And Another Time

The Terrace pool was nearly deserted, save for Sam, who floated at the deep end with her arms hooked over the cold tile edge. The view here was the whole eastern curve of the volcano—clouds rippling in from the sea, the distant blue cut with impossible clarity by the glass railing. The water itself was warm as a body, and Sam let herself drift belly-up, only half-listening to the world around her. She wore a black swimsuit and a pair of mirrored sunglasses that looked like they’d been stolen from a gas station impulse rack, and her hair was piled up into a messy knot, cobalt blue visible even from a dozen yards away.

Liesa, perched on a lounge chair, had her feet up on the railing and a sketchbook open across her thighs. She was supposedly drawing the volcano, but from Sam’s angle she was mostly doodling spirals and shading in the curve of her own ankle. The sunlight made her freckles go into overdrive, and she kept brushing stray locks of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear, only for them to bounce forward again a second later.

It would have been the laziest, most ordinary morning of the round, but the universe had other plans.

The glass door to the Terrace slid open, and Mildred appeared in a slim black sheath dress and flats, carrying a white linen towel and a single envelope. She didn’t look at the water or the view. She stalked to the pool, set the envelope on the hot stone just past Sam’s reach, and placed the towel next to it. “Mail for Harem Queen Collins,” she said. “And a clean towel, as your previous one has gone missing.”

Sam grinned up at her. “Thanks, Mildred. You want to join me in the pool, or are you hydrophobic?”

Mildred’s smile was a flat, unsparing thing. “I am not fleshed to swim this cycle, but thank you, Harem Queen Collins.” She turned, not even waiting for a response, and strode back to the door.

Sam snorted. “She’s so weird.” She paddled to the edge and hooked her chin over the coping, letting the water settle. She glanced at Liesa, who was watching the letter with more interest than the volcano.

“Are you going to open it?” Liesa called.

“Not unless you come read it to me,” Sam shot back. “The text is probably in Comic Sans, and I’m going to just get it soaked, anyway.”

Liesa rolled her eyes, but the invitation was enough. She gathered her sketchbook, slid her feet back into her flip-flops, and made her way to the edge of the pool. She stood just out of Sam’s reach, then bent to retrieve the envelope. “It’s from a Kevin,” Liesa said, turning the envelope over as if there might be an instruction manual printed on the back. “That’s the entire address. Just ‘To Sam’ and ‘Kevin.’ Do you know a Kevin?” She looked at Sam, eyebrow arched.

Sam’s voice drifted over the water, lazy and content. “Yep. He’s my favorite gay bull-man. And also, sometimes, my favorite drow domme. Long story. Want to read it to me?”

Liesa laughed, and for a second she looked younger—cheeks pink, hair bright in the sun. “Only if you promise not to get chlorine on the stationery.”

“I promise,” Sam said, making an X over her heart with two wet fingers. “If you get close, I’ll towel off.”

Liesa knelt and slit the envelope with a practiced thumb, glancing up to make sure Sam was watching. She tilted the opening toward the light, and a puff of iridescent pink glitter exploded outward, catching both the breeze and the sunlight. The glitter rained down on Liesa’s bare legs and the tiles, then, inevitably, into the pool, where it formed a miniature galaxy that spread from Sam’s elbow.

Liesa snorted. “It’s like your reputation in powder form.”

Sam cackled, delighted, then called: “The **** attack means they got the bomb! Yes! Please tell me it stuck to their fur. That stuff doesn’t come out, ever.”

Liesa gave the letter a gentle shake, then pulled out the thick card within. Liesa rolled her eyes and turned it over, reading aloud.

Sam,

Now that it was explained to me, I have unfortunate news. Your glitterbomb attack hit the wrong target. I got blasted instead of Tyalangan. Or were you aiming for Tina? Regardless, thank you for the letter and the advice. As I said in the verbal reply, I am glad to hear that Claire and/or Andy found you a loophole. We haven’t gotten very far in your season yet, but, since we started watching it specifically because I wanted to see someone else navigate the game in our situation, it is nice to see that you don’t have to compromise on anything. I don’t have to compromise either. Our Host seemed to have designed our rule set to let me ignore the whole ‘sexy times with Mona’ thing.

