Soft Landing

VP and BP Rankings
Claire - 135 VP - 10600 BP - 2 Achievs
Erin - 134 VP - 8100 BP - 3 Achievs
Emi - 113 VP - 11750 BP - 3 Achievs
Sam - 107 VP - 5900 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 106 VP - 8650 BP - 2 Achievs
Myra - 97 VP - 5000 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 95 VP - 4050 BP - 3 Achievs
Liesa - 93 VP - 4400 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 90 VP - 7000 BP - 3 Achievs
Emily - 81 VP - 8600 BP - 3 Achievs (2 used)
Dawn - 78 VP - 9000 BP - 3 Achievs
Riley - 77 VP - 8800 BP - 3 Achievs
Laura - 7950 BP - 2 Achievs

Andy woke before the sun, with the peculiar feeling that something had ended, and something else was waiting just beyond the window. The Suite was dark except for the ambient blue of the digital clock and the blurry suggestion of moonlight through the upper glass. He lay in the quiet, listening to the breath and pulse of the women sleeping around him.

Laura had bracketed him in sleep, her two bodies forming a shield wall on either side. One version of her curled inward, forehead pressed into Andy’s arm, the hair so black it blended with the sheets except for the pale streaks of her skin and the faint pulse of her vein at the jaw. The other Laura sprawled outward, face-up and totally at ease, the mouth parted just enough to betray the softness that was only visible when she was asleep or not paying attention.

Emi was tucked against Laura’s outer side, curled so tightly near her legs that she resembled a question mark. Two of her arms pillowed her own head, the other four in various states of drape—one over Laura, one over Andy’s thigh, another looped under Myra’s shoulder, the last clasped around a wadded handful of comforter. Andy watched her breathe for a few seconds. Even asleep, Emi looked content. She sometimes made a tiny sound, like a happy cat dreaming of sunbeams.

Myra lay at the foot of the bed, legs drawn up, face turned toward the ceiling, snoring contentedly. Her twin fox tails stretched across the legs of the entire group, covering them with a warm, feathery weight. The tips twitched in her sleep, sometimes in sequence, sometimes at random. Andy could see her chest rise and fall, slow and regular, and her hands were curled in loose fists beside her collarbone. In sleep, the lines of her face were gentler, the mouth relaxed. She looked much younger this way, almost unguarded.

The effect of Inanna’s Garden from last night, perhaps combined with Laura’s Lethe’s Forgetfulness, was still there, diffuse but unmistakable: a kind of atmospheric glow, a feeling in the air like waking up after a perfect rain. It softened the world around the edges, even the memory of what they had done before collapsing together into this pile. There was only the certainty of rightness: that this was exactly where he needed to be, that the people beside him had chosen it, too.

He let himself stay still for a long time, inventorying the room, the bed, his own body. The only thing he noticed that hurt was the ache behind his ribs—a soreness that felt like the aftermath of laughing too hard, or crying too long, or loving too much. He didn’t know how long he drifted, listening to the quiet, before the others started to stir.

It was Emi who moved first. She snuffled, eyelids fluttering, then cracked a smile even before her eyes opened. She stretched—six arms, three directions—making a soft creaking sound like a cartoon cat. Then she peered at Andy, hair wild and eyes bright. “Morning,” she said, in a whisper, so as not to wake anyone.

Andy smiled back. “Morning.”

Emi grinned wider, then snuggled in, as if pleased with herself for being first to the day.

Myra woke next, which surprised him, since she’d been the last to fall asleep. She opened her eyes, looked around for a beat (not that she saw with her eyes anymore, but she always checked anyway), then flexed her fingers experimentally. She took stock of the group, clocked Andy, then Emi, then Laura (twice), then back to Andy.

She said, “I’m alive,” voice matter-of-fact, and then, “I… didn’t expect yesterday night to be so… so warm.”

Andy wanted to respond, but before he could, Myra’s tails flicked, and she said, with a smile that made her look younger, “It feels good.” She didn’t explain, but she didn’t need to.

Laura’s bodies woke in the same instant, like synchronized swimmers coming up for air. Both blinked, both stretched, both made a little grumpy noise. Then, as if checking for orientation, both reached for Andy at once. The right body snaked an arm under his neck, pulling his face into the nest of her hair; the left body threw a leg over his. It was so automatic that Andy wondered if she even noticed herself doing it.

“Are we awake?” Laura murmured, both voices stacking in perfect stereo.

“Some of us,” Myra replied, tails swishing against Laura’s ankle.

Emi propped herself up on one elbow, her hair a mess. “This is nice,” she said. “I could do this forever.”

“We kinda did,” Andy pointed out with a smile, “your Velvet Hours transformation did its job. I hope Dawn and Sam didn't get hit too badly.”

There was a pause, and then all four of them just let the silence linger.

Myra, after a while, said, “I slept through the whole night.” Her voice had that peculiar blend of awe and suspicion that she reserved for anything too good to be true. “No bad dreams. No memories. I just… slept.”

