Intermission: Fan Mail (IV), Part 6

Chloe led the way down the shaded garden path, clutching her mail to her chest in a gesture half nervous, half delighted. The weather was perfect—just warm enough that the tile underfoot radiated a gentle heat, just cool enough that the air prickled against the thin cotton of her sundress. The ocean breeze always carried the edge of salt and sun, and Chloe found herself inhaling it as if she could bottle this exact moment for later.

Riley trailed behind, hands in her pockets, expression unreadable except for a faint, lingering smirk. Her black-and-red hair was loose, brushing the ground, twitching from time to time in sync with Riley’s feelings. Chloe watched her from the corner of her eye, trying to catch the exact second Riley would break and say something sarcastic about the “fan mail.”

Instead, Riley said nothing at all. She just followed, steps measured, eyes on Chloe’s bare shoulders, as if trying to memorize the pattern of freckles newly scattered there.

They stopped at the entryway to the House of Held Tomorrows—a phrase that still made Chloe’s stomach flip, in a good way. She remembered her first time walking in, how she’d almost tripped over the threshold, how every surface inside had glowed like an old memory. Now it felt like a second home, or maybe the first real one she’d ever had.

Chloe hesitated at the door, holding it open for Riley. “If we’re supposed to read these,” she said, “I’d rather do it somewhere we can spill juice and not get glared at.”

Riley huffed out a laugh and ducked through the doorway, giving Chloe’s arm a light squeeze on the way past. “You sure? Place like this, a little dairy on the rug, they’ll make you pay with your soul.”

“It’s mine, so that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Chloe replied, already feeling the tension in her chest evaporate. She followed Riley inside, kicking off her sandals so her toes could scrunch into the worn rug. There was a comfort in the familiarity of the den: the old, scuffed leather couch with its sunken spots; the mismatched pillows and thrift-store side tables; the window seat overlooking the tangle of flowers and vines outside, where fat bees made lazy circuits around bursts of red and purple.

It was the room Chloe had set up for Riley, after Riley confessed she’d never had a “den” of her own. Riley had tried to brush it off, but Chloe remembered the way she’d lingered by the doorway, running her hand along the rough edge of the window frame like she could absorb the memory through her skin.

Chloe settled onto the couch, eyeing the hidden door to the Walk of Remembrance and setting her letters carefully on the coffee table. She patted the cushion next to her. “Come on,” she said. “It’s more fun with company.”

Riley hesitated a second, then sank into the couch with a slow, deliberate motion. The leather let out a sigh and Riley slouched, arms splayed wide, as if staking a claim on the entire left half of the furniture. Chloe slid closer, tucking her legs up beneath her and letting her thigh press against Riley’s.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. The mail sat between them, perfectly ordinary envelopes addressed in every variety of handwriting—from loopy, oversized cursive to the tight, blocky print of someone who never learned proper penmanship.

Chloe picked up the first letter, the one with the slightly battered edge, and ran her thumb along the flap. She could feel the warmth radiating from her chest—not the metaphorical kind, but the actual, biological kind. She wasn’t sure if her pregnancy was interacting with her transformations, or if she was just imagining it after finding out she was pregnant in the first place, but the skin over her chest and breasts was so warm she sometimes worried she’d start steaming in direct sunlight. If she shifted wrong, there was a faint squish at the very top of her cleavage, the product of her breasts gently leaking through the thin fabric of her bra.

Riley noticed, of course. She always did. She glanced down at the darkening spot, then back up at Chloe’s face, lips curled in the beginnings of a joke. But she held it back, just this once.

“Are you ready?” Chloe asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Riley nodded, eyes softening. “Yeah, Chlo. Let’s see what your adoring public thinks of you.”

Chloe opened the letter with a careful tear. She unfolded the single page inside, fingers trembling slightly, and began to read aloud.

Chloe,

I’m sure you already know this, but whatever you do, don’t fade into the background. I got far too close to being eliminated doing that once. Do whatever you have to do, including having another contestant dose you with aphrodisiacs, to avoid elimination. It’s unbelievably horrific for you, and for everyone around you. We had an elimination of someone who was a total monster, and it was still traumatizing for everyone involved, so it happening to someone even mildly likeable is a fate that should be avoided at all costs. Otherwise, keep in mind, you may need to assert yourself to save yourself. I know it can be hard, but sometimes, masters aren’t as forthcoming, even with fun stuff, as they should be.

