Pt. 086 — Day 9 Night 1/2

Mara glanced at the clock above the lounge doors and set her glass down. The remains of Claire’s snack tray had been reduced to only crumbs and a piece of licorice Cassie had been threatening to throw at anyone who mentioned going to bed.

“I think Lizzy and I should turn in,” Mara said. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

Lizzy unfolded herself from the couch. “I've been trying not to think about that.”

“Ughh, don't remind me,” Cassie complained from inside her blanket.

Lizzy stacked the empty bowls on the tray while Claire assumed the dignity of a collegiate lecturer. “Sleep is actually a very good strategy for winning challenges. I've read studies.”

“I'll read your studies tomorrow, after the challenge,” Cassie said.

Mara bent to retrieve her shoes. “Good night, both of you.”

“Thanks for staying,” Cassie said, the words coming out quickly enough that Mara almost missed them. She pulled the blanket a little higher. “And, you know. Not making tonight a whole thing.”

Lizzy gave her shoulder a squeeze on the way past. “You don't have to thank us.”

“I absolutely do.” She finally began to untangle the blanket from around herself. “Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it from Claire.” She pointed a finger to the back of her own throat. “She thinks her lessons in manners make us better heroines or something.”

“You are welcome for the efforts to civilize you.” Claire lifted the tray. “I accept payment in licorice.”

Cassie held up the last piece in solemn farewell before tossing it into her mouth defiantly. “From my cold dead hands, Starling.”

Out in the corridor, the lounge doors closed behind Mara and Lizzy, muting the voices inside. The Hotel had settled into one of its quieter evening moods. The lights were lower, and the occasional watercolor staff member passed with a cart or a folded stack of linens as though this were an ordinary resort winding down after dinner. Strangely, the props they pushed around seemed more real than they did.

Lizzy walked for a little while before speaking. “Hey. About tomorrow.”

“The challenge?”

“No, I was thinking about the rooms. When they move everybody around.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Have you thought about telling whoever ends up with you about the dreams?”

Mara slowed. “Yes. Rather a lot, actually.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry about it again.”

“You didn't. I ought to tell her, whoever she is. I'd rather be embarrassed for five minutes than have someone wake up in the middle of one of my illusions.” She took a deep breath. “Waking up to an x rated projection is the kind of thing I shouldn’t surprise someone with anymore.”

Lizzy laughed at the understatement. She had seen enough of Dream Girl to know that an unsuspecting roommate could have quite a show considering the improvements to Mara’s illusions.

“The ones I saw were certainly…. detailed.” Lizzy was obviously trying to avoid thinking about what she had seen.

“Most of them know something about it now,” Mara continued. “And Evelyn and Katherine got a rather convincing demonstration in the mud baths. I'm running out of people I could plausibly avoid telling.”

“Telling Cassie might result in her selling tickets.” Lizzy giggled to herself. “Fiona would plan a coup.”

“And Claire would organize a committee.” Mara smiled, then sighed. “No. I'll just be honest. It's my responsibility to warn her, and I can't promise it won't happen.”

Lizzy nodded. She liked that answer, even if she was sorry Mara needed one at all.

They passed the stairs and took the hall toward their room. Mara watched Lizzy for another few steps.

“Can I ask you something a little more personal?”

“After the dream conversation?” She smiled at the older woman. “I’d be a real hypocrite if I refused.”

Mara gave her a searching look and apparently saw something that made her decision for her. “I wanted to check on how you are feeling about Evelyn's date?”

Lizzy looked up at her. “Fine.”

Mara waited.

“Really,” Lizzy insisted. “I know why you asked, but I am. We got the notification for linking arms, and then the one for holding hands. That's it. It's not like they're hiding in a corner kissing while we're all out here pretending not to notice.”

“I wasn't assuming that.”

“No, I know.” Lizzy rubbed her thumb over the seam of her sleeve. “Evelyn's amazing. She's so much more grown-up than me, and she's pretty, and she knows how to talk to people without getting all tangled up. I still think about those things. I just don't think it means Van doesn’t like me.” She slowed her steps to stare at her feet before she looked back at Mara. “I guess I’m just getting used to the idea that what’s happening here won’t look like a normal relationship.”