Granted, our platonic relationship was a little different than yours as I don’t mind her watching. Heck, Caoimhe is okay with sharing a cute little femboi with her, provided that she doesn’t have to touch Mona sexually. Mona is a very good friend and I am glad to be here for her. Granted, she sometimes does boneheaded things, but she means well. She even got me laid on my date with her a couple of nights ago. Not happy that she tried to make it a surprise, but Winter was / is uncomfortable about things beyond what I should talk about without permission. I understand and want to support my (is it too soon to say?) significant other. How soon does one start the S.O. talk? I’m pretty sure Winter has already started calling me ‘boyfriend.’ Tyalangan has already been acting like we’re dating; is she always going to be so scary? Gonna swap to Caoimhe for the swapping bit. Mona picked the weird sign off, not me.

Kevin
Mona’s bestest bud and Winter’s sexy bull

Liesa paused, lips pursed in consideration. “Is this the part where I feign shock at the terminology, or do I just let it ride?”

Sam propped herself up on the tile with both forearms and made a big show of listening. “You let it ride. He’s a sweet guy. I mean, his other form is a she, and she’s pretty amazing too, but the letter’s probably got the details.”

Liesa scanned the card, flipping to the next densely written block of text. “It continues,” she said, clearing her throat and doing a voice a half-octave lower, as if reading for the stage.

I appreciate the compliment on my looks, Samantha. I am not into women, even like this, so I’m unwilling to indulge in some lezdom with you. I imagine that I would need some magic rope to restrain you properly and that is not in the current BP budget anyways. Yes, it is weird sharing my mind and soul with a male, even if that male is also the original me. While different, we are both better than pre-show Kevin. He is more confident now, though too muscular for my… personal tastes. I doubt he would have been able to get me my sweet little sub Winter as he was. My superiority is quite obvious. It is nice to get along with oneself.

Thank you again for the correspondence.

Caoimhe
Mona’s bestest bud and Winter’s sexy Mistress.

Liesa finished, looked at Sam over the rim of her sunglasses, and let the silence fill in. “That is either the best or the worst sign-off I have ever read,” she said finally. “Also, is it always this dramatic in the fan mail, or did you get a special batch?”

Sam pretended to consider this. “Only when the reader is cute,” she said. “I’m going to say the line about the magic rope is directed at you.”

“Me? I’m not the one the letter is addressed to. Although I'd like to see them try,” Liesa said, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice. “So, wait. This person is both a bull-man and a drow dominatrix? How does that work?”

Sam drifted closer, kicking a little to make the water lap at the edge. “You remember Harper? It’s her season. Kevin is the bull. Caoimhe is the drow. They swap, depending on the need. They both share the same soul. Both into men, and both totally fine with it, you know?”

Liesa shook her head. “That is… honestly, I can’t even decide if it is the best or the worst letter I’ve ever read. Is it normal for you to get fan mail this weird?”

Sam rolled onto her back, letting her hair fan out around her head in the water. “I was a professional DM for two years, babe. I once got a cake in the shape of a beholder and a love letter that used only dice notation. This is tame.”

Liesa re-read the letter, and her eyes went wide. “Wait, so it’s like they can tag-team a boyfriend, and both of them remember everything?”

“Exactly.” Sam’s voice was proud, like she’d built it herself. “And the best part is, they seem to genuinely like each other. Like, they’re two people, but also only one person. Kind of what goes on with Laura, in a way. It’s honestly kind of sweet.” She propped her arms on the edge of the pool.

Liesa pursed her lips, considering. “It’s a little weird,” she admitted, “but also kind of… I don’t know, elegant? I like the idea of not having to choose between being your best self and your true self. I think I’d be happy for them.”

Sam nodded, then went quiet, as if the thought carried more weight than she’d expected. “It’s kind of what I like about Andy, honestly,” Sam said. “He’s got the two-forms thing, but it doesn’t bother him. He just… exists as both, and there’s no drama. I admire that.”