Laura, both bodies, grinned. “That’s the effect of sleeping with a crowd. Safety in numbers.”

Andy tried to sit up, but Laura’s right body held him down with a firm grip. The left one patted his thigh, as if to remind him she could hold him there all day.

He let himself relax, letting them set the pace.

“I’m not in a hurry,” Andy said. “We have time.”

Emi giggled. “Are you sure? I thought you were always in a hurry.”

Andy shrugged, which was not easy from the bottom of a dogpile. “I think I’m finally learning.”

Laura snorted. “You’ve always been a quick learner, just bad at applying it to your own life.”

Andy had nothing to say to that, so he squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

The light outside started to change, from blue to a warm gold. In another hour, the hotel would be awake and the day would be underway. Andy wondered what the others were doing—if Chloe had slept, if Erin and Norah had not killed each other, if Riley had made it through the night without walking the perimeter twice.

But right here, in the Suite, nothing needed fixing.

They stayed in the tangle for a long time. Laura, for once, just listened. Both bodies were unusually quiet, as if trying to soak in the warmth without expending any of it on words. It was a change—before, even when happy, she had always pushed, always needed to be the one in control of the emotional weather. Now, she just let the moment be. Andy could see it in her faces, too: she was content, and she wanted the others to be content.

When Emi started talking about the upcoming round, Andy saw Laura’s faces tense—just a twitch, but it was there. Emi said, “Do you think it’s true? That we can really finish this early? Just decide to walk away, all of us, together?”

Andy looked at the ceiling. “I think it’s possible,” he said. “In fact, Arabella implied she’d prefer it.”

Laura, both bodies, nodded. “Then we make it happen. We get out together, or not at all.”

Emi let out a long, slow breath. “I like that.”

Andy pulled Myra in closer. “Me too,” he said.

The Suite was warm now, and the sun was up, and eventually the world crept in through the glass and reminded them that there were other people, other obligations, other stories to write. But for this moment, Andy let himself be carried, held, and kept. He didn’t have to solve or protect or fix anything. He just had to be.

“Should we get dressed?” Emi said, after a long while, voice muffled in the sheets.

“I don’t think any of us have to,” Laura replied. “But we probably should.”

Myra stretched, tails flicking the group as she yawned. “I’ll get coffee going. Who wants it?”

“Me,” Andy said.

Laura grinned. “Double for me.”

Emi lifted three of her six arms. “I’ll help.”

They disentangled, slowly and gently. Nobody rushed. Even the simple act of getting out of bed was more coordinated than Andy would have thought possible. They made a slow parade to the kitchen, Emi in the lead, then Andy, then Laura (both), then Myra bringing up the rear, tails flicking like banners.

The coffee was good. Laura spread butter and honey on toast in perfect synchrony, then made a show of offering Andy the best slice. Emi, who preferred jam, made a sandwich for each the others, then handed them out as if it were a ceremonial duty.

They talked about nothing and everything—the way the waves sounded different at sunrise, the best kinds of jam, the virtues of lazy mornings. Andy watched the others, and the more he watched, the more he realized that they were happy. Not performative, not obligatory. Just… happy.

He let himself be part of it. Even now, even after everything, it was not always easy to believe that this life could be real. But if it was a dream, he decided, it was the best one he’d ever had.

When the breakfast was over, Emi and Myra went off to their own rooms to get ready for the day. Laura lingered, both bodies perched on the edge of the table, eyes soft.

Andy turned to her. “You’re different today,” he said.

Laura smiled, both faces bright. “I know,” she said. “I feel it, too. I think… I think last night healed something. I want to see how far it goes.”

Andy kissed her, both bodies at once. It was awkward, but perfect. He held her for a long time, until the world outside was gold and loud and undeniable.

Then, together, they got up, dressed, and readied themselves for the day.

The air in the Suite was lighter than Andy had ever felt it. Maybe this was what the ending felt like, after all.

---

Andy was in the bathroom longer than he needed to be. Partly, he wanted to give Laura space with herself, to let her figure out who she was now that she’d stopped running from the new Bond of Marriage, from the two-bodies weirdness, from the obligation to always be the best and truest version of herself. But mostly, he needed a moment to orient. To look in the mirror, see the lines in his face, and ask the universe if this was really the life he’d been given. Six rounds in, and he still caught himself expecting to wake up in a cold New York apartment, alone, the only evidence of this place a useless invitation printed on expensive paper.

When he emerged from the steam and the hot water, hair damp and towel looped low on his hips, he found the living room empty. One set of Laura’s slippers was at the door, the other by the couch, but there was no sign of her. For a moment, he had the uncanny sense that he’d dreamed the whole night, and the emptiness was a punishment for getting too comfortable.

Then, from the direction of the gallery, he heard a sound: the faint, irregular thump of a body bumping against the wall, then the softer, even more uncanny sound of a person breathing in slow, deliberate intervals. Andy followed the noise, towel still damp around his neck.