Your group seems to be a well-oiled machine when it comes to avoiding eliminations from the challenges, but even so, build up a nice VP margin to protect yourself, and try to get to 100 VP as quickly as you can. I’ve noticed contestants with more VP, and who are later in the contest, have less horrific eliminations, so if nothing else, it can be worth it there. Really, VP seems to the best measure of safety one can get, and so even if you don’t get the wish, having security against the horrors of elimination is more than enough. Sorry for starting on such a downer, it’s just the perspective one gets from darker seasons. Andy seems like a great guy, and seems to have gotten his shit together pretty fast when it came to protecting the group, so hopefully this message will be out of date by the time you get it.

It isn’t all bad really, some of the transformations can be genuinely fun, and a group that likes each other makes a huge difference to this kind of thing. Forged family is often better than the family you were born with, something I’m sure you understand by now. To finish this off, don’t blame yourself for what happened with Laura, that was a shitstorm of bad luck, and I’ve learned first hand contestants can be on a season because they’re there to make the master feel guilty, not for anything they did or didn’t do.

Take care of yourself,
Hailey.

Chloe trailed off, voice wavering at the last line. She blinked, trying to clear her eyes before the wetness could actually form a tear.

Riley reached over and squeezed her hand, firm and grounding. “Hey,” she said. “You okay?”

Chloe stared at the envelope in her hands for a moment, reading the last lines over and over until the paper blurred. She blinked the tears back, but they clung stubbornly to her lashes anyway. “I’m fine,” she said, which was a lie so thin even the paper could see through it.

Riley squeezed her hand harder. “You sure?” She waited a beat, then softened her voice. “Who the hell is Hailey?”

Chloe laughed—a damp, shaky little sound—and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “She’s, um, a Contestant. From another season.” She folded the letter and set it on the coffee table, smoothing it flat with her fingertips. “Their Host is a demon, apparently. And their Master is some eighteen-year-old kid named Felix. Which, I mean, can you imagine?”

Riley grunted. “Jesus. I hope they gave him training wheels.”

“Actually, Hailey said the contestants have power over the Master there. Like, the rules are reversed?”

Riley arched a brow. “That sounds like a setup for disaster. Or maybe the best season ever.” She settled back into the couch, her hair curling around her shoulders like a nest. “So, what’d you think of the letter?”

Chloe shrugged. “It was sweet. And honest. I think I needed it.” She traced a line along the edge of the envelope. “Though she's in for some surprises, if she keeps watching our season.”

Riley nodded, eyes drifting to the window. “Yeah,” she said, “I bet.” She let the silence ride for a few seconds before looking back. “You want to do the next one? Or should I call Arabella and tell her you’re a lost cause?”

Chloe smiled, weak but real. “I’ll do the next one.” She reached for the second letter, this one heavier and lumpy at the bottom. When she tore open the top, a thickly padded bra spilled out—black and white, splotched like a cartoon cow.

Riley snorted. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Chloe held it up by the straps. It looked like it could serve as a parachute for a small dog. “At least they got my size right.”

Riley plucked it from her hands, turning it over as if expecting it to moo. “Chlo, this has is absurd. What do you stuff it with? More bras?”

Chloe giggled, a little less teary now, and fished the letter out of the envelope. The paper was folded around a business card that read Shar in looping script.

She cleared her throat and read.

Dear Chloe,

I am so very happy for you, happy that Harem Hotel could give you this miracle that you have wanted for so long. And I am happy that you have found Andy and Riley, and your extended Harem family. Congratulations, you deserve this. May you continue to be a delight and bask in the joy you have earned. Enclosed is a bra in your size, and it will resize to you should you get bigger. It is enchanted to absorb liquids to preserve your shirts and your modesty. I hope you like it.

Shar

She let the letter fall into her lap and met Riley’s eyes. “That was… actually really thoughtful?”

Riley flexed the bra’s cups. “I think the real message is, ‘stop leaking on your sundress, babe.’” She set the bra gently on the table, then fixed Chloe with a playful glare. “You gonna try it on or just hang it on the wall?”

Chloe lifted her chin and deadpanned: “Moo.” The sound was so flat, so perfectly timed, Riley choked on her own laughter and had to cough for a solid five seconds before she could catch her breath.

“You’re the worst,” Riley said, but there was a shimmer in her eyes, and when she leaned in, she pressed her shoulder to Chloe’s, sharing the laughter until it fizzled out.

Chloe let herself sink into the warmth of Riley’s side. She could feel the tension unwinding in her own body, every line softening as the den’s old, safe-smelling air wrapped them up. She reached for the next envelope, pausing a second to steady her hands. The front was written in the same familiar, swirling script she’d seen on cards at the old bakery in town.

She opened it carefully. A single sheet, crisp and white, with tiny gold flowers printed at the top.

She read aloud:

Chloe!

Oh my gosh! You’re pregnant!? I’m so happy for you! I just knew that the Lord would answer my prayers. I’ll be praying for you and the baby from here on out. Congratulations, you’re so fortunate to be blessed with such a miracle. I’m really so happy for you!