Mara's expression softened.

“I liked having him to myself the other night,” Lizzy admitted. “A lot. And maybe I'll want things to be different later. I haven't figured all that out yet. But I don't want to spend every time he's with somebody else deciding what I have to do to catch up. That made me miserable.”

“I'm glad,” Mara said.

Lizzy bumped her lightly with an elbow. “You sound surprised.”

Her smile was bright, “A little relieved, perhaps.”

“That's allowed.”

They reached their room and Mara opened the door. The familiar bedroom greeted them with Lizzy's stuffed dragon perched on one side of the bed. Hanging on the back of Mara’s wardrobe door was her pale robe. The thought of tomorrow's reassignment made Lizzy look around with a peculiar sense of ownership.

Mara set her shoes aside. “It is strange, isn't it?”

Lizzy hummed a questioning tone, “Hmm?”

“How quickly we've learned to speak as though all this is our life.”

Lizzy sat on her bed. “It sort of is.”

“I know.” Mara took her time setting down her things. “We're still looking for a way out. I haven't forgotten that. But everything we've learned suggests that escaping the system means surviving enough of it to reach the other side. Tomorrow we face our first challenge, and another vote will change us, whether we want it to or not. And here I am worrying about my next roommate while discussing the possibility of a future with a man I'd be sharing with seven other women.”

Lizzy tilted her head. “Our lives are pretty weird,” she agreed.

Mara sat on the opposite side of the bed. “I used to imagine a large family.” She sighed. “With a noisy house and happy people coming and going. I never imagined trying to work out what eight marriages—or whatever we decide to call them—would mean. Where everyone lives. How people get time alone. What happens when someone wants something the others don't. I don't know how people do that without someone getting hurt.”

“I don't either,” Lizzy said after a moment. “But I'm not exactly planning the weddings yet.”

Mara laughed. “Probably wise.”

Lizzy drew one knee up and rested her chin on it. “I've got three big brothers. They're loud and annoying and they borrow things without asking, and I'd never trade them for anything. I have several uncles and aunts, a dozen cousins too. I’ve never had sisters, though.” She looked across the space between the beds. “It's been kind of nice getting some.”

For a little while Mara couldn't think of anything to say. Then she held out one hand across the gap.

Lizzy leaned over to catch it.

“That's been nice for me too,” Mara said.

********************

The doors of Center Stage closed behind Van and Evelyn, shutting off the applause and music that still seemed to be vibrating somewhere behind Evelyn's ribs.

She paused beneath the entrance lights to catch her breath. Her cheeks were warm, her hair had loosened in a few places, and she was fairly certain she'd made a spectacle of herself. For once, the certainty didn't bother her nearly as much as it ought to have.

Van was grinning.

“If you laugh at me,” she warned, “I shall leave you here.”

“I would never,” he said with offended dignity.

Evelyn gave him a look. He laughed, and the sound set her laughing again before she'd quite recovered from the first attempt.

They turned toward the path leading back to the residential wing. Evelyn slipped her hand around his arm as they walked. The contact sent a pleasant warmth along her palm and up beneath her sleeve. She adjusted her grip to something comfortable and left it there.

“I must admit,” she said, “that was more fun than I have had in a very long time.”

He let out a theatrical breath. “Good. Because I was scared to death when I picked it.”

“You concealed your terror rather convincingly.”

“I thought you'd hate it. I've never done karaoke in my life. I figured if it was a disaster, at least we'd both be equally awful.” The simple honesty of his statement was radiant to her senses even without prying.

She made a little moue of consideration. “A sound basis for a daring social experiment.”

“That's what I told myself.”

They crossed beneath another light. Van glanced at her, saw the color still high on her neck and a bright sheen of excitement in her eyes. He took it as further proof that she hadn’t feigned her enjoyment at the club. The satisfaction he felt lightened the weight of concern he had been carrying.

“You have excellent instincts,” Evelyn said. “In another life, had you not spent so many years avoiding the dating world, I'm sure you would have broken any number of young hearts.”