Liesa’s gaze softened, and she reached out to run a finger along the rim of her water glass. “I think you do the same thing,” she said, voice almost shy. “You’re Sam, and you’re not sorry about it, but you don’t make anyone else feel smaller for not being you. That’s… impressive.”

Sam made a face, equal parts bashful and delighted. “You’re going to make me blush,” she said. “Don’t make me come up there and dunk you.”

Liesa grinned, then shifted gears. “What do you think about the thing in the letter? The part where he says you don’t have to compromise?”

Sam tilted her head, chewing on the words. “I think he means it. If you’re going to be in a place like this, you should play to win on your own terms. Don’t let anyone tell you how to be. If you're dragged here and you're not sexually compatible with the Master, either they provide you with ways to win without breaking, or they are sadists. If you want to date a girl and never touch a guy, do it. If you want to get glitterbombed in the face, do that too.”

“I think you just want to glitterbomb the whole world,” Liesa said, her voice fond.

“Maybe I do,” Sam shot back, smiling.

Liesa looked at the card again. “Would you write to them again?”

Sam nodded, unhesitating. “Yeah. I think I owe them a reply.” She splashed the water with her foot, sending a ringlet of pink glitter out into the blue. “Maybe something about how it’s okay to be better than your old self, even if it’s scary sometimes.”

Liesa smiled, but her eyes were soft. “That’s good advice,” she said.

Sam floated back, arms out like wings, and looked up at the infinite blue overhead. “If I ever get out of here,” she said, “I want to find a place with a pool and a volcano view, and someone to read my mail to me. You in?”

Liesa laughed, then, to Sam’s surprise, crouched down until her face was level with Sam’s. “Depends,” she said. “Do I get to be your bestest bud or your sexy Mistress?”

Sam grinned. “Andy's my best friend. You get to be the love of my life.”

Without another word, Sam reached up, caught Liesa’s wrist, and pulled her forward. Liesa yelped, but before she could escape, Sam hauled her into the pool, shoes and all. The splash was enormous, cold water everywhere, and the next moment Liesa surfaced, hair streaming, mouth open in theatrical outrage.

“You are impossible!” Liesa said, laughing so hard she nearly swallowed water.

Sam closed the distance in two strokes, wrapped both arms around Liesa’s waist, and kissed her, hard. Liesa made a muffled, protesting sound, then melted into it, the two of them bobbing together in a cloud of glitter and sun. The laughter didn’t stop, even when Sam broke the kiss; it just changed, brighter and softer.

Sam said, “If I ever get turned into a bull, or a drow, or even a fox, you’d still be my favorite person to prank.”

Liesa shook her head, blinking water out of her eyes. “If you got turned into a bull, I’d make you pull a plow every morning.”

“Oh? You’d want me to plow?” Sam kissed her again, this time with a grin so wide it nearly split her face. “Didn’t we kinda-sorta handle that already?” She placed a hand on Liesa’s belly, and for a moment, both of them were raw and unguarded.

The sun was warm, and the sky was blue, and for a moment, nothing in the world could touch them.

The Forest of Beginnings did not have a set temperature. Sometimes Emi would walk the mossy paths and feel the warmth of a tropical evening, and other times the air ran cold as a refracted memory. This morning it was in between: cool enough to see her breath if she exhaled slowly, but warm enough that the ground felt soft under her bare feet.

She paced a circle in the moss, six arms wound around herself in complicated turns. Sometimes she hugged her ribs with all of them, sometimes she let two swing free and three curl at her sternum, the last hand hovering near her mouth as she chewed a fingernail. Her mood did not improve with the movement, but stopping made it worse, so she kept up the circuit, round and round the knotted base of a glass-surfaced tree.

She didn’t know what she was working through. She’d been out here since before dawn, and every time she tried to draw, her hands rebelled and she would just end up sitting in the moss, arms wrapped tight, watching the way the colored light of the trees flickered between violet and a green so pale it almost ached. Tonight was her date with Andy, and she was worried she had made a mistake.

