Principles of the Horizon, Part 2

The kitchen, that morning, was a laboratory for the ordinary. Overhead, the windows played a trick: the glass was tinted, but the sun always looked brighter through it, as if someone had upgraded the wattage on the outside world. The countertops gleamed, every surface lined with a tasteful mess: mixing bowls, clouds of sifted flour, tiny cups of yeast. The air was warm with the promise of bread.

Laura had agreed to be here because Dawn had asked, and because Liesa hadn’t objected—and because standing still anywhere else felt dangerous.

Laura was still getting used to the idea that she could belong in a kitchen, that anyone wanted her there, much less needed her. She wore the orange flowers Erin had given her, one behind each right ear, and each time her bodies moved, they caught a little of the morning light. They were ridiculous and conspicuous and impossible to miss, which meant she couldn’t hide—and, oddly, didn’t want to. She liked the way they made her feel—like some kind of exotic prize at the end of a difficult quest, or a scientist who’d managed, against the odds, to survive into her own adulthood.

If she was going to exist like this, she wanted to exist usefully.

She tried not to show how much she was watching the others. Both of her.

Liesa moved with an animal grace, hips rocking gently with every step, even when she was just reaching for the salt or flicking her wrist to whisk eggs. The effect was so practiced it looked accidental, as if she were constantly caught off guard by her own sensuality. There was something deeply unfair about how calm she looked while doing it, as if being composed in her own skin were a default setting.

Laura’s bodies mirrored her without thinking: when Liesa swayed, Laura’s shoulders swayed, and when Liesa bent over to peek at the dough, Laura’s heads craned to look, too. She told herself it was concentration. She didn’t entirely believe it.

Dawn was more direct—her movements practical, sleeves rolled, dark hair caught in a hasty bun. She kept up a steady monologue, half coaching and half encouragement, pausing only to wipe her hands or push up her bunny ears, which had a habit of flopping down into her eyes every time she kneaded. Dawn was aggressively, unapologetically kind, the kind of person who made Laura feel mean just by proximity.

Who made Laura feel like she could be better, if only she could learn how.

The first time Laura tried to move her bodies independently, she thought she might break something. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but a mental effort so total it left her short of breath, like learning to walk on ice and rollerblades at the same time. She could do it for a few moments—one hand measuring water while the other pinched at salt, one mouth reading the instructions while the other giggled at something Dawn said—but after a minute, the two of her always drifted back into perfect sync, as if the universe insisted on double-checking her work.

She hated that part most: not the failure, but how inevitable it felt.

“Don’t rush it,” said Dawn, dusting her hands over the counter. “Even twins have to learn their own handwriting.”

Laura winced in embarrassment. “I keep thinking it’ll be easy, like talking and walking at the same time. But it’s more like… patting my head and rubbing my stomach.”

Liesa laughed, a throaty sound. “If you make it to tomorrow without accidentally baking your own foot, you are genius.” She reached past Laura for a dish towel, her hand brushing Ponytail Laura’s wrist, and Laura felt the touch twice—once where it happened, and again as a ghost on the other body.

The bread dough was sticky and slow to rise. Dawn made a show of stretching it, holding it high and letting gravity pull it down in a glistening ribbon. Laura copied her, but the dough didn’t behave, snapping and dropping onto the counter with a double wet splat. She let out a small, involuntary “Ha!” which echoed as a harmony between both bodies. The sound startled her—and then, to her surprise, made her smile.

Dawn beamed. “That’s perfect,” she said. “You just have to let go a little.”

Liesa, more practical, scooped the dough back onto the board and dusted it with flour. “If you want, I can show you an easier way.”

Laura nodded, both heads at once, and Liesa placed her hands over Loose-Hair Laura’s, guiding the pressure with her palms. The contact was warm, steady, and oddly reassuring. Laura could feel its ghost on the hands of her other body, and let it guide both bodies as she kneaded. For once, she didn’t fight the mirroring. She let it be a shortcut instead of a failure.

For a minute, the world was just dough and motion and the kind of silence that comes from people who don’t have to perform for each other. Laura wanted to bottle this feeling, or at least record it for playback during the bad days. She wanted proof that she could be here without breaking anything—herself included. She wanted to ask if every morning could be like this, but she didn’t know how to say it without sounding like she was begging.

She was about to try, anyway, when a sound from the doorway caught her. A hesitant, barely-there tap.