Van snorted. “Mine would probably have been the first.”

She nodded in agreement. “An almost inevitable casualty of your approach, I suspect.”

“You're very encouraging.”

“I pride myself on accuracy.”

When the suite doors came into view, Van slowed. Evelyn followed his gaze, and the humor in her expression eased.

“Before we go in,” he said, “I ought to warn you about something.”

“Yet another surprise, Van?” She splayed her fingers against her collarbone in false shock. “I’m not sure I can manage more than I already have.”

“Very funny.” He replied drily. “You know the room changes itself for whoever's staying with me. But it has a nasty habit of trying to push things toward intimacy.”

Evelyn regarded the doors. “You’re warning me about the decor.”

“Yeah, the decor, the furniture, the clothes, what's in the drawers. It's very good at picking something that'll get under a person's skin.” He shifted awkwardly. “I don't want you thinking any of it was my idea.”

She laughed, genuinely amused. “Van, I have faced hostile psychic constructs, military disinformation campaigns, and literal hordes of monsters. I doubt a hotel bedroom can do very much to manipulate me.”

He reached for the handle. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

The door opened onto Evelyn Cross's private lounge. She stopped walking instantly. Her face never showed her emotions, but the sudden tension in her back and shoulders showed her shock.

The suite wasn't an approximation of the lounge at Cross Dynamics. She recognized the spacing of the furniture, the pale stone surrounding the gas fireplace, the recessed lighting reflected in dark glass, the low tables selected because their edges wouldn't catch a hurried passerby's leg. The seating was expensive without being conspicuous about it. Beyond the dining nook stood a bar with backlit bottles and precisely organized glassware. Wireless speakers were tucked into the ceiling, and a familiar doorway led toward her executive bedroom.

“Evelyn?”

She stepped inside. The doors closed behind them. “This,” she said carefully, “is my office.”

Van looked toward the bar. “You have a nicer office than anybody I've ever met.”

“My private lounge, technically. At the top of Cross Dynamics headquarters.” She ran a finger along the back of an armchair. Same leather. Same stitching. “The room is almost exact.”

“Almost?”

Evelyn was already looking at the walls.

In her real lounge there were framed charters, diplomatic commendations, documents recognizing research partnerships and evacuations. Here the frames held photographs and newspaper front pages she had never seen.

One occupied the most prominent position beside the fireplace.

MYSTERIOUS HERO LEADS TEAM OF EIGHT EMPOWERED TO DEFEAT ARCHITECT

Under the headline, Van stood surrounded by the contestants, Evelyn among them. The image had been taken at what looked like a formal award ceremony. They were smiling with the careless relief of people who had survived something extraordinary, a gleaming presentation case held between the group and a crowd applauding beyond the edge of the photograph.

Van approached it. “That article is in the future. Look at the date.”

“I see it.” She ran her fingertips across the faces of the women she lived among and trained with.

A bank of wall screens occupied the space above her work station. Normally they displayed defense reports, Alter movement estimates, civilian evacuation projections, and the infuriating arithmetic of a war that demanded more resources every month than humanity could safely spare.

The maps here showed something she had not seen in her lifetime.

Red zones were contracting. Retaken territory appeared in colors that had barely been used on her real maps except for isolated, temporary successes. Annotations documented Alter withdrawals across multiple fronts, restored transit corridors, reopening settlements. A live summary reported coordinated advances on territory lost long before Evelyn had been born.

She approached the nearest screen and looked for the source labels. The formatting was familiar. The figures were not.

Van came to stand beside her. “What does all of this mean?”

“It would mean good news.” Her answer took a moment. “If it were real.”

He read one of the headings. “This shows the Alters retreating? But all the dates are next year.”

“Apparently across the globe.” She touched the edge of a display. The image scrolled under her finger, offering a series of victories that would have transformed years of military planning. “If this were happening at home, my phone would be ringing until the batteries melted.”

Van turned back toward the framed photograph. “The Hotel's got an optimistic decorator.”