She was on her sixth or seventh lap around the biggest of the glass trees when the portal flickered open between two roots. The tear was brief, and out stepped Mildred—today in gray slacks, a crisp sleeveless shirt, and a Service badge that was the only spot of gold in her whole ensemble. She didn’t look at the trees. She didn’t even register the world beyond Emi, instead crossing to Emi’s orbit and stopping with the smooth, mechanical exactness of a knife being set on a counter.

She held out two letters, one in each hand.

Emi stopped short, three hands automatically reaching for them while the other three fluttered to her waist in embarrassment. “Thank you,” she said, voice so small it almost vanished into the moss. Mildred did not reply, only waited until the transfer was complete, then folded her hands behind her back.

Emi stood there, letters in her lowest right and left hands, her middle arms fidgeting and her top pair pressing into her biceps as if she could restrain herself from further blushing. She hesitated, then said, “I, um. I can give you something, too. For coming all the way out here.”

She brought her two free hands together, fingertips aligned in a rough bud shape. There was a small pulse of air—more heard than felt—and a delicate flower of clear, faceted glass bloomed between her palms, petals forming out of nothing. Emi plucked it free and handed it to Mildred, who stared at it for a moment, unblinking.

“It’s a poppy, I think,” Emi said. “Or maybe a bluebell. The Forest helps. Sometimes if I want something enough, it just… makes it real. Or maybe I’m getting better at dreaming in a place that's a dream made real.”

Mildred rolled the flower between her fingers, turning it so that the sunlight caught the ridges and made the air around it tremble in tiny rainbows. Her face was entirely blank. “You are correct that the Forest bends to the will of those who carry the right bloodline,” she said. “Though it is not just a matter of blood anymore. Congratulations on your continued progress.”

Emi’s stomach turned over at the phrase. “I don’t have a—I’m not—“ She let the sentence trail off. Mildred did not answer. She watched Emi for a moment, and in that silence Emi realized she had no idea if Mildred even saw her as a person, or just another item to be delivered on a tray.

Emi hesitated, then blurted: “Do you think it would be a mistake to take Andy to Paris for our date?” The words tumbled out, unplanned, and for a second Emi thought the glass trees themselves might crack under the weight of her nervousness.

Mildred’s head turned, slow and careful, as if the question required recalibrating her entire self. She said, “If it is your wish to go, then you should go. The consequences are not mine to bear.” She tucked the flower into her shirt pocket, and for just a moment, her expression shifted—a brief, flickering confusion, as if she were experiencing nostalgia and disgust at the same time.

She stepped back toward the portal, paused on the edge of the tear, and said, “Good luck.”

Emi was alone again, the letters heavy in her hand, the air around her shimmering with too much color.

After a long while, Emi let her knees sink into the moss. She sat, the letters fanned out in two right hands, the other four folding into her lap, as if she could hold herself together that way. The forest was very quiet, the only sound the slow click of glass leaves in the upper canopy. It felt like a secret, and she was the only person allowed to hear it.

She opened the thicker envelope first, expecting something chaotic, but the handwriting was neat and severe—each letter tight as a wound spring.

Emi,

Thank you for the correspondence. Six arms certainly seems to be a source of increased efficiency, once one has developed the requisite coordination. I can appreciate useful transformations. Certainly better than a compulsion to steal bras.

I got transformed into a sex android. The experience is certainly different. I appreciate no longer needing to waste time on eating and drinking. Sleep has been reduced to a standby mode, where my body becomes inert while my mind can continue to function at full capacity. The loss of sense of touch, outside of erogenous zones, took more getting used to, but another transformation I got both gave me something to do during standby mode and is slowly returning it to me. I have been told that I am hiding too much. Your letter reinforced that sentiment in a more positive sense.

I haven’t met this Scarlet. I have barely interacted with Skye. I have barely interacted with Tina. Some of that is just because I have spent more time with other members of the staff instead (mostly Alex and Mattie), but most of it is because I have been viewing them as knowledge resources rather than people. I’m not very good at being people. I will strive to be better.