Myra stood at the threshold, her cane tapping the tile in a light, uncertain pattern. She wore a soft blue sweater, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and her tail was tucked so tightly around her left leg it looked like it was holding her up.

Laura felt the shift before she understood it—the way the room seemed to brace.

For a moment, she didn’t enter. She just listened to the sounds: the music of the whisk, the sticky beat of dough, the laughter. Her eyes, blind and slightly unfocused, hovered just to the right of Laura’s left body.

“Hi,” Myra said, her voice so quiet it barely made the jump from the hallway to the kitchen.

Dawn looked up, instantly bright. “Myra! We were just about to start the next loaf. Want to help?”

Myra hesitated. “Maybe. I…” She trailed off, and her tail flicked, betraying nerves.

Laura felt the old reflex rise—the urge to harden, to prepare for impact. She didn’t move, but she could feel Liesa tense.

Dawn, sensing something in the air, wiped her hands and said, “You two want a minute?”

Myra nodded, “Please.”

Dawn scooted out, Liesa on her heels, the two of them leaving a trail of warmth and cinnamon behind.

Laura’s bodies moved together, stepping toward Myra in perfect unison, then stopping at the same distance—a line of symmetry so precise it looked intentional. She hated that she looked composed. She didn’t feel it.

Myra licked her lips. “Can we talk?”

Laura nodded, both heads, and for once she didn’t try to **** the bodies apart. She let them stand together, arms folded in mirror image, her left body’s fingers brushing the orange flower behind her ear. If this was going to happen, she wanted it to happen honestly.

Myra found her way to the edge of the counter, feeling for the lip of it with delicate, doctor’s hands. She was grateful that Dawn and Liesa were still close enough that her Emotion's Map transformation was functional. She could see, after a fashion. She gripped the edge like she might tip over if she didn’t.

“I wanted to do this yesterday,” she said, “but I kept putting it off.”

Laura said nothing. She just watched.

Myra’s fox ears lay flat, and her voice, when it came, was raw. “I’m really sorry. For what I did. For the lie, and for everything that came after.” She breathed, slow and controlled. “You don’t have to forgive me, I just needed to say it. I needed you to know that I—” She faltered. “That I was wrong.”

Laura waited, the silence stretching. She could feel the burn behind her eyes, the old hurt, but it was different now. Not anger. Not even sadness, really. Just the ache of remembering how badly she had believed, all those years ago. How certain she had been. And it felt like years ago, somehow, even though in her memories, it had been the day before her ****, and there lay only a black gap between that moment, and her reawakening, three days ago.

When she finally spoke, both bodies spoke in sync. “Thank you for saying it.” She uncrossed her arms, a gesture mirrored perfectly. “It hurt. I still remember every word.” The admission scraped on the inside of her chest as it left her mouth. “But I know what it’s like to want something so bad that you’d burn down the world to have it.”

Laura stood her ground, letting the words hang between her and Myra. She didn’t soften them. She didn’t sharpen them either. It felt like a test: to see who would be first to flinch, to break symmetry and make it easy on the other. For a long time, neither did. The only movement was Myra’s ears, which twitched and then pinned flat again, and Laura’s left hands, which fiddled unconsciously with the hems of her shirts.

Finally, Myra spoke. “I don’t know how to fix it,” she said, and the sound was barely above a whisper. “I wish I could.”

“You can’t,” said Laura. Her own voice was calm, but both bodies kept their arms folded tight across their chests, the gesture doubling as armor. “I died,” Laura went on, and the words still felt unreal in her mouth, like someone else’s story she’d memorized too well. “And then I missed everything. I missed the part where you got to say you were sorry. I missed my chance to say what I wanted, which was to make you hurt the way you made me hurt.” She took a breath—both of her—and let it out slow. “But I don’t want to hurt you anymore. Not now.”

Myra’s fingers knotted on the countertop, but she didn’t let go. Her tail was so tense it looked like a warning. “You can still yell at me,” she said. “Or—whatever you need. I’m here.”

Laura stared at her, face calm, while she kept fidgeting with the orange flower, twisting it on the stem. The urge to scream surged anyway, sudden and vicious—an echo of drowning panic, of being unheard.. It was there, deep in her chest, a hot iron she’d been carrying since she woke up in this new body. Or these new bodies.

Instead, Laura leaned forward, letting both bodies move together, and said: “It’s enough that you said it. I don’t want to yell.” She surprised herself by meaning it.