Mary

P.S.: Having a child out of wedlock is a grave sin. I would recommend getting married at your soonest convenience. Again, congratulations.

There was a long pause. Chloe’s hand fluttered to her belly, fingers spread like a little shield. “Mary,” she said, voice soft. “She means well.”

Riley smirked, but there was no bite in it. “She sounds like the nice version of the Catholics I grew up around. You know, the ones who bake for the homeless instead of threatening them with hell.”

Chloe’s lips curled. “Mary is… the wife of one of Andy’s friends. I met her at his birthday party last round. The two of us, and Candy, spent some time, uh… talking about babies.” Chloe blushed. “She’s lovely.”

Riley’s eyes widened. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, huh?”

Chloe let the letter fall to the table and looked at Riley, the affection unguarded and clear. “Thank you for this. For being here with me.”

Riley shrugged, but her face was pink at the edges. “You’re my person, Chlo. You know that, right?”

Chloe nodded. She blinked again, but this time the tears didn’t feel sad at all.

There was a lull. The den’s old clock ticked, the sunlight shifted in slow, golden lines across the rug, and for a long moment, the only movement was Riley’s hair coiling and uncoiling around her like a living blanket.

After a while, Chloe nudged the stack of mail closer to Riley’s side. “Your turn,” she said, gentle but insistent.

Riley made a show of groaning, but she picked up her envelope and tore it open without hesitation. “If this one’s from my dead husband, I’m burning it on the spot,” she said.

Chloe bumped her with an elbow. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry,” Riley said, but her tone was fond, not sharp.

She unfolded the first letter and read aloud, voice steady and clear:

Riley,

I’m sure, to some extent, you’re in a better spot now, and this will hopefully be far less relevant to you. However, your story struck me because I experienced something like what you did. I was once married to the love of my life, and everything seemed to be going my way, including promotions at work.

However to cut a long, tedious story involving years of IFV and a bunch of other treatments, we were never able to conceive. Trashed our marriage to the point that, while it wasn’t as bad as her dying, I lost her all the same. When I learned you had lost your child only months after losing John... I had to write you. To reassure you that neither was your fault, especially from knowing how much biology is an infuriating mess, where teenagers can easily have a kid, but an adult actually prepared for one cannot.

There was another side of you I recognized, although not because I felt it, but because I was on the receiving end of it. The divorce and everything that led up to it made me into the kind of vice principal that everyone hates. Felix hates my guts to such an extent he still hasn’t gotten over because I abused my authority with him too many times. If that wasn’t enough, Harem Hotel had to make it worse because of things I did to him under the influence of my transformations.

So I understand what it is like to be hated, and made the object of blame to make someone else feel better, but from what I can tell, it didn’t Felix any better as a person, or even make him feel better. All of which is to say, I hope you were able to reconcile with Andy. You don’t have to like him, but I can assure you that blaming him won’t make you feel better.

Sincerely,
Janessa Smith

Chloe sat back, absorbing the words. “That’s… a lot.”

Riley’s lips pressed together as she stared down at the letter in her lap. Chloe could tell she was debating whether to burn it, tear it, or maybe just eat it out of spite.

“That’s... a lot,” Chloe repeated, softer this time.

“Smith,” Riley muttered, as if the name tasted like old pennies. “You know who that is?”

Chloe shook her head, but there was curiosity in her eyes.

Riley let the page drop to her thigh and looked sideways at the window. “Janessa Smith. It's in Arabella's info dump. She was the Vice Principal at the school in Felix’s season—the one with the demon Host, the kid who can’t say wear pants? Arabella’s info dump on them was like a crash course in how not to run a harem, but I guess even the train wrecks get fan mail. This woman… she’s the one who got the ‘angel’ transformation. Then she turned around and used it to, uh, **** herself on her own Master. Then spent the rest of the season whining about how no one forgave her for it.”

Chloe frowned. “That’s... not what I expected. The letter was so—“

“Empathetic?” Riley cut in, flashing a grim, lopsided grin. “I know. It’s weird. Most people, when they screw up, they just keep digging. But this—” she waved the page, then set it gently on the table, like it might bite her—“this is something else. She’s not lying about how she lost everything. She’s not even asking to be forgiven. I think she just wants someone to agree that biology is a bastard.”

Chloe picked up the letter, reading the last few lines again to herself. “She’s trying to help. In her way.”

“Yeah,” Riley said. She let out a sigh, shoulders slumping. “And maybe that’s what freaks me out about it. I mean, she **** her student—let’s not pretend otherwise—but I’ve seen people do worse and call it love. Or therapy.”

Chloe’s lips twitched. “Is that why you and Marissa argue so much?”