Evelyn made a small sound of agreement and continued around the room. A silver tray stood exactly where she remembered it, near the long sofa. The glasses were the same pattern she had chosen years earlier. Even the view through the windows resembled the skyline outside her headquarters, though the city lights here glittered without the distant interruptions she knew too well.

“There's a bedroom through there,” she told him, pointing toward the side door. “I had both rooms included when we finished the executive floor. I used to tell people it was for late emergencies.”

“Was it?”

“Some of the time.” She gave him a dry look. “More often I was simply unwilling to go home. I'd work past midnight, sleep four hours, and be at my desk before anyone knew I'd left it.”

He glanced from the comfortable sofa to the doorway. “There are worse places to bunk down. At least the view's nice.”

“Quite.”

Van walked to the windows. Far below, lights threaded between buildings, and a broad avenue turned toward a river. He stood looking out with the easy interest of someone granted a view he had never expected to possess.

Evelyn joined him. “It always felt rather self-indulgent to complain about sleeping there. A car could take me home whenever I wished. There are people living behind defensive lines who don't have a bed, let alone two homes to choose between.”

“That doesn't make working yourself into the ground good for you.” He turned to face her more fully. “I was one of those kids and I never wanted others to suffer just because I did.”

She glanced sideways. “Are you prescribing rest now?”

“Only repeating what you told me at dinner.”

“A dangerous habit.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I might have to start following my own advice.”

Van smiled. He remained by the glass while Evelyn turned back toward the photographs.

She stopped beside the headline again. A whole team. Smiling faces. The Architect defeated. Those impossible maps shining behind her.

Her fingers rested lightly on the frame. “Still,” she said, “perhaps we really can do something that makes a difference.”

Van looked over. “I'd like that.”

She let the frame go. “So would I.”

****************************************

By the time Claire announced that she ought to go to bed, Cassie had managed to fold and refold the blanket a half dozen times.

“You could stay,” Cassie suggested.

“I'd love to, but we both have curfew to consider.” She grimaced, “I still remember the Short Leash. I won’t let you do something like that to yourself.”

“No, I know that. I meant in your room.” Cassie sat up, letting the blanket slide into her lap. “Evelyn's gone. You've got the space. I'm tidy. Mostly. I won't touch anything.”

Claire's expression changed. “Oh, Cassie.”

“I know. I know. I’m being pathetic.”

“No you’re not. But Verena was very clear about the rooms. We're supposed to sleep in our assigned rooms unless we're spending the night with Van.”

Cassie looked up too suddenly.

Claire recognized the expression a second too late. “No, you don’t.”

“You haven't even heard my idea.” She whined. “We go to the suite. Together. Evelyn isn't going to have sex with him on the first date, so we’re not interrupting anything. We ask to stay, and we're perfectly within the rules. I don't have to go back to Fiona, you get company, everybody wins.”

“Except Evelyn and Van, who have two unexpected guests arriving in the middle of her date.”

“She's a professional. She'll adapt.” Cassie spread her hands like the answer was evident. “And he won’t complain about two pretty girls in his suite. It’s genius.”

Claire laughed despite herself. “I am nowhere near brave enough to knock on Evelyn Cross's door tonight and inform her that I've brought a friend.”

“Why not? It's not like she's going to put out on a first date.”

“Cassie!”

“What? You were thinking it.” Cassie made an aggrieved noise and folded her arms.

Claire moved from her chair to sit beside her. “I know you don't want to go back to your room. But Fiona isn't going to become easier to talk to because you spend the night hiding.”

“She might become easier to talk to if I wait until we're both seventy.”

“You don't have to settle it tonight. You can just go to bed. You can give each other some room. Tomorrow, when things aren't quite so raw, you can decide how to try again.”

Cassie stared at the tray. “I'm not sure she even wants to try.”

“Then maybe you begin by being roommates.”

“I know.” Cassie's mouth tightened. “I want to help her, but she’s so…angry? Injured?” She made an exasperated noise. “So…Fiona!”

Claire opened her arms, inviting a hug. Cassie looked tempted but ultimately shook her head. “I still don’t feel like touching right now, but thanks.”

“I understand,” Claire said, nodding. “Good night.”