Forgive the sign-off. Mona assigned the epithet.

Andromeda Saloman
Mona’s bestest sex robot

Post Script: Daphne asked us to remind you about some mermaid potions? I do not know if you wrote to the others. Reminder has been sent regardless.

Emi read the letter twice, then pressed her lower lip between her teeth and smiled, slow and wide. She loved the way Andromeda wrote—clinical and blunt, but never cruel. She could feel the shyness in the lines, the way the postscript was slipped in at the end like a note under a door. Emi fished a mechanical pencil out of her Inventory, made a quick note about the potions in her sketchbook margin, and then closed her eyes and just held the letter for a while, letting the kindness seep in.

She imagined what Andromeda must look like now: arms always folded, eyes full of numbers, hair cropped to perfect symmetry, maybe a single earring just to prove a point. The pencil ran on the sketchbook, drawing Emi’s imagination. It made Emi wish she could have coffee with her, although it sounded like Andromeda no longer needed coffee. Could she drink coffee?

When she opened the next envelope, a sheaf of papers dropped out along with a small glass vial, sealed with wax and labeled “Vagi-taste” in the looping, careless script of someone who had written the word before.

Auntie Emi,

Hi! I hope you don’t mind the title. Mama Skye wants us to treat you and yours like those “friends of the family” aunts and uncle? Anyways, my name is Summer (at least when Mama Aelenetheria is not about) and I thought that I should anticipate a desire of yours.

Your picture book illustrations did wonders for me and at least my elven siblings. You did more for us learning Common than several authors. Lady Silverhair (or however you want me to reference Eilistraee) wants us to devote ourselves to arts other than the sword. Since I am so good with my hands, I kept drawing for real. I am sending you some of my more recent sketches. One of Andromeda, some of me and my siblings. I hope my style passes muster.

Oh, and I am also sending you some Vagi-taste. A small vial. Add a few drops to each of Mama Daphne’s flavored mermaid potions and they will taste like the last girl you have eaten out (or nothing, if you’ve never done that deed) instead. Just in case the shark’s blood flavor is why you haven’t thrown the mermaid time into a party yet. Enjoy!

Urinlaire
Sixth in Line for the Copse-wood Throne.

Emi stopped at the sign-off, then pressed her hand to her mouth, unsure whether to laugh or cry. She turned the vial in her palm, the glass faintly opalescent, and tucked it into a pocket of her Inventory. Then she turned to the sketches.

She spread them in two hands, holding the paper at the corners with perfect symmetry. The first was a portrait, Andromeda in profile, one eye sharpened to a point of diamond focus. The shading was so fine Emi could almost feel the texture of the skin, the subtle tension in the jaw, the tilt of the lips. She looked very different from how Emi imagined her, but it was okay. Emi had had the same issue with Skye.

The next few were quick studies: two elven siblings, all sharp ears and wild hair, each child rendered with a precision that Emi recognized from the best students at art camp. A few landscapes of a fantasy kingdom. A sketch of a woman who was unmistakably Harper, Andy’s friend. The last drawing was a forest, wild and overgrown, with a single fox on a branch and a figure—barely more than a silhouette—curled in the shadow of the tree’s roots. It was Emi, the six arms drawn as a set of graceful parentheses, both protective and open.

It was the work of a real artist. Not a prodigy-child, but the practiced hand of someone who had spent years drawing the world as she wished it to be.

Emi stared at the sketches, then at the sign-off again. “Sixth in Line for the Copse-wood Throne.” She remembered Summer’s drawing, the one with the little hearts and the wobbly cursive, and realized that the day where she’d drawn those first picture books for Tyalangan’s kids had to be nearly a century ago, for them. For her, it was only a few weeks.

The world spun, just a little.

She pressed the drawings to her chest, all six arms folding them close, and rocked herself in the moss. She was proud—so, so proud—but there was a cold twist at the center, the knowledge that if she ever met Summer in the future, it wouldn’t be as a child, but as a woman who had lived a whole life without her.

