded.

Erin squeezed his hand so hard he thought she’d crack a bone.

Claire wrote: We love you too, then added a small heart beneath it, looking faintly embarrassed.

Laura, never to be outdone, pulled everyone in for a hug, her two bodies turning it into something closer to a group tackle than an embrace. Erin yelped as she was dragged in but didn’t fight it.

Andy felt Claire’s arms wrap around his waist from behind, delicate and shy. For a moment the four of them simply stood there. The moment lasted, then slowly receded, like a tide pulling back. When they finally disentangled, Erin was the first to drag the conversation back to earth.

“So,” she said, glancing around the garden. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Her tone was practical again, but the faint brightness in her eyes hadn’t disappeared.

“Tell the others? Wait for the next round to blow it all up?”

Andy considered. “I think we should tell everyone at once. No secrets.” He glanced at Laura. She nodded.

Claire scribbled: Everyone deserves to know.

Erin shrugged. “Fine. But the second anyone tries to plan a gender reveal, I’m out.”

Laura snorted. “No pink cakes. Promise.”

Andy laughed, but the practical issues were already lining up in his head: the harem would know within hours, rumors would fly, there would be emotional fallout and probably some degree of magical weirdness.

But for now he didn’t care. All he could think about was the image that had slipped into his mind: a tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers. Maybe three. Maybe four.

Somewhere else on the island, entirely unknown to them, another life-changing conversation was reaching its own quiet conclusion. But as for Andy, Laura, Erin and Claire, they kept walking, looping through the garden’s endless turns until they found themselves back at the crossroads where everything had started.

They’d barely made it out of the Inner Gardens when they were intercepted by Mildred. She stood at the edge of the path, hands clasped behind her back, black dress immaculate, her face set in a customer-service smile that looked like it might crack in half at any second.

“Good afternoon, Master, Consort, and guests,” she intoned, her voice smooth as marble. “I’ve been instructed to summon you to the Banquet Hall at two o’clock sharp. Arabella requests your presence for a special announcement.”

Andy almost laughed, the timing so perfect it could have been scripted. He glanced at Erin, who rolled her eyes, and at Claire, who made a show of checking her non-existent watch.

“Thank you, Mildred,” Andy said, and meant it.

Mildred’s gaze flicked from him to Laura, to Erin, to Claire, as if cataloguing each of them for posterity. “Congratulations are in order, I believe, for all of you,” she said. Her eyes lingered a fraction longer on Erin and Claire before returning to Andy. Then she added, with a perfectly straight face, “If you require additional seating in the near future, please let me know.”

Andy snorted. Erin snickered. Even Laura managed a half-stifled giggle, both bodies doing it at the same time. Claire pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking silently.

Mildred inclined her head, then vanished down the path, her heels clicking like punctuation marks.

They stood there for a moment, letting the breeze wash over them.

“So,” said Erin, “we’ve got about an hour to figure out how to tell the world.” The bravado in her voice didn’t quite hide the flicker of nerves underneath.

Laura stepped between them, her two bodies bracketing Andy. For a moment she just looked at Erin and Claire, as if weighing everything that had happened in the last few minutes. Then she reached out and took Erin’s hand in one, Claire’s in the other, and squeezed tight.

“You aren’t alone,” she said.

Erin squeezed back immediately, reflexive and strong. Claire nodded once and squeezed Laura’s fingers, her tail flicking once behind her. They all nodded in their own uneven ways.

No one looked entirely calm, but none of them looked like they were backing away either.

Andy exhaled slowly. An hour ago the day had felt like something fragile he was trying not to break. Now it felt like the beginning of something bigger than any of them had planned.

He looked at the women around him—the rings, the nervous smiles, the quiet determination in Erin’s eyes, the soft certainty in Claire’s, the complicated warmth in Laura’s. The future no longer looked simple. But it didn’t look frightening either.

He squeezed their hands.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go tell everyone.”