“Night. And if she murders me in my sleep, I want you to tell Verena I was right about the room assignments.”

“I'll make a very stern report.” Claire waved once more and left her in the lounge with the empty tray.

She returned to her room where the silence was almost comical. Evelyn's side of the room was orderly, the desk arranged to exacting standards. Claire closed the door and enjoyed the privacy for several seconds before sitting and disturbing Evelyn’s careful arrangements.

Her journal lay beneath a stack of challenge notes. She opened it to the next blank page and began recording the day: training, conversations, the Archive, the uneasy hours in the lounge, Cassie's determined efforts to pretend she wasn't hurt.

She reached the space where she would ordinarily have written about Van and stopped.

She could still hear him speaking to Verena. The worry in his voice. The references to a secret he believed would change what the women thought of him. She knew less than she wanted and more than he wanted her to.

Claire rested the pen against the page.

If someone picked this up—if the Hotel showed it to someone, or the journal ended up in an Archive somewhere—her curiosity could hurt him in a very real sense. She crossed out the half-written beginning of a sentence and wrote instead: I discovered a secret today. I need to decide what to do with what I heard.

She read the line twice. It wasn't satisfying, but it was enough. Her phone sat beside the journal. Claire picked it up, opened her conversation with Van, and stared at the last exchange. She had already told him she was fine. It would be easy to correct that with a few honest sentences. She could ask to talk after the challenge. She could tell him that she'd overheard part of something private, apologize for not leaving when she should have, and accept whatever answer he gave her.

Instead, she put the phone down. A few seconds later she picked it up again and opened HOTEL HEROINES instead.

Tomorrow's our first challenge, she typed. Whatever Verena throws at us, we've trained hard and we've got each other. Get some sleep. I expect everyone to be spectacular in the morning.

She considered the message, added a small star, and sent it.

Then she flopped onto the bed, spread her arms across the coverlet, and took a photograph from above. With Evelyn absent, there was space to sprawl without imagining a pair of disapproving blue eyes appearing above a book. Claire widened her grin for the camera, her red hair fanning around her head with a little more enthusiasm than she'd intended.

She sent the picture to the chat.

Room One has officially become my private palace. I may never share again.

A few replies began appearing almost at once. Claire laughed at Lizzy's suggestion that Evelyn would charge rent in BP for the privilege.

Then she looked at the photograph again. Should she send it to Van? He was part of the challenge too.

That was a ridiculous thought. He was on a date. With Evelyn. Sending him a photograph of herself lying on a bed was liable to be misunderstood even if the picture was completely innocent.

Unless, of course, the message was for Evelyn. Claire opened his conversation before she could decide the idea was foolish.

Show this to Evelyn, please. Tell her she isn't missed and I officially give her permission to move into the suite permanently. I'm keeping the room.

She attached the photo and sent it.

“Oh, brilliant,” Claire muttered to the ceiling.

There had to be rules for this sort of thing. Texting a man while he was on a date was usually inconsiderate. But what if the woman he was dating happened to be your roommate, and every person involved belonged to the same absurd Hotel arrangement? Did that make it more acceptable? Less?

She wouldn't mind if somebody sent Van a silly picture during her own date with him. At least she didn't think she would. The photo wasn't provocative. It was her face, her hair, and the rare pleasure of having an entire bed to herself.

But the question was whether she would have sent it if Evelyn hadn't been there.

Claire rolled onto her stomach, dragged a pillow beneath her chin, and examined that thought with considerable suspicion.

She liked Van. She'd told the others he was cute, which was true as far as it went. It left out the way his shoulders looked when he trained, the shape of his smile when he forgot to be nervous, the unfair effect of having him stand close enough that she could feel the warmth coming off him. She thought he was unfairly attractive. There, admitted. Nobody else needed to hear her say it, but she hated Verena for sticking her in here with him because he was so hot sometimes she couldn’t hear because of the blood rushing in her ears.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew that just because she was having…urges didn't decide whether dating him would be sensible. He was carrying enough trouble without being handed somebody else's expectations. She had no idea what to do with the prospect of sharing a partner, and the fact that other women were more prepared to pursue him didn't oblige her to join them. She wanted to understand what he'd kept from the group, and the longer she considered that question the more uncomfortable she became with the way she'd learned it.