Myra’s face crumpled, a silent relief leaking through her mask. Her ears flicked up for a moment, then fell again, as if she’d hoped for worse and been disappointed. “Okay,” she said. “If you change your mind, just—” She hesitated. “I owe you that much.”

Laura didn’t know what to do with her hands. She folded them tighter across her chests, then **** herself to relax, to open up a little. And then it hit her.

Not a thought. A memory.

The school library, but not really the school library. No, the Garden of Glass.

The library that wasn’t a library. The impossible light. The version of herself that had existed before this body, before the river gave her back. She remembered sitting there, whole and unbroken, saying the words out loud—words she hadn’t known she’d meant.

If I get another chance… with anyone… I’ll be better. I swear it.

And Emi—Emi’s voice, gentle and unflinching—telling her she didn’t have to be perfect. Only honest. Only kind.

Laura staggered internally, breath hitching in both chests. She hadn’t remembered this. Not consciously. It had happened before she was resurrected, before she’d woken into flesh again—and now it tore through her like a delayed impact.

The sadness came with it. The helplessness. The full, awful accounting of all the things she had wasted in her first life. All the love she’d poisoned. All the hurts she’d justified because she was hurting.

She realized, with a sick, trembling clarity, that this—this restraint, this refusal to burn the room down—might be what she’d promised.

Maybe this was what better actually looked like.

“Myra,” Laura said, both voices perfectly blended. Her throat hurt. “Can I ask you something?”

The fox ears perked. “Anything.”

“If you had it to do over,” Laura said, “would you tell the truth?”

Myra closed her eyes, as if the question had a taste. “Yes,” she said. “I think about it every day. Even before I lost my sight.” Her mouth twisted, rueful. “I think I felt maybe if I could fix enough other people, it would fix what I broke in you. And Andy.” She smiled, a flicker of the old queen bee. “Turns out that’s not how it works.”

Laura nodded. “It’s not.” The words scraped something raw loose—and with it, a little pressure bled away. “I don’t know if I can forgive you. But I can try not to hate you.”

Myra laughed, the sound edged but real. “I’ll take it.”

They stood for a while in silence, not quite sure how to end it.

“I don’t want to ruin your morning,” Myra said, gesturing awkwardly at the dough, the scattered bowls. “I just needed you to know.” She straightened, releasing the counter, and picked up her cane with new resolve. “If you ever want to talk—about anything—I’m here.”

Laura nodded, both bodies at once. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said.

Myra blinked in surprise, then nodded, too. “Tomorrow, then.”

She left the kitchen, her tail trailing behind like a question mark.

Laura watched her go, heart still pounding from a memory she hadn’t known she’d lost. For the first time since waking up in this world, she felt a little less hollowed out. She didn’t feel good, exactly. But she didn’t feel stuck, either.

After a minute, Liesa poked her head in, hair a little mussed, and smiled with relief at the lack of screams or broken glass. “Is it safe?” she asked.

“It’s fine,” Laura said, and tried to mean it.

Dawn was behind her, arms dusted with flour, cheeks pink with effort. “If you want, we can skip the next step and just eat the dough raw,” she offered, with a grin. “That’s what my brothers always did.”

Laura laughed—a real laugh, not just a sound effect. “Let’s try to bake it first.”

They set to work, the routine of the morning reasserting itself with every stretch and fold. Liesa rolled the dough into perfect cylinders, while Dawn coated them in seeds and sugar. Laura watched, learned, copied. She tried to make her bodies act out of sync, just for the practice, but kept lapsing back into symmetry. This time, she didn’t punish herself for it. When she looked up, she caught Liesa watching her with something like pride.

“You’re getting better at it,” Liesa said. “You don’t even notice anymore, but your two bodies, they mirror each other.”

Dawn leaned close, voice warm: “You’re getting good with the dough, too.”

Laura looked at the orange flowers in the glass on the table, one for each of her bodies. They looked almost artificial, the color too bright for the season, but she liked them. They were proof that the world went on, even after the river, even after the bridge.

She set her jaw and split herself again: left body cleaning the counter, right body folding a towel. It hurt, just a little, but she let it.

When the bread was ready, Dawn popped it in the oven, then wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you want to wait here, or go eat with the others?”

Laura hesitated, then said: “Let’s clean up, then go eat.”

Liesa shrugged, pleased. “Will make a chef out of you yet.”

As they cleaned up, Laura felt the sun through the kitchen windows. She could have sworn it was brighter than before.

She looked over at Dawn, who was fussing with the timer, and for a second, Laura saw her eyes flare in the light—a golden glow, like something magical, and then it was gone.