He found Laura standing before the painting, arms folded, feet braced, staring at Katherine. Both bodies were perfectly in phase, their backs to Andy, a kind of silent sentry-stance that felt almost military. On the easel, the painting version of Katherine had slumped against the side of the canvas, as if fainting mid-conversation. Beside the painting, half in shadow, half in the morning’s blue-gold glow, stood the real Katherine, flesh and blood and shivering in the air-conditioning.

She was even more beautiful in live motion. The painting was always unreal, however luminous, but the real version of her vibrated with a nervous, unfamiliar energy. She was naked, of course, but it didn’t read as erotic so much as elemental, like a goddess or a **** of nature that happened to have skin. She blinked at the sunlight coming through the skylight, blinked again, and then—awkward, blinking, uncertain—she looked at Laura.

For a moment, neither woman moved. The air in the room was so thick Andy could have cut it with his thumbnail.

Then Laura, both bodies at once, closed the gap. She didn’t reach for words. She just put her arms around Katherine and pulled her in. Not a **** hug, not a possessive squeeze. Just a matter-of-fact, “I am alive, you are alive, let’s acknowledge it” kind of hug. Katherine flinched at first, startled, then relaxed into it, shoulders dropping, hands hovering awkwardly at Laura’s hips. The moment lingered, then Laura stepped back—both versions, in perfect time.

Katherine smiled, soft and amazed. She looked down at herself, as if shocked to find her own hands, then brushed her hair back behind her ear. She gestured: thumb to chest, thumb to Laura, hand in a loop between them.

Laura laughed. “You want to try again?” she asked, voices in eerie sync.

Katherine grinned, nodded, then hugged her again—this time more certain, more like a person than a portrait. She buried her face in Laura’s hair, then let go, looking her up and down with open curiosity. Both of Laura’s bodies mirrored her, taking in the impossible reality of the moment.

Andy hung back, invisible, for a little longer. He watched as Laura tried out questions on Katherine. “Does it feel real?” she asked. “Do you remember everything?” “Do you want clothes, or is it better this way?” Katherine answered with gestures, with facial shifts, with little pantomimes that would have baffled anyone but a person who grew up reading body language like a codebook.

It was a strange kind of communication, but Andy realized after a minute that the silence was not awkward at all. It was more like a language between survivors, or long-lost friends, or maybe even sisters. Laura was patient, letting Katherine try out her new body, her new agency, her new way of being seen.

At one point, Katherine made a sign—fingers opening and closing, a flutter at her mouth, then a tap to her ear and a point to Laura. Laura tilted her heads, thinking, then said, “You want to hear me sing?” Katherine nodded, bright-eyed.

Andy nearly laughed. “She wasn’t there for the song at The 88 Club,” he said, stepping into the room at last.

Both of Laura's heads turned to him, twin grins lighting up in stereo. “We need to remedy that,” she said.

Katherine giggled, a pure sound, and Andy realized she had a voice—no words, but the laughter was real, and it was wild with happiness.

Laura sang, then. Not a full song, not anything rehearsed. Just the line of a lullaby that Andy barely remembered, the melody rising and falling in a way that seemed to vibrate through the whole room. Katherine’s face lit up, her hands clapped over her mouth in pure, astonished delight.

He joined them. Katherine reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it—then, with a gleam in her eyes, used his hand to twirl herself in a little circle, as if showing off for the world. She did a pirouette, arms over her head, then landed, feet together, and dropped a dramatic curtsy to both Andy and Laura.

Laura applauded, both bodies. Andy laughed. Katherine’s delight was infectious.

They stood in the sun a little longer, letting the moment breathe. Finally, the three of them gathered themselves. Andy found shorts and a t-shirt, Laura found a skirt and soft sweater for each body (blue for one, white for the other). Together with Katherine, they walked out of the Suite, headed for breakfast.

As they stepped into the hallway, Andy glanced back at the painting. The canvas version of Katherine still slumped, eyes closed, serene. The real Katherine glanced back too, then reached out and patted the frame, a silent thanks to her former self.

---

They arrived at the dining room before anyone else. It was still early enough that the big windows on the east side were half-frosted with glare, and the buffet line gleamed like a jewelry case. Katherine stopped dead at the threshold and just looked. Her eyes darted: the shine off the platters, the curl of steam above the coffee urns, the giant cut-glass bowl of fruit salad radiating color in the sunlight. For someone who hadn’t eaten, smelled, or touched anything in fourteen years, it was an onslaught.

Andy tried to step around her, but she blocked him with an outstretched arm, her other hand pressed to her heart like she’d just seen the face of God.

They made their way down the line. Katherine wanted to taste everything. She used the tongs like a scientist, collecting one of every pastry, spooning up a tiny pyramid of eggs, then choosing an orange segment with reverent care. Laura’s right body hovered over the hot bar, loading up on starch and protein, while the left filled a mug with black coffee and another with orange juice, then balanced both in the crook of her arm.