Her hair curled around the edge of the pillow, tugging faintly when she shifted. It stretched out in all directions looking for something or someone that wasn’t there right now.

“Stop helping,” she told it sharply. A drifting lock snapped against her cheek, the movement as sharp as an elastic band.

Claire set the phone face down. Tomorrow was a challenge day. She needed rest, not another hour of arguing with herself about why she was thinking about Van while taking selfies in bed.

She lay still for another minute, then sighed. She was too restless to sleep, and she knew one way to settle herself that didn't require another conversation, another decision, or another message.

She shifted beneath the thin cotton sheets, the cool fabric brushing against her heated skin as she let the confession hang in the dark room. The memory of his proximity—his shoulder almost touching hers, the faint scent of him mingling with the sweat of training—made her pulse throb in her throat. She could still feel the phantom warmth of his body radiating through the space between them, a low, insistent heat that settled deep in her belly.

Claire’s hand drifted down her torso, fingertips tracing the soft curve of her waist before slipping beneath the hem of her athletic top. The top was thin, and she could feel the faint ridge of her ribs as she pushed the fabric higher, exposing the firm swell of her breasts. Her nipples tightened instantly, pebbling under the cool air, and she let out a quiet, breathy sigh as she brushed her thumb over one sensitive peak. A shiver ran through her, and she imagined his calloused palm doing the same—rough, deliberate, sending sparks straight to her core.

Her other hand slipped lower, sliding over the flat plane of her stomach and under the waist of her shorts until it met the soft, damp heat of her pussy. She parted her thighs just enough to let her fingers glide through the slickness already gathering at her entrance. The first touch was tentative—a light, circling motion over her clit that made her gasp, a sound swallowed by the emptiness of the room. She could picture him standing close, his eyes locked on hers, the way his gaze would drop to her mouth when she bit her lip in concentration. The thought sent a fresh wave of moisture slicking her inner lips, and she increased the pressure, rubbing faster, the pad of her index finger dragging tight circles over the swollen bud.

Claire’s breath grew ragged, each inhale a shallow gasp that seemed to pull the scent of his skin into her lungs. She let her mind wander, unfettered now, to the image of him pressing her against the wall of the training room, his hips grinding against hers as he whispered raw promises she couldn’t bring herself to speak aloud. She imagined his hands gripping her waist, lifting her just enough to slide his thick cock between her slick folds, the head catching on her clit with each shallow thrust. The fantasy was fierce, urgent—she could feel the imagined stretch, the delicious burn as he filled her, the way his breath would hitch when she clenched around him.

Her fingers slipped inside, two digits sliding easily into her welcoming heat. She curled them, pressing against the spongy front wall, and a low moan escaped her lips, half‑stifled by the pillow. The sensation was immediate and deep, a throbbing pulse that matched the frantic hammering of her heart. She pumped them in and out, each stroke dragging a fresh surge of pleasure through her body, while her thumb continued its relentless assault on her clit. The combination was electric, building a tight coil low in her abdomen that threatened to snap at any moment.

She could hear the faint rustle of the sheets as she arched her back, chasing the sensation, her hips lifting off the mattress in small, involuntary jerks. The image of him shifted—now she saw him kneeling between her thighs, his mouth hot and eager as he licked a slow, deliberate stripe from her entrance up to her clit, sucking gently before plunging his tongue inside. She imagined his stubble scratching the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, the way his hands would grip her hips to keep her from bucking away as he drove her higher.

The pressure mounted, each flick of her thumb sending shockwaves through her nerves. She could feel the tension coiling tighter, a sweet, agonizing tightness that made her toes curl and her back arch further. A soft whimper escaped her, half‑plea, half‑command, as she urged herself closer to the edge. Her inner muscles clenched around her fingers, gripping them as if trying to pull them deeper, and she responded by thrusting harder, faster, the wet sounds of her fingers sliding in and out filling the quiet room.