Riley snorted. “Marissa is a kitten compared to Smith. If anything, Marissa actually cares. She just doesn’t know how to turn the psychoanalyzer off.”

They sat for a moment, letting the conversation settle. The sunlight cut through the window, painting soft squares of warmth across the rug and the side of Riley’s face. Chloe could see the way the letter had rattled her—not in the way of fresh pain, but the way an old scar sometimes ached in the cold.

“You know,” Chloe said, reaching for Riley’s hand, “I think it’s kind of amazing you got this far. Not just surviving, but being so... open.”

Riley looked away, a crooked smile barely holding back something much larger. “It’s just inertia. I keep moving forward so the rest doesn’t catch up.”

Chloe squeezed her hand. “I don’t think so. I think you just refuse to die sad.”

Riley barked out a laugh. “Damn right I do.” She straightened, then fished for the second letter, still sealed and neat. “Okay. Enough trauma. Let’s see if this one’s better.”

Chloe folded her legs under her, watching as Riley worked the flap open with a thumbnail.

This letter was shorter, hand-written on thick, creamy paper. There was a faint floral scent—lavender, maybe. Riley smiled at that, then read aloud:

Riley.

I am so very proud of you. You have come so far from the broken woman who first came to the HH. It brings me joy to see you open yourself to Chloe and Andy despite your pain. To embrace your newfound family. And I am glad to see you finally upgraded your hair transformation, though you have barely scratched the surface of what you can now do with it so far. Stay strong, for yourself and the others, for the difficult times are not yet past. But I have faith in you.

Shar

Riley finished the letter and set it on her lap. “That’s the vampire lady, right?”

Chloe nodded, reaching for the bra Shar had enclosed with her own letter. “The one who sent me this, too. Do you know her?”

Riley shook her head, but her face was thoughtful. “I know the type. The ones who keep a garden of other people’s wounds. Always with advice, never with judgment.” She looked at Chloe, the edges of her eyes soft. “I actually like this one.”

Chloe smiled, and there was a warmth to it that made Riley’s chest hurt a little, in the good way. “She said you could do more with your hair. Like what?”

Riley’s grin was instant and wicked. “Oh, I’ll show you.” Chloe watched as the impossibly long black-and-red hair began to move of its own accord—snaking down Riley’s back, around the side of the couch, looping over the armrest and then across both their laps.

Chloe gasped as a thick rope of hair slid up her bare thigh and cinched itself gently around her wrist. She giggled, not quite believing it, and tried to pull away, but the hair flexed and held her fast—soft as silk, but unbreakable.

Riley opened her eyes and let out a delighted cackle. “See? All I have to do is want it.”

Chloe squeaked as another strand caught her other wrist, pinning it to the opposite knee. She twisted, but the hair just pulled her in tighter, until she was almost in Riley’s lap. “Oh my God,” Chloe said, breathless and, for a moment, very aroused.

Riley saw her face and loosened the grip, letting the hair slide away with a little flourish. “Easy, cowgirl,” Riley said, cocking an eyebrow. “I don’t want to get milk all over the furniture.”

Chloe flushed, both from the joke and from the sensation. “You could have warned me.”

“I thought you’d like surprises,” Riley said, voice dropping to a more serious register. “I never thought I’d like it, either, but it’s… kind of cool, right?”

Chloe nodded, rubbing her wrists where the hair had wrapped them. “It’s really cool.” She met Riley’s eyes, and for a second, neither of them said anything. There was a charge in the room, more than just the sun and the scent of lavender.

Riley let the silence stretch. She reached out, this time with her actual hands, and tucked a stray lock of Chloe’s hair behind her ear. “You’re such a dork,” she said. “But I like that about you.”

There was a pause, filled only by the slow ticking of the den’s old clock and the distant hum of bees in the garden.

Finally, Riley cleared her throat and said, “No mail from Mark’s harem this time.” She said it too casually, and Chloe picked up on it.

“Does that bother you?” Chloe asked.

Riley shook her head, but the motion was too quick. “Last time they wrote me, I couldn’t stop crying. It was all about wishes, about how you could use them to… you know, fix what went wrong.” She swallowed, hard. “I thought, for a minute, that if I could win, I could bring my son back.”

Chloe scooted closer and wrapped both arms around Riley’s middle, hugging her tight. For a moment, Riley just sat there, rigid and frozen, but then she melted into the hug, burying her face in Chloe’s hair.

“It’s okay,” Chloe whispered. “You don’t have to explain anything. Not to me, not to anyone. I’m here.”

Riley trembled, just a little, and let the tears fall. She didn’t sob—Riley wasn’t the kind to make noise about it—but Chloe could feel the shake in her shoulders, the wetness that soaked through her hair as Riley held on tight and cried it all out.