At the table, Katherine sat down first, scooted her chair in, and, with both elbows firmly on the table, just inhaled the scent of her plate. For a full thirty seconds, she didn’t eat, just closed her eyes and breathed. When she finally tasted the first bite—bread, with butter—it was like watching a documentary on animal reintroduction. Katherine’s face lit up, her mouth opened in a silent “Oh,” and she turned to Andy, tears pricking her eyes.

He smiled. “I told you carbs are better in real life.”

She took another bite, then shook her head, incredulous. She pointed to her tongue, then made a gesture like fireworks at her temple. Laura, both bodies, snorted.

They’d barely started eating when Chloe and Riley entered, walking in step like women who had learned, by now, to keep a united front. Chloe’s hair was in a loose braid that trailed nearly to her hips, and her cardigan sleeves were already pilled from worrying at them with her hands. She spotted Katherine immediately and lit up, waving. Riley only grunted, but her half-smile was the first thing Andy noticed.

Chloe beelined for the table. “Katherine! How is it? Is it amazing? Is it weird? Do you want a different chair?” She fussed, sliding in next to her, eyes wide and hands fluttering.

Katherine shook her head, then ate another bite with exaggerated delight.

Chloe smiled, then turned to Andy and Laura. “Did she really not eat or drink anything for fourteen years?” She lowered her voice, worried. “Was she… okay?”

Andy nodded. “She didn’t need to. Painting magic, I guess.” He glanced at Katherine, who shrugged and did a little jazz-hands “who knows” gesture.

Riley sat at the end of the table, arms folded. “If I ever end up as a painting, I hope I get to watch you all make idiots of yourselves for at least a decade. Preferably with popcorn.”

Laura grinned. “You’d make a good painting, Rye. Especially if you could still talk shit from inside it.”

Riley deadpanned, “That’s the dream.”

Next up were Sam and Liesa, who entered in lockstep, both with slightly damp hair and the scent of chlorine clinging to them. Sam had a bright blue hoodie pulled over her swim top, and Liesa was in a vintage dress with wild flowers all over it, the skirt already grass-stained from an early walk in the gardens. They were giggling, and both looked like they hadn't quite slept.

Sam noticed Katherine instantly. “Hey! You’re in the real world again!” She slid into a chair directly across from her, no preamble, and immediately started loading Katherine’s plate with a second croissant. “Twelve hours, right? Then back in to recharge?” She said it the way you’d confirm a friend’s coffee order—already known, just checking.

Katherine nodded, and pointed at the croissant on her plate as if to say, Worth it.

Sam grinned. “Obviously.”

Liesa smiled, sliding in beside Sam. “You look so happy, schat.” She reached across and squeezed Katherine’s hand, and Katherine squeezed back.

Riley leaned in to Liesa. “You’re up early.”

Liesa shrugged, blushing. “We... didn't really sleep, so we got up. The day doesn’t wait for us.”

Sam, also blushing faintly, said, “She actually does sunrise yoga with Erin, like a cartoon rabbit.”

Liesa laughed. “You should try it sometime.”

Sam snorted. “Pass.”

Norah and Dawn arrived last. Norah looked a little ragged around the edges, skirt and blouse slightly rumpled, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. She made directly for the coffee without greeting anyone, poured herself a cup, and stood over it with both hands wrapped around the mug like she was trying to absorb it through her palms. She stared at it as if it contained the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

Dawn, meanwhile, had already spotted Katherine. “Oh my God, you’re actually here,” she said, landing in the chair beside her and leaning in with both elbows on the table. “What’s it like? Is food amazing? Is everything amazing?” She reached out and squeezed Katherine’s forearm, cheeks bright. Then she noticed Andy, and blushed furiously, scampering away with a mortified "eep!"

Norah, on her second sip now, glanced sidelong at Katherine. “You remember everything from inside, right? Every Round?”

Katherine nodded.

Norah’s lips quirked up, professional curiosity overpowering any other emotion. “I’d like to talk with you about it, when you have time. Maybe I could interview you. We can loop Claire in, too.” She produced a notepad from nowhere, pen already in hand.

Katherine looked at the notepad, then at Norah, then at Andy, her eyebrow raised in a way that said, is she always like this?

Andy grinned. “That’s her on a good day.”

Chloe, meanwhile, had already started buttering toast for Katherine, and now watched her sample it with near-parental satisfaction. “Do you want me to get you anything else?” she asked. “Fruit? Yogurt? They have this new kind of jam that tastes like guava and it’s so good—”

Katherine smiled, then shook her head, holding up her plate as proof of abundance.

The meal unfolded in fits and starts, conversation looping around and back, everyone talking at once but also somehow making space for the quiet ones. Andy watched the table: Katherine radiated contentment. Laura seemed happier, looser than he’d ever seen her. Emi and Myra came in late, having apparently gotten lost in a side corridor; Emi immediately started sketching the table on a napkin, while Myra, slightly self-conscious, tucked into her food with single-minded focus.

If there was a moment that captured the morning, it was when Katherine, eating a wedge of pineapple, leaned back in her chair, tipped her head toward the sun, and let out a laugh so bright that everyone turned to look. For a split second, nobody talked, nobody moved. The sun hit her hair just so, and she glowed.