Then, with a sudden, sharp gasp that seemed to tear from her throat, the coil snapped. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, radiating from her core outward, making her whole body tremble. Her pussy clenched rhythmically around her fingers, milking them as she rode the crest of orgasm, her hips jerking in time with each pulsating spasm. A hot rush of fluid escaped her, slick and warm, coating her hand and the sheets beneath her. She cried out his name in a breathless whisper, the sound swallowed by the darkness, and for a moment the world narrowed to the pure, blinding release that left her trembling and breathless.

As the aftershocks faded, Claire slowly withdrew her fingers. Then, still half delirious from her release, bringing them to her lips to taste the salty sweetness of her own essence. She lay there, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, the lingering heat of her orgasm mingling with the residual anxiety of the upcoming challenge. The tension that had knotted her shoulders began to unwind, replaced by a soft, sated languor that seeped into her muscles. She pulled the sheet up over her bare shoulders, the cool fabric a gentle contrast to the flushed warmth of her skin, and let her eyes drift shut.

The thoughts of him still lingered—his unfair attractiveness, the way he made her blood rush, the complicated web of his other relationships, and the uncertainty surrounding his secret dealings with Verena—but they were now tempered by a quiet satisfaction. She felt the weight of her eyelids grow heavy, the promise of sleep finally within reach. With a soft, contented sigh, she surrendered to the darkness, her body relaxed and her mind, for the first time that night, at peace.

*******************************************

The music selection in Evelyn's reconstructed lounge was more extensive than she remembered. She had discovered the controls beside the sofa and was paging through songs from her youth, occasionally stopping at a title that made her smile before moving on.

Van stood at the bar, trying to decide which of several expensive bottles required the least expertise to open.

“Any requests?” she asked.

“You already made me sing. I think I've done my part.”

He poured two modest drinks, tasted his cautiously, and decided it was better than he had expected. As he picked up Evelyn's glass, his phone chimed.

Claire's photograph opened above the message.

Van laughed. “I think your roommate's enjoying herself.”

Evelyn accepted the drink, and he handed her the phone. In the photograph Claire lay across the bed with an expression of exaggerated triumph, her red hair spread over the pillow and the space beside her conspicuously empty.

Evelyn read the text aloud. “She gives me permission to move into the suite permanently. How extraordinarily generous of her.”

“I think she wants the room.”

“She may have it, just as soon as she locates a replacement room for me.” She looked at Van, “I’m not quite ready to cohabitate on a permanent basis.”

Van grinned and reached for the phone, but Evelyn held it a moment longer. “Tell me,” she asked, “do you frequently receive bedtime photographs from pretty young women?”

“What? No. That's—she sent it for you.”

“Of course she did.”

“Look at the message. It literally says to show you.”

“I did look.” Evelyn's eyes gleamed above her glass. “I am merely trying to understand what sort of correspondence I should expect to discover arriving on your telephone.”

Van sat down opposite her. “This is going to become a thing, isn't it?”

“Eight prospective girlfriends, several of them rather young, and a telephone in every eligible hand. You may need to become accustomed to pictures.”

He opened his mouth, then paused. “Why only the young ones?”

Evelyn took a sip before answering. “Because young men are not generally waiting eagerly for bedtime photographs from women old enough to know better.”

Van's expression changed. He looked ready to object, and she knew precisely which objection it would be. She was spared having to hear it by setting the phone on the table and selecting the next track.

“Now,” she said, “I have a question for you.”

He regarded her suspiciously. “Should I be worried?”

“Almost certainly. This is in regards to your grand evil plan.”

“My what?”

“Your masterful scheme. Your calculated program of seduction and corruption.” She leaned back, one arm resting on the sofa. “The Hotel has placed eight women in your care and provided an elaborate menu of opportunities for you to turn us into your compliant little harem. Surely a schemer of your supposed stature has worked out his strategy by now.”

Van laughed. “You really think I'm a schemer?”

“No,” Evelyn said. “Which is why I can ask the question.”

“That's a relief.”

“But I do want a real answer. You and I have spoken about this in the past. Your role is one of leadership.” She paused to sip her drink. “You have begun to show signs that you are taking that role seriously, but I want to know if you have a plan for accounting for eight sets of needs.”