They stayed that way for a long time, curled together on the battered couch, sunlight painting the rug, the only sound the soft hiccup of Riley’s breath as she let go of another layer of grief.

Eventually, the tears slowed, and Riley pulled back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Sorry,” she said, though there was no apology in her voice. “Didn’t mean to short out on you.”

Chloe smiled and kissed Riley’s cheek, a gentle press that lingered. “You’re not shorting out,” she said. “You’re living. That’s what Shar said, right? That she’s proud of you for living.”

Riley nodded, and a new smile crept over her lips—smaller, more real. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe I am.”

Chloe let her hand rest on Riley’s leg, content to just sit there, the afterglow of the hug wrapping them up together.

For a while, the two of them sat in the den, reading and rereading their letters, sometimes aloud, sometimes just to themselves. Riley practiced with her hair, wrapping Chloe’s arms and ankles, then her own, then both of them together, until Chloe was giggling again and Riley couldn’t stop herself from joining in.

It was perfect, in its own weird way.

The view from Arabella’s terrace was obscene: the volcano smoldered just close enough to seem domesticated, while the far side of the island rolled away in velvet folds of forest, all of it framed by an ocean so blue it looked like a stage set for a movie. There were no railings, no glass, no ostentatious safety measures—just a white marble floor, a cluster of heavy teak chairs, and a low table set with cheese, fruits, and a bottle of Santorini wine that shimmered like bottled sunlight.

Arabella sat at the head of the arrangement, chin in hand, her dress a stormcloud swirl of silk. Her hair was up, threaded with tiny silver stars. Anna had draped herself sideways across her chair, one bare leg swung over the armrest and her blue dress hiked indecently high, but she was too regal to ever look disheveled. Herman—who, today, wore a grease-stained NASA T-shirt—had his boots up on the table and was devouring figs two at a time, talking between bites.

The conversation had reached that postprandial lull where centuries-old friends could simply exist in the same space, each lost in their own thoughts, not needing to impress or perform. Arabella poured herself another splash of wine, inhaled, then let the silence simmer.

The terrace was a study in unreality. Arabella preferred it that way: volcanic stone underfoot, the low white table offset by a jag of obsidian, the sea on all sides, and above it, the weight of the sky. She liked the hint of danger, the feeling that if you let your glass slip, it would roll off the edge and shatter on the crags three hundred feet below. Today the table was set with a wheel of cheese that dared you to cut it, clusters of grapes that glowed violet in the sun, and a pyramid of green figs that looked almost obscene beside a basket of razor-sliced prosciutto.

Anna’s dress matched the wine—a deep, shifting blue—and she lounged in her chair like a cat in a sunbeam, legs fully on display, the barest nod to decorum in the elegant drape of her scarf. Herman sprawled in direct opposition, boots muddy, shirt cracked with grease, and a hand already halfway to the next fig. He had the air of someone who’d never lost a fight, and saw no reason to start now.

The first several minutes were spent in what the humans would call comfortable silence, though Arabella had always found the expression lacking—comfort was an inadequate word for the slouching, sprawling, quietly competitive refusal to speak first. She let it ride, swirling her glass and glancing sidelong at Anna, who pretended not to notice.

It was Herman, inevitably, who broke the détente. “So,” he said, picking a grape, “is the world ending, or are we all just here for the catering?”

Anna snorted, making it clear she’d been waiting for the line. “The world is always ending, darling. That’s the only reason she brings out the good cheese.”

Arabella smiled, lips barely touched by the sun. “It’s not the end. But it is a reckoning, I think.” She tipped her glass to Herman. “You’re here because things are converging, and it will be less awkward with someone else in the room when it happens.”

“Ah. Good.” Herman bit into the grape and squinted at her. “So. How many rounds left?”

Arabella poured herself more wine. “One, maybe two, if the girls don’t get clever. They’re already making plans to skip to the end.” She looked at Anna, eyebrows arched. “Your recommendation, I believe?”

Anna made a show of mock innocence, eyes wide. “I merely whispered that if Andy and his harem wish to avoid more collateral damage, they could cut straight to the finish. I didn’t expect them to listen to their dreams.” She leaned back, smirking. “But perhaps they are less stubborn than I was.”

“Not stubborn,” Arabella said. “Just survivors.”

They let that sit, until the bottle was empty and the cheese had been decimated.

Arabella set the knife aside, then produced an envelope from beneath the basket. “Speaking of duels, there’s correspondence. From Matilda Copse-Wood-McMattersen.” She placed the letter between Anna and Herman. “Apparently, they have a problem.”