Laura wondered, fleetingly, if Dawn always looked like that—or if today had changed something.

Maybe this was what better felt like. Not forgiveness, not yet, but a little less fire in the blood, a little more room for bread, and warmth, and the promise of tomorrow.

She didn’t know if she could ever get used to it. But she thought Emi would have been proud.

The Inner Gardens thrummed with purpose. Chloe knelt beside a raised bed, sunlight warming her shoulders and making the dew on the leaves sparkle like old rhinestones. The beds had been her project for weeks now: replanting herbs, recording what took root and what didn’t, nudging the herb garden toward the organized chaos she craved.

She pinched away a few yellowed leaves from a basil plant, then dusted her hands and straightened up. Just ahead, Riley was crouched at the edge of the next row, running one hand through the dark loam, expression unreadable.

Chloe set her tray down on a nearby bench and called, “You can’t bully them into sprouting, you know.”

Riley didn’t look up, but her mouth twitched. “I’m just checking the dirt. You said it was too wet yesterday.”

“Moisture is good,” Chloe replied, walking over. “Soggy is bad. Here—” She nudged Riley aside, then crouched and pressed her own fingers into the soil, testing the texture. “See how it holds its shape, but doesn’t puddle? That’s perfect.”

Riley watched, arms resting on her knees. In the morning sun, her hair seemed even darker than usual, streaks of red and black catching the light like veins of gemstone. She wore a band t-shirt over black shorts and her usual battered boots; they were caked with mud, a stark contrast to Chloe’s pastel sundress and spotless gardening gloves.

“Am I doing this right?” Riley asked, the words soft, almost shy.

Chloe blinked, surprised at the question. “You’re doing great. You just—” She hesitated, searching Riley’s face. “You seem distracted.”

Riley shook her head, lips pursed. “It’s nothing.”

Chloe wasn’t sure how to push, or even if she should. But she knew Riley—had known her, in flashes, since those middle school days when a glare from Riley could silence a cafeteria and a single hug could fix a week’s worth of hurt.

She reached out, placed her palm gently on Riley’s upper back, just between the shoulder blades. “Hey,” Chloe said. “Breathe.”

Riley let out a sharp exhale, then turned her head to look at Chloe. “Do you ever feel like you’re about to confess to a priest, but you don’t know what the sin is yet?”

Chloe’s cheeks warmed. “All the time,” she said. She tried for a joke: “Especially when I overwater the basil.”

It landed, just barely—a flash of a smile, quick and crooked. But then it was gone, and Riley’s gaze returned to the dirt.

“I’m meeting with her tomorrow,” she said, not looking up. “Laura.”

Chloe’s heart thudded, but she kept her voice light. “That’s good, right?”

Riley shrugged, still crouched. “Depends which one of us you’re rooting for.” She said it flat, not joking, and Chloe recognized the warning signs of Riley’s shutdown spiral—short sentences, a drift in her posture like she wanted to fold into herself and disappear.

Chloe edged closer, careful not to disturb the basil, and sat cross-legged on the stone path. “I’ll always root for you,” she said. She reached over, hand hovering at the edge of Riley’s arm, not quite touching. “But I think maybe… Laura’s rooting for you, too.”

Riley barked a laugh, all edge. “Not sure that’s how she’ll take it.”

The garden was full of sound—the soft wind that rattled the bamboo chimes, the cheep of birds that always seemed a little too close, the distant voices from the Main Building. But the silence between Riley and Chloe was charged, as if a big enough breath could send it all crashing down.

Chloe took that breath. “What do you want out of it?” she asked.

Riley ran her hands over the dirt, scraping her nails along the edge of the wood. “I don’t know.” She looked at Chloe, eyes bright and raw. “Maybe for her to say she hates me, so I don’t have to keep wondering if I made it worse by not saying anything before.” She snapped a weed off at the root.

Chloe nodded, slow and deliberate. “I don’t think she’s out to hurt you,” she said.

Riley was quiet. Her hands shook as she brushed the dirt from her fingers, as if she’d been cold for a very long time and only now realized it.

“I was going to say something really important, back then,” Riley said. “To her. But she died before I could.” She flexed her hands. “I think about that a lot.”

Chloe tilted her head, waiting for more.

Riley’s mouth twisted. “When I see her tomorrow, I’m going to tell her. Even if she hates me for it.” A soft, almost laugh. “I’m not sure if it’ll make anything better. But I want to be done hiding.”