Sam was the one who broke the spell. “Okay, I have a question.” She pointed at Katherine. “If you had a wish at the end of this thing, what would you wish for?”

Katherine paused, thought, then tapped her chest with her fist. She made a circle with her finger—around the table, then around the room—then pointed up, as if to the sky, and then held her hands open, like she was catching rain.

Andy interpreted, “She’d wish for everyone here to be free. To get out. Together.”

Chloe beamed. Liesa wiped at her eye, and even Riley looked away, jaw tight.

Laura, both bodies, reached for Katherine’s hand across the table and squeezed.

They fell into easy conversation after that. The topic drifted to the next challenge, to the possibility that this could be the last round, to what would happen if Arabella just… let them go. No one wanted to say it out loud, but Andy could feel the hope in the room, the certainty that this, maybe, was the final round, if they could do it.

After that, the meal wound down, the table emptied, and the sun climbed higher in the windows. Katherine lingered, savoring every bite, while Andy and Laura started gathering plates.

At the end, as people drifted out, Chloe came back to Katherine and pressed a hand to her arm. “Would you like to come with me and Riley? We’re taking a walk on the beach.”

Katherine nodded enthusiastically, hugged Chloe, and gave her a smile. She turned to Andy and Laura, waved, and gestured towards Chloe and Riley.

Andy smiled back, and said, “Enjoy the day, Katherine.” He watched the three of them walk out, side by side, into the bright hall.

If there was a better way to start a day, Andy couldn’t imagine it.

---

The Suite always felt a little haunted after breakfast, like it remembered every echo of laughter and every silent, unfinished conversation from the day before. Laura sat across from Andy, one body in a chair, the other perched on the window ledge. Both versions of her wore identical expressions: calm, a little tired, eyes fixed on Andy in that way she had when she knew he was holding something back. She didn’t ask. She just let the quiet fill up, the way she did when she wanted him to find his own words.

He took a sip of his coffee, realized it was cold, and drank it anyway. “You can ask,” he said, finally. “I know you want to.”

Laura’s window self stretched, toes pointed. The one at the table rested her chin in her hand. “You’re the one with the weight this morning,” she said, voices in gentle sync. “Not me.”

Andy turned the mug in his hands, debating. “It’s nothing urgent,” he said. “Just—Norah told me something by the end of the last round. I keep coming back to it.”

Both Lauras nodded, as if this confirmed a hypothesis. “Norah is never subtle,” Laura replied.

He continued: “Norah found something, before the Fifth Challenge. There’s a wing of the hotel, a sort of… museum, almost. I didn’t even know it existed.” He paused, then corrected himself: “Actually, I think it moves around. Anyway, she found records. Letters, photos, bits of the old game. She wanted to know if I recognized any of the names.”

He glanced at Laura, gauging her response.

Both versions of her sat in perfect stillness, heads tilted at the same precise angle, one hand propped on the knee, the other curled in the lap. “I’m guessing you did,” she said, voices a little more gentle than usual.

He nodded, slowly. “It was more than that. Norah showed me a letter from someone named Sarah, and I recognized the name because there was another letter during the first round—Marissa, Claire and Dawn found it by accident in the library.” He stopped, searching for the next words. “The way the letters are written… it’s clear the Contestants from that season went home, but not as themselves. It was a bad season.”

Laura absorbed this with no outward change. “So you want to know what happened to them.”

He exhaled. “Yeah. But I think there’s more.” He looked up, finally, meeting both pairs of her eyes at once. “Arabella knew, or at least knew more than she could tell. After I asked her about Sarah and the rest, Arabella told me that if I wanted real answers, I’d find them in the Hollow Garden. She said Dinah and Eden would tell me what she couldn’t.”

At the mention of the Hollow Garden, both of Laura’s faces winced, just a shade. “Isn’t that where they send the ones who—” she stopped herself, tried again: “The ones who can’t come back?”

He said, “It’s under the volcano. Reachable via the elevator from the Master’s Suite. I’ve only been there once, during the third round, and only by accident. Arabella said… it’s where the women go if they lose themselves in the transformations. If they can’t, or won’t, function after the game anymore.”

Laura’s left body blinked, a subtle wince passing over her mouth. “So it’s a hospital, but also a—” she hesitated, “—a sanctuary, if the Hotel wants to keep the failure rate from looking bad.”

Andy nodded. “I got the sense it was more complicated than that. That it’s not officially sanctioned by Harem Hotel. More like Arabella's own project. And the women there—they’re not punished. They’re kept safe, or as safe as they can be. Some of them can’t talk. Some don’t remember who they are. There’s a whole system for making sure they’re comfortable. Those who can be helped, are helped. Some of the staff are from their ranks, or like Emily, contestants left behind when their seasons died or went on hold, or…” He trailed off, the images crowding in: the silent, perfect Mildreds; the way every surface was soft, forgiving; the memory of the garden’s hush, a silence so deep it had a taste.