Anna and Herman exchanged a glance. Anna went first, slicing the letter open with a fingernail. She read aloud:

To Anna or Herman or whoever else over there is concerned,

Matilda Copse-Wood-McMattersen here. My absolute peach of a wife gave me the immense pleasure of having to research how to kill a Lovecraftian horror from beyond space and time. She’s too busy trying to keep her contestants from killing each other before they can meld into a cohesive harem and save the world. There is basically nothing written about it in the typical arcane literature; Teeth and I checked. She mentioned that Arabella recommended you two for a consult? Soooo, got any advice? We got until the game is over to get our season’s Mistress into ‘fighting cosmic horror’ shape. An entire dimension (if not the wider multiverse) would appreciate it. I normally give out handguns as presents, but I am not gonna this time because: one, giving a deity a gun feels kind of dumb; and two, Genet is the only Host cool enough to let the receiver use them on set. Instead, I will get Mrs. Skye to do the appropriate animal sacrifice for you or whatever.

Just let me know,

Matilda
Royal Spymaster (Shhh... don’t tell anyone ;-P)
Queendom of Nimlith Grove
Sixth wife of Queen Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne

She folded the letter, and only then allowed herself to laugh. “She never changes.”

Herman shook his head, admiration clear on his face. “Matilda could have been a Host. She’s got the knack.”

Arabella’s gaze drifted toward the volcano, now a dull shadow in the heat. “They don’t actually need a weapon. They need an idea. Something to make the horror question itself.” She reached for the letter, running her fingers over the embossed seal. “But I suppose I could send them instructions.”

Anna eyed Arabella with a glint of nostalgia. “You remember when we tried to do that? Mildred almost ate your entire set.”

Herman choked on his wine, then wiped his mouth, eyes wide with the memory. “You mean when it went full Soth’ka and started reproducing via the old staff? Yes. That was a mess.” He grinned at Arabella. “I hear it’s behaving itself now.”

Arabella allowed herself the smallest smile. “It hasn’t tried to eat anyone in at least four seasons.” She paused, considering. “Matilda’s right, though. I recommended you both because you’re the only ones who ever managed to defeat a cosmic horror on the show and who would be free to help. I have a show to finish.”

Anna looked smug, but only a little. “Yes, but you’re forgetting the time we had to spend cleaning up the aftereffects. Half the harem that season was traumatized for a decade.”

“That’s just Harem Hotel,” Herman said, with a shrug. “The trick is making the trauma survivable.”

They sat for a moment, letting the wind clear the table. Herman spotted the remaining envelopes—three more, neatly stacked beside the cheese, each marked with a crisp, looping script.

He gestured at the pile. “Is that for us, too?”

Arabella shook her head. “No. These are mine.” She picked up the topmost letter, slit it open, and read aloud, voice soft but clear.

Arabella,

I thought this would be easier than it is. I thought that my experience being on the other side of the Suite would make me prepared. I was so mistaken. The burden of Hosting feels different. Here, you choose to bind, to twist and mend together a bunch of disparate souls instead of merely dealing with the responsibility of being bound. I feel like I have messed up already. Was I wrong to seek something like consent? Should I have just **** the first Master pick through instead of taking the first one even remotely willing? Was I too lenient with my troublesome contestants? Was I too harsh? I want to do this right. A dimension is at stake, at a minimum. I have to succeed for the sake of all of those people.

I am glad to have made friends with Andy, but I don’t want to burden him with this. He might understand, but he needs to focus on his own family over there. Laura’s return is significant and he is still in the game. I’m sure that, with your illustrious career, you have some advice for me. I could use a work colleague I can rely on. Not Ms. E, either. While I like her as a boss and a ‘person’, I can’t exactly complain about the show to her. You are the Host that has shown me the most kindness; that includes my mother-in-law, who advised me to embrace the cruelty of the game, letting the Mistress be responsible for the harem’s happiness.
I don’t want to be a monster like the hag that tormented me and mine. Help?

Tyalangan
A Humble Host
Harem Hotel: Woo the Girl, Save the World

Arabella set down Tyalangan’s letter with a delicacy that was, even for her, theatrical. For a moment she simply let the paper rest between her hands, fingertips tapping it like the keys of a silent piano. The air held the last syllable—“Save the World”—as if the words themselves were unwilling to leap into whatever came next.

Anna looked at her with a strange, almost childlike sympathy, then, sensing the moment had grown too raw, snatched the wine bottle and gave it an appraising swirl. “I suppose the Hosts have a union, now,” she said, trying for levity. “Everyone writing each other for moral support.”

Herman leaned forward, elbows on knees. “It’s not a union. It’s an old folks’ home. Each of you playing chess with the new kids and pretending not to want the game to end.” He pointed a grape at Arabella, fondly. “You’re the worst offender. You’re like that old Turkish guy with the automaton—always pretending the moves are spontaneous, never admitting it’s the same script underneath.”