The glass trees of the Forest of Beginnings shimmered in the amber-green light, and Emi sat there, breathing slow, sketches pressed to her heart, letting the new world settle around her like a blanket.

She lay back on the moss, letting the glass leaves overhead break the sunlight into little rivers of moving color. The sketches were spread in two hands. A third hand held Summer’s letter, thumb stroking the words as if they could be erased and re-written just by touch.

Emi was not crying. Or, rather, she was, but not in the way she had as a kid, not with heat or noise or the need to be witnessed. This was a quieter thing, a kind of gentle tremor, a vibration that started at her sternum and radiated outward through all six arms, until even her breath seemed to quiver with it. For a while she just let it be, a part of her, no longer strange.

She read the sign-off a dozen times, then half a dozen more. Sixth in Line for the Copse-wood Throne. It sounded like a joke, except that it wasn’t. For Summer, the party with the picture books was a lifetime ago. Several lifetimes, maybe. A world that Emi could visit only in memory. There was something melancholy, sad and yet beautiful to be found in the knowledge those children had grown. Their sketches, safe in Emi’s Inventory, were among Emi’s most prized possessions.

She tried to draw for a while—just a doodle, just a way to mark the moment—but none of the hands would cooperate. The moss was damp under her, the glass tree warm at her back.

When the shadow appeared at the edge of the clearing, Emi didn’t flinch. She knew who it was by the soundless step, the way the air seemed to shift and clear in her presence. Grandma stepped into the light, a blue dress and a scarf that trailed like the memory of wings. She looked younger today, her eyes dark and full of unspoken things.

Anna did not speak. She moved to Emi’s side and knelt, tucking her feet beneath her as if this was the only place she’d ever wanted to be. Then, without asking, Anna wrapped both arms around Emi’s shoulders and pulled her in, holding Emi’s head against her collarbone. Emi made a noise—part sigh, part apology—but Anna only tightened her hold, as steady as the earth.

After a long, wordless interval, Emi said, “I used to imagine I’d meet them someday. The kids. That I’d get to show them how to draw with all six hands, or tell them what it’s like to walk through a whole world made of color. But it’s too late now. Even if I do see them again, it won’t be the same.”

Anna’s voice was a warmth that filled the whole clearing. “They remember your kindness,” she said. “You changed their world, Emi. Maybe only in a small way, maybe for only a short while. But for them, it was everything.”

Emi squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the sketches closer to her chest, as if they might become a part of her forever. Anna’s hand stroked her hair, slow and repetitive, like she was unwinding a tangle that had been knotted for years.

“I wish I could have met them when they were little,” Emi said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wish I could have told them how proud I am.”

Anna smiled. It was a real smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made the blue of her scarf blaze in the sun. “You don’t need to see someone to love them,” Anna said. “You know that better than anyone. And they know it, too. I think that’s why Summer sent you these.” She brushed her fingers over the sketches, the touch as gentle as new grass. “You can still tell her you are proud. The moment is not past yet.”

For a while, Emi just let herself be held. The glass trees overhead cast moving shadows, and the moss smelled clean and alive. She cried, quietly, against Anna’s shoulder, and Anna didn’t let go.

When the tears were spent, Emi found she could breathe easier. She let herself rest in Anna’s lap, the way she had with her own mother when she was small. The quiet was so deep it felt like the world was holding its breath, just for them.

After a long time, Emi said, “I asked Arabella for something a little crazy for this afternoon.” Her voice was sheepish, but there was a new steadiness to it. “I hope I don’t regret it.”

Anna leaned back, still cradling Emi, and looked her in the eye. “Don’t be afraid,” Anna said. “You have a beautiful heart. You always have. And I love you as if you were my daughter.”

Emi laughed—soft, incredulous, but real. She wrapped four of her arms around Anna’s waist and held on. The weight of the world, for just a moment, was light as a whisper.

They stayed that way, bathed in sun and color, until the shadows started to lengthen and the world called them back to itself.