“I also met someone from there, during the last Challenge. A woman called Marie. Dinah and Arabella brought her up to add to the guest list, I guess, but she seemed to have a reason of her own for being there. She said she knew someone who cared about me, and she’d come to make sure I was alright. I promised her I’d come back after the challenge.” He didn’t say “I owe it to her,” but it was clear in the way he said the rest.

Laura waited, then said, “Do you want me to come?” The voices landed in perfect unison. She let the question hang between them, and Andy could feel the weight of it—invitation, not demand.

He paused, then, honest, he said, “I’d use the support. But last time I went that far from the hotel, even the bond with the rest of the harem got stretched. They started feeling my absence. It’s like the further down you go, the less the system wants you to remember the surface.” He tried to smile. “And I don’t want to put them at risk.”

Laura shrugged, as if the decision was easy. “We’ll figure it out. If it’s just about the bond, I’m not the only one who can anchor it. We’ll ask Sam or Erin to hold it. If it gets frayed, at least it’ll have something to snap back to. I don’t want you going down there alone.” The left hand of one of her bodies reached over and covered his, squeezing gently. “I’m not afraid. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Andy Cooper.”

He smiled, and she could tell he meant it. He’d never been good at hiding from her, but today his honesty was more naked than ever. “Thank you,” he said. “I just—”

“You want the truth,” she said, voices lighter now. “And I want to help.” The hand squeezed again. “And if it’s bad, we’ll just blame Norah for getting us into it.”

He laughed, soft but real. “Deal.”

A few moments passed, the quiet heavy but not uncomfortable. There was an unspoken sense that once they went down, nothing would be quite the same—some boundary crossed, some secret revealed that would never be unlearned. Laura seemed to sense it, too. “Let’s go look for Sam or Erin, so we can go down early,” she said. “I suspect we’ll need all the time we can get, and after lunch you might have to go on Liesa’s date.” The words had a finality, a readiness.

He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

---

They found Sam in the fitness center, bench-pressing one of the more improbable weights while Liesa counted reps and offered mock-serious pointers. Sam, sweating and obviously loving the burn, placed the weight back and sat on the bench, sipping some water. She didn’t look up until Laura’s left hand poked her in the ribs.

“Hey!” Sam grinned, then noticed Andy. “You two look like you’re about to rob a bank, or confess to a ****. Is this a two-person intervention or should I sit down?”

“We need a favor,” Laura said. “Andy wants to visit the Hollow Garden, and we think the bond might get wobbly. Can you anchor it, keep everyone else steady until we get back?”

Sam racked the bar, hopped up, and wiped her hands on a towel. “Easy. But you sure you don’t want me to go with? I’m strong enough now, and I don’t get queasy at weird shit.”

Andy shook his head. “It’s not that. I just want you here, in case anything—” He stopped, aware of the subtext. “Just in case.”

Sam nodded, then looked at Laura. “You okay with this?” She didn’t need to ask, really, but she did anyway. That was her style.

“I’m not letting him go alone,” Laura said. “But yes. I’m okay with it.”

Liesa, who’d watched the exchange with a faint, speculative smile, said, “If something bad happens, you know I will blame you both. I don’t like when Andy does something too brave.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “It’s not brave, it’s just typical. You’re both still obsessed with the past.”

Andy almost wanted to defend himself, but instead just said, “We’ll be back in a few hours. If it’s longer, you’ll know something’s wrong.”

Sam saluted. “I’ll keep the home fires burning. And if you see Eden or Dinah, tell them I say hi.” She shot a look at Liesa, who stuck out her tongue.

Before they left, Laura pulled Liesa aside and talked with her in low, hushed tones. Andy only heard the word "sun", not that he was trying to eavesdrop. Sam definitely was, but she also couldn't catch more, and looked sheepish when Liesa and Laura rejoined them, pretending nothing had happened.

They left the gym, and for a second, Andy and Laura just walked in silence, both aware of the gravity but not wanting to overstate it.

In the elevator, as it began to sink down through the bones of the hotel, Laura reached for Andy’s hand. He took it, held it, didn’t let go.

---

On her first morning sharing a room with Dawn, Norah woke not to the alarm she had set, nor the natural rhythm of her own body, but to sunlight lancing across her eyelids; the blackout curtains were open.

Norah levered herself upright. Her head pounded, as it always did before the caffeine hit. She tried to remember if she’d had more than three glasses of wine the night before. Possibly. There was a bit after dinner where Liesa and Sam had challenged her to some kind of poolside debate—something about anime, of all things, a subject on which she had been catastrophically outgunned—and the memory went soft at the edges right around the point where she’d conceded the argument, which was also, she noted distantly, right around the point where things had gotten warm. She was reasonably sure she’d kept her dignity. Mostly sure.