Chloe reached over, this time making contact. Her palm fit easily against Riley’s back, warm through the t-shirt. She didn’t try to give advice. She just stayed there, grounding.

The garden’s perfume, half-mint, half-earth, rose around them. A bee drifted lazily past, then circled a cluster of sage before moving on.

“Whatever happens,” Chloe said, “I’ll be here after. If you need a place to land.”

Riley’s head dropped. “You always say the right thing.”

Chloe squeezed gently. “I never know if I’m actually helping.”

“You are,” Riley said, simple as a heartbeat.

For a while, they just sat, the air heavy with things unsaid. Chloe found herself wanting to reach out and fix Riley, but knew from years of practice that sometimes all you could do was wait for the wound to close itself.

Instead, Chloe knelt, pulled a weed, and tried to keep her hands busy. Riley stood, dusted her boots, then stepped back. “I have to go walk,” she said. “Clear my head. You’ll be here when I get back?”

Chloe nodded, not trusting her voice.

Riley squeezed her hand, once, strong. “You’re a good person, Chloe,” she said, and bent to kiss Chloe on the cheek—a quick, grateful press, like a seal on an old promise.

Then Riley was gone, boots crunching on the path. Chloe stood a while, hand on her cheek, watching Riley’s retreating back.

Only when she was certain she wouldn’t cry did Chloe return to her gardening, fingers in the dirt, letting the simple facts of the growing world work their old, slow magic. The garden didn’t care about guilt, or memory, or even the storms that built up overhead. It just reached for light, always, no matter how much you cut it back.

Chloe kept planting, and tried to believe the rest would follow.

At 11:20, Mildred delivered the envelope. She did it with all the grim precision of a funeral director—no smile, no words, just a tilt of the head as if to say, It’s not my fault, but someone has to bring the news. Andy took the card, careful not to brush her hands; they looked smooth and waxen, like something that would leave a residue. The envelope was heavy, the kind of off-white that suggested stationary wars were still being fought somewhere in the world.

Inside, the note read: Meet me at 14:00 sharp in the Main Lobby. Dress nice. – C.F.

Andy looked up, but Mildred had already vanished. He stared at the card, the neatness of Claire’s handwriting, and found himself smiling.

He went up to the Suite, changed into a light suit, and brewed a cup of coffee, black. He sipped it, burned his tongue, and then—realizing he still had over two hours to kill—left the Suite in search of something useful to do.

His first stop was the Banquet Hall, but it was empty, save for a few stacked chafing dishes and a Mildred in the far corner, laying out place settings with the indifference of the same funeral director as before, but who’d just gotten her twenty-fifth corpse of the day. The big digital clock above the buffet read 11:37. Andy made his way to the back terrace, where the hotel had set up a row of shaded tables overlooking the Inner Gardens. He squinted through the glass, and there they were—Laura, Liesa, and Dawn, all crowded around a single wooden bench.

Laura looked different in the sun. The double effect was less uncanny, more like a trick of light than a supernatural intrusion. Both bodies wore the wild orange flowers Erin had given her behind the right ear. She looked… well. As well as a person could look, having been resurrected, doubled, and then made to eat breakfast with people who, until three days ago, were total strangers.

Which is to say, in Andy’s eyes, that she looked beautiful.

She was tearing into twin loaves of bread, each body using the fingers of one hand to hold it while the other broke off ragged hunks. Next to her, Dawn was laying out little dishes of jam, her bunny ears flicking in the sunlight every time she looked up. On the other side, Liesa was slicing fruit into impossibly thin wedges, her posture even more elegant than usual; she’d dressed down, wearing loose linen pants and a soft green tank, but she still managed to look like she’d been plucked from a lifestyle magazine.

He watched them for a minute, unobserved, before rapping his knuckle on the glass.

Dawn saw him first. She waved, a little more energetic than necessary, her new breasts bouncing, and her voice cut through the patio: “Andy! We saved you a seat!”

He made his way out, glancing over his shoulder to make sure there was no audience, then settled at the table. Dawn instantly scooted closer, presenting him with a mug of coffee. Liesa offered a plate piled high with berries, which he accepted, and Laura—both of her—looked at him with an expression that was as close to shy as he’d ever seen from her.

“Hi,” she said, in perfect sync.

He grinned. “Hey,” he said, hoping it would suffice. “What’s the occasion?”

Dawn looked at Laura, then at him, her voice warm. “Laura baked bread.”