He took a moment over his drink. “I have, actually.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

“It's not a complicated plan,” he said. “I figured I'd talk to each of you. Find out what you need from me, what makes you happy, what you don't want. And then do my best to provide that. I can't promise I'll be great at it, but I can listen and keep trying.”

There was something so earnest about his answer that she almost hated to correct him.

Instead she laughed.

Van stared. “You asked.”

“I did, and your answer says several very good things about your character. It's a rather sweet plan.”

He groaned and twisted his glass back and forth. “You're about to tell me why it's terrible.”

“Not terrible. Incomplete.” Evelyn set down her glass. “And very familiar. We discussed a smaller version of it over dinner, if you recall.”

“The mathematics homework.”

“Precisely. You've simply expanded the assignment to eight separate sets of homework.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I thought you said I should ask what people want.”

“I did. It is very good advice. But asking is the beginning of understanding someone, not the end of it.” She shifted toward him. “People are remarkably unreliable witnesses to their future happiness. They know what has hurt them, what they fear, what they think would make them comfortable. They don't necessarily know what they may discover they enjoy, or what will matter to them after six months of living alongside another person. Nor can they hand you a complete list of instructions and absolve you of making any judgments yourself.”

Van glanced toward the music controls. “You mean like tonight.”

“Among other things.” Evelyn smiled. “I asked for wine and a pleasant evening. I certainly did not request an opportunity to embarrass myself in a karaoke club. Had you asked me to approve the itinerary in advance, I might very well have refused.”

“You definitely would have refused.”

She allowed herself another smile. “And I would have been wrong. You chose something you believed we could enjoy together, you took the risk of being ridiculous, and I had a wonderful time. You brought a part of yourself into the evening. That's why it worked.”

Van considered the compliment without quite knowing what to do with it. “So the plan is to keep surprising people?”

“Good heavens, no. If you force everyone into karaoke tomorrow, I shall personally organize a revolt.”

He laughed.

Evelyn reached forward and took his hands before he could retreat into another joke. It was a simple, decisive movement. The warmth of his skin against her palms made her fingers tighten for an instant before she settled into the contact.

“Listen to me, Van. You have an instinct to make room for everyone else, and I think well of you for it. But a group cannot be led by someone who has made himself absent from every decision.” She could sense his discomfort at the frank dissection of his efforts. “Make no mistake, you have come a long way. I wanted to take the time to say plainly that we see your effort. I appreciate the pressure you’re under and the work you are doing.”

He looked down briefly at their joined hands, then back at her face. Evelyn seemed unusually intent on making her point.

“I don't want to tell everybody what to do,” he said, finally.

“I should be extremely concerned if you did. Leadership is not the same thing as issuing orders. You aren't being asked to become Verena in trousers.” Her mouth twitched. “But you're part of this arrangement whether you like the title or not. You're going to have opinions. Preferences. Needs of your own. Eight women cannot build a life with a man who refuses to admit that he occupies space in it.”

Van sat with that for a while.

Evelyn didn't release his hands.

“And where do you fit into it?” he asked eventually. “You already lead everybody better than I could.”

“I lead things I know how to lead. Teams. Operations. Emergencies. When the others need a clear decision, I can usually offer one. That doesn't mean I can manage their private lives for them, and it certainly doesn't mean I should manage yours.” She met his eyes steadily. “If you mean to stand beside us, then you must be prepared to stand there as someone with a mind of his own. Not a servant waiting for eight sets of instructions.”

He let out a breath through his nose. “You make it sound simple.”

“I assure you, it will be thoroughly inconvenient.”

“Especially with you around.”

“Particularly with me around.”

That drew a real smile from him. Evelyn returned it, pleased that he was still listening and faintly annoyed at herself for being so pleased.

Van turned his hands slightly within hers, considering what she'd said. “I think I understand. I can't just ask for everybody's answer. Sometimes I have to bring one.”

“Yes.” Evelyn gave his hands a firm, approving squeeze. “And then, like someone told me once, have the courage to do uncomfortable things.”