The room, on first pass, did not look like it belonged to her. The sheets were a warm coral shade; the throw blanket, previously a careful rectangle at the bed’s foot, was now puddled on the floor in a way that radiated domesticity rather than sloth. The sheer drapes that, last night, had been arranged to cover most of the window now hung in three neat billows, letting in what felt like 3000% more sunlight than necessary. The air smelled not of her signature blend of amber and vetiver, but of tropical fruit and, faintly, pancake batter.

Norah blinked, sat up, groaned when her head complained in the harshest terms, and ran a quick scan. Her blouse, which she’d left on a chair, was now hung over the corner of the mirror, as if on display. Her shoes (black patent, five-inch heel) were lined up with military precision near the bed, but next to them was a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers, one of which had already lost an eye.

She heard humming. Not the tuneless, background sort, but the full-throated, major-key, American Idol audition kind, the sort of humming you couldn’t ignore even if you put the pillow over your head. She tried that. The pillow smelled like coconut. She threw it aside and **** herself upright.

Dawn was at the window, as expected. Her ears—long, black-furred, mobile as semaphore flags—were at full mast, twitching with every note. The sun hit her just right, making her hair almost blue-black, and outlining every ridiculous curve the transformations had inflicted on her: the absurd bust, the cottontail. She wore a pale hoodie (yellow, with “Be Kind, Rewind” in blocky letters), and a pair of running shorts that barely cleared the cottontail.

“Morning,” Dawn chirped, as if she’d been waiting hours for Norah to emerge. “Did you want coffee or do you want to sleep in?”

Norah stared at her, not answering. The coffee was, in fact, already prepared: there was a steaming French press and two mugs on the desk, one in each of their favorite colors, one already poured. The pale blue mug had been set near the bed. She groaned. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty,” Dawn said cheerfully, “took me a little while to find the French press and get the water hot.”

Norah grunted, sat up, and took the cup. Dawn watched, openly, but without any kind of challenge—just the faintest note of pride in her own efficiency.

“Your slippers are on the wrong side,” Norah said. “You know that, right?”

Dawn looked. “Oh! Oops. Left them there for you.” Her ears flopped. “Ah, I forgot about your heels transformation, though.”

Norah didn’t answer. She slipped her feet into the heels, took her mug to the window and, after a measured beat, took up position to Dawn’s right. They were around the same height, but the transformations had gifted Dawn a good extra foot in ear alone.

“Do you always wake up like this?” Norah asked, sipping. She was almost sure it didn't sound whiny.

Dawn nodded. “I like mornings. Always have. Even when I was a kid.” She finished whatever she was doing with the curtains, then dusted off her hands. “Plus I don't have a choice. Wake Up Call takes care of it whether I want to or not. Which, um, I needed after last night. You’re more of a night person, right?”

“I’m an all-hours person,” Norah said, flat. “I sleep when there’s nothing left to do.”

Dawn looked like she was thinking of a joke, then decided against it. “Fair,” she said.

The view from their room was—Norah had to admit—spectacular. The entire wall was glass, and beyond it was the lagoon, shining like a freshly minted coin. If you looked left, you could see the main building with its white walls and shock of bougainvillea. One of the Mildreds was already out on a skiff, picking up debris that Norah couldn't even see. She wondered if Arabella sometimes gave Mildred chores just to keep her busy.

Norah let herself lean against the frame. “I never understood the appeal,” she said, “of all this.” She gestured with her mug. “Beach resorts. Sunlight. Smiling in the morning.”

Dawn’s ears twitched. “I like knowing what kind of day I’ll have, first thing.” She considered. “That’s probably weird, huh?”

“It’s not weird,” Norah said. “It’s just not for me.”

They stood in silence for a bit, not quite awkward but not quite easy. Dawn rocked back on her heels, looking at the sky. Norah watched her profile: the way her nose wrinkled when she squinted, the set of her jaw, the way her collarbone stood out just so.

Dawn’s gaze was still fixed on the horizon. She said, softly, “It’s going to be a good day.” Then, with the earnestness of a first-grade teacher: “Do you want to do breakfast together, or are you meeting someone?”

Norah debated. Her usual mode was to ignore the question, do what she wanted, and **** the world to adjust. But this was new territory, and she was nothing if not adaptable. “Breakfast is fine,” she said. “But I have some things to finish after.” She saw the slight disappointment on Dawn’s face, but the other woman recovered quickly.

“I’ll get dressed,” Dawn said. “You want first shower?”

Norah considered, then shook her head. “You go. I need to check some emails.”

Dawn nodded, then padded off to the bathroom, ears folded slightly in confusion.

Norah watched her go, then, when the door closed, turned back to the room. She scanned for anything else that had changed. The pillows on Dawn’s side had been fluffed and arranged in a tier. The vanity was already wiped down, and Norah’s own makeup bag was zipped and squared to the edge. The efficiency of it was annoying, but also—if she was honest—impressive. She threw herself back on the bed and promptly tried to fall asleep again.

She was halfway there when Dawn emerged, hair damp, wearing a dress that was equal parts adorable and criminally unfair: sundress, blue and white stripes, fitted bodice, skirt that ended just below mid-thigh. The contrast with Norah’s own all-black ensemble was almost cartoonish.