There was an easy, old-bruise affection in the air, but Herman broke it with a snap of his fingers. “So,” he said, “what will you say to Tyalangan?”

Arabella reached for a grape, rolling it between her fingers before answering. “That it’s never about the weapons; it’s about convincing the thing that what you have is enough. That it’s about ideas. Like we did with Mildred, when it almost ate the set.” She let the grape drop back into the bowl. “Ideas can be more poisonous than anything she can bring to bear.”

Anna snickered, then eyed the next letter in the pile. “And that one?” She arched an eyebrow.

Arabella slid the next envelope over, this one thick and rough-edged, addressed in a dark, gothic hand. She slit it with a thumbnail and unfolded a single page, then cleared her throat—performative, but not mocking.

Arabella,

When I watch your season, I often wonder, would you be able to be so hands off with a different selection? I know that **** isn’t your thing now, but as you were once the being Hecate, how did you handle contestants who disliked the Master? I take seriously your point that I shouldn’t try to dictate outcomes, but it’s so tricky to do so when one starts with contestants who often hate the Master, and do not respect him at all. Without intervention, it just leads to a pile of eliminations, and quite possibly a broken man where the Master once was. I ask this not as critique, but to learn from a Host who is far wiser than I, and has been doing this for a very long time.

With Andy, and the women you picked to be in his harem, you set things up to barely ever need your intervention, or at least, not an intervention that was obvious. It takes great skill to make a premise so cruel instead be one that heals, much less to do so without showing one’s hand.

Sincerely,
Vizkoroth

She finished, letting the last syllable hang. The quiet that followed was distinctly different than before—thicker, with a tinge of unease.

Anna did not hesitate. “Vizkoroth?”

“Demon Host,” Herman said, not unkindly. “Harem Hotel by way of Kafka.”

Anna’s face split in a delighted grin. “I’d watch that,” she said. “What’s the season?”

Arabella considered. “The Master is Felix, a teenager. The season is called Bunkered Together. Vizkoroth is an interesting Host. Her transformations are radical, often leading to dyads. Her show may be meant to test whether a soul can recover self-respect after it’s been bled out drop by drop.”

Herman’s brow furrowed. “But she says the contestants don’t respect the Master at all.”

Arabella nodded. “She isn’t wrong. The composition was stacked. It’s a train wreck, unless the Master steps up. But that’s the point of her experiment. Vizkoroth made the game a crucible for the Master, not just the contestants.”

Herman gave a low whistle. “I’ve seen those seasons. They don’t end well.”

Arabella agreed. “No. There’s rarely a clear winner.”

Anna laughed, almost too sharply. “Then why do it?”

Arabella shrugged. “Because sometimes the Producers want to see what happens when there is no hero. Only the grind, the pressure, the horror of never being enough.” She folded the letter, her eyes distant. “And sometimes, that’s how you get the right answer. Even if it comes at the cost of everything you started with.”

Herman shifted, propping his chin in his hands. “So what’s your advice to Vizkoroth?”

Arabella thought for a long time. Then she said, “I'll share it with her. I won't bother you with the details. But in part, it has to do with picking the right people.”

Anna, not quite satisfied, said, “Is that what you did? With Andy?”

Arabella met her gaze, unwavering. “There was never another selection. From the first moment, I knew the cast. Andy, of course, had to be the Master. There was never another choice, not across the entire world. But I never doubted for a second that these women would be the ones. Even the ones who hated Andy the most at the beginning—Norah, Erin, Riley—they only hated him because they hated something in themselves. In a way, that’s what made it work.”

Herman was nodding, slow and deliberate. “So what do you do if the harem never softens? If the hate sticks?”

Arabella smiled, sharp and sad. “Then you take responsibility for the outcome. You remember their names. You find a way to make the end less cruel, even if you have to bend the rules to do it. You owe them that much.”

Anna and Herman were quiet, weighing it.

Herman spoke first: “You were always the softest of us. Even back when you were Hecate.”

Arabella raised an eyebrow. “I was a monster back then.”

“Only on paper,” Herman said. “You always found a loophole.”

Anna was less charitable. “No one cares about the intention, Ara. They care about who survives.”

Arabella drank, finishing her glass, then poured another. “Survival is the best metric,” she agreed. “But I measure my success by how many can look back and not want to erase everything. If there’s one happy ending, it’s enough.”

Herman grinned. “So what will you write back to Vizkoroth? Besides ‘try not to eat your Master alive?’”

Arabella thought, then said, “I’ll tell her to let the story breathe. Not to intervene unless she has to. And—if she can—find a way to give the Master one win, no matter how small. Sometimes that’s enough to pivot the whole game.”