“Emi’s recipe,” said Laura, embarrassed. “We wanted to try and get it right.”

Liesa cut a wedge of apple, then placed it with care on Laura’s plate. “She did a good job,” she said. “Is better than the first three attempts.”

Laura blushed—both did—and covered her faces with her hands. Then, just as quickly, she dropped them and said, “I like working with them. It’s easier, when it’s not just me.”

Andy watched her, watched the way she kept glancing from Dawn to Liesa, as if double-checking that she was still allowed to sit here. It made something inside him ache, but in a good way—a soreness that meant the muscle was growing back.

Dawn reached out and squeezed one of Laura’s hands. “She’s a natural. She even braided the dough.”

Laura shrugged, the motion mirrored in both bodies, but the left one smiled, tentative. “I learned to bake from my Mom, and from Andy’s mother. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”

Dawn’s laughter was infectious, soft and full. “You learned well.”

Andy caught Laura’s gaze, and she held it, just for a second, then looked away. He could see her wrestling with something, could almost feel the tension in her shoulders. He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers.

“I heard there was a prank last night,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Guilty party present?”

Laura grinned. “Maybe.”

He laughed. “It was a good one. I liked the note. Especially the handwriting.”

Laura ducked her head, both bodies going a little pink.

Dawn and Liesa watched this, and Andy could see in their eyes the same thing he felt: a sense of relief. The world had not ended. It had merely become more complicated. He finished his coffee, then reached for another slice of bread. “I should check on the others before my meeting,” he said, standing.

Dawn made a face. “You have a meeting?”

“With Claire,” he said.

Laura’s eyes widened—both sets. “Is it a date?” she asked, tone teasing but with an edge.

Andy considered, then shrugged. “Probably. She’s calling the shots. And it’s her night, tonight.”

Laura said nothing, but the left body’s hand curled into a fist, resting on the table. Andy smiled, and gently, with his own hand, unfurled her fingers. “It’s a date,” he said. “But I’ll see you after.”

Laura nodded, once. “I know. But you’re my favorite, so—don’t be gone too long.” She sighed, letting go. Andy sensed her distress flaring and squeezed her hand. The other women looked at Laura, then at Andy, as if trying to read a secret written between the lines. Dawn grinned, and Liesa’s mouth quirked. Andy wondered if they’d expected Laura to be jealous, or if maybe they were a little disappointed that she wasn’t more jealous.

He kissed Laura—both of her—then Dawn and Liesa, then said his goodbyes.

Dawn called after him, “Come back hungry! We’re making cookies after lunch!”

He promised he would, and then left them on the terrace, their laughter trailing behind him like a banner.

He found Emily and Chloe exactly where he expected: on the pool deck, each with a paperback in hand and a glass of something cold nearby. Chloe wore a loose floral sundress, her humungous breasts nearly contained by the fabric, and Emily had—per usual—gone fully naked, tying her hair back in a loose ponytail to fully enjoy the sun.

Chloe was reading a battered copy of White Gold Wielder, lips moving with each line. Emily had a copy of The Way of Kings, and was frowning at the page as if in open war with it.

He sat between them, stretching out so his ankles nearly touched the pool’s edge.

“Is it too early for a swim?” he asked, just to break the ice.

Emily glanced up, eyes bright behind her curtain of hair. “I heard it’s bad to swim immediately after lunch.”

Chloe giggled, soft and musical. “Unless you’re Dawn.”

Andy smiled. “You guys doing okay?”

Chloe closed her book, finger marking her place. “We’re good,” she said. “It’s quieter than usual. I think everyone’s trying not to step on toes. Or tails. Or…” She stopped, then blushed. “You know.”

Emily set her book down, arms crossed over her chest in a way that did nothing to actually hide anything. Her breasts had shrunk back to their original size now that the new round had started. “You can just say it,” she said. “Boobs.”

Chloe turned a deeper pink. “Boobs,” she echoed, softer.

Andy grinned. “That’s a medical term, right?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Only if you want them checked out.” She shrugged, then shot him a look. “You doing okay, Andy?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Better than yesterday. I think the drama’s dying down.”

Chloe picked at the edge of her dress. “Emily had a rough night,” she said. “After the, um… after the other night.”

Emily made a show of not caring, but Andy caught the flicker in her eyes.

He shifted toward her. “You want to talk about it?”

She stared at the pool. For a minute, he thought she might not answer, but then: “I keep thinking about what happened,” she said, voice soft. “With