Dawn toweled her hair, then set about making the bed. Norah grumbled under her breath and **** herself to sit up and drink her coffee. She got off the bed and watched, not offering to help, but not looking away, either.

When Dawn finished, she turned. “Your turn.”

Norah closed the door behind her, and for a full minute just leaned against the sink, breathing. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and then touched up her eyeliner. She took longer than she needed to, just to spite the compulsion to hurry. She didn’t even need to do any of these things - Time Savers took care of them all - but she refused to get lazy.

When she stepped out, Dawn was waiting by the door, handle in hand. Her ears flicked at Norah, then at the coffee cup, then back. “Ready?”

Norah nodded.

They walked to breakfast together, not side by side but in a weird stagger, as if neither wanted to concede the preferred walking speed. Dawn’s steps were brisk, buoyant, like someone trained to skip without being caught. Norah’s were calculated, every stride measured for efficiency and effect.

The breakfast room was loud, chaotic, a hundred micro-scenes playing out at once. By the time Katherine left with Chloe and Riley, Marissa and Emily sat by the window, Marissa reading while Emily animatedly narrated the news (which, given the lack of news media on the island, was 100% made up). Erin and Liesa were at the buffet, deep in conversation, arms crossed and heads bent together like rival heads of state plotting a coup.

Dawn had assembled a plate that was pure carb: pancakes, banana bread, a slab of pineapple. Norah had selected a Greek yogurt, some smoked salmon, and half a bagel, then sat at a corner table where she could see the whole room.

Dawn joined her, and for a few minutes they ate in peace. Norah watched her eat—really eat, no hesitation, no performative daintiness—and found herself both envious and a little charmed. The compulsion from Big Sis was still there, but for once it felt less like a burden and more like an itch that could wait to be scratched.

They were halfway through the meal when Dawn set her fork down and, very quietly, said, “Can I tell you something stupid?”

Norah took a bite of bagel. “If you must.”

Dawn’s voice dropped. “Last night I had a dream that I was on a date with Andy and we made ravioli. From scratch. I don’t know why, but it made me feel like… like home, you know?” She twisted a napkin in her fingers, ears flat. “He didn’t do anything wild, or even say much. But at one point, I was working the dough and he just walked up behind me, put his arms around my waist, and stood there. Like it was the most normal thing.” She smiled, not at Norah, but at the memory. “Then he kissed me right here,” she said, touching the base of her neck, “and his hands slid up to here,” she pointed to her breasts, “and then I turned and kissed him and one thing led to another…” She paused. “I liked it.”

Norah’s brain had already started cataloguing the moment, breaking it down into its component parts: the kitchen, the intimacy, the lack of pressure, the hands at the waist, the focus on comfort over sex. She felt the Sibling Rivalry compulsion fire, hard and fast, and suddenly she was thinking about how she would arrange the exact conditions—better them, even—so that next time Andy touched a woman in the kitchen, it would be her, and it would be memorable.

She set her mug down, just a little too hard. “That’s very sweet,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure he’d be like that with all of us.”

Dawn blushed. “Probably. But it was new for me.”

Norah leaned in, her voice low. “Don’t let it get to your head. In reality, the man has more issues than a medical journal. If you want to survive this, you’d better get used to being one of a set, not the only edition.”

Dawn looked down. “I know. I’m not— I don’t expect to be the only one.” She glanced up. “I just liked the way it felt, that’s all.”

Norah absorbed this, and in spite of herself, felt a twist of—what, respect? Annoyance? Both? “Well, congrats,” she said. “You got a dream moment.” She sipped her coffee. “Most people don’t.”

Dawn nodded, then focused on her food with renewed intensity.

They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Norah kept her eyes on the other tables, watching for any sign of Andy, for any evidence of the dynamics shifting around her. She saw Erin and Liesa break into laughter so loud that half the room looked up. She filed it all away.

As they finished, Dawn wiped her mouth, stood, and said, “Thanks for sitting with me.”

Norah nodded, then looked away, pretending to check her phone. “I have some things to do,” she said. “Meet you later?”

Dawn smiled, soft and unoffended. “Sure. I’ll be in the garden if you need me.”

Norah watched her go, then, when the room was nearly empty, gathered her things and left.

She walked the boardwalk in heels, the wood planking clicking underfoot. She let herself think about the kitchen, the hands at the waist, the way Dawn had described the moment, as something worth having for its own sake. The thought annoyed her, but she didn’t dismiss it.

When she returned to the room, the curtains were still billowed, but now there was a compromise: one panel drawn tight, the others left open. Dawn’s slippers were back on her side of the door. The pillows were arranged in two tiers, each with its own aesthetic. Norah stood in the doorway, took it all in, and realized, with a small but genuine smile, that she didn’t mind the change.

She sat on the bed, shoes off, feet tucked under her. For the first time in a long while, she let herself be still. Tomorrow, she’d one-up the kitchen moment. She’d make sure of it.