They all relaxed, the tension broken. It was Anna who spotted the last letter on the table, wedged under the cheese knife. She slid it to Arabella, who recognized the handwriting immediately.

She opened it. The page was short, the ink spidery and angry:

Old hag. Time’s running out. Tick tock. Last one left. Enjoy what little time you have left before retirement catches up with you. It’s everything you deserve.

Dakota

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Then Anna let out a long, low whistle.

Herman just started to laugh. “She’s still at it?” he said. “Even now?”

Arabella pressed the letter flat with her palm. Her voice was cool, without pity. “Dakota never let anything go. Not jealousy, not grief, not hate. She believes the only way out was to hurt everyone else on the way down.”

Arabella let her hand linger on the letter, tracing the ink with a careful, almost meditative slowness. For a moment, she watched the words blur under her fingertips, letting the silence sharpen around the table. Then she folded the note, set it aside, and gave Anna and Herman her best approximation of a Host’s smile—polished, wry, a little sad at the edges.

Anna snickered, shooting Herman a sidelong look. “It’s impressive, really. The persistence. I think I’d admire it if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

Herman shrugged, half-amused. “Every Host needs a hobby. Some knit, some garden, some… send hate mail.”

Anna tipped her glass toward Arabella. “What’s your hobby, then? Besides winding up children and watching them run through the maze?”

Arabella smiled, this time letting it reach her eyes. “I collect regrets,” she said. “Yours, theirs, my own. When I was younger, I thought I could redeem the world one misery at a time. I see now that the best you can do is minimize the collateral.” She poured another splash of wine, the bottle catching the last rays of sunlight and scattering it across the cheese knife and the rim of Herman’s mug.

Anna let the words drift, then cocked her head, blue-black hair spilling down her shoulder. “Tell me, Ara—do you ever miss the old days?”

Arabella shook her head. “No. That power was always an illusion. All the rules in the world can’t make someone love who they are, or make a family out of a pile of broken souls.”

Herman twirled a fig on his fingertip, then lobbed it gently into the air, catching it behind his back without looking. “But you did it, didn’t you? As Vizkoroth said. The current harem—they’re different. You don’t intervene directly, not really. Not like you used to.”

Arabella watched the sun slip behind the volcano, letting the ache of the moment stretch. “Andy and his girls,” she said, softly. “They were the only cast. The only version of the story that ever made sense.”

Anna was silent, lips pursed. Herman let the philosophy slide, settling instead into the comfort of the evening. For a moment, the three of them sat, not as ancient antagonists, but as weary colleagues at the end of a shift.

Then Anna snatched the final letter from the pile, squinting at the spidery hand. “Dakota, Dakota, Dakota. It never ends.” She set the page on the table with a theatrical sigh. “What do you think she wants, really?”

Arabella didn’t answer right away. She watched the edge of the horizon, where the sun’s afterglow limned the volcano in bloody gold. “I think,” she said at last, “she doesn’t believe she deserves to be loved, and so she wants to be punished. Even if it’s only via being hated. She’s in an impossible situation and I would offer her my help, were I not certain she would reject it and condemn it as pity. She has her Nick, and more women than she believes in that harem, still caring for her. Perhaps it will be enough. There’s dignity in that, in a way.”

Herman’s laugh was low and kind. “You always were too generous, Ara.”

Anna grinned, lolling her head back to watch the swirl of clouds above. “It takes all kinds to make a world,” she said. “Or break it.”

A breeze shifted across the terrace, sharp with the promise of night. Herman leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head, eyes half-closed. “So what comes next?” he said. “You let the harem finish out the season, or do you throw them one last curveball?”

Arabella looked at the table, then at her friends. “No curveballs,” she said, her voice final but gentle. “They deserve a clean ending. No tricks, no test. Just… peace.”

Anna raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You really think the world will let them have that?”

Arabella shook her head. “No. But I can give them this much. I owe them that.”

“If Alla doesn’t interfere before the end,” Anna warned. Arabella shrugged.

Herman nodded, as if blessing the choice. “Then I suppose we’ll see each other at the afterparty.”

Anna stretched her arms overhead, letting the fabric of her dress fall away from her legs entirely. “Only if you’re buying,” she said.

Arabella smiled, watching the last of the light slip away. “It’s on the house.”

For a few minutes more, the three of them sat together, the table strewn with crumbs and the ruins of letters, the chill of night coming up fast from the sea. Arabella let herself breathe in the feeling—not triumph, not victory, not even closure, but the quieter joy of a chapter finally closing.

Somewhere in the main house, laughter trickled out through the windows, warm and alive. The world kept moving. She poured a final measure of wine, raised it to Anna and Herman, and said, “To endings. The best ones, and even the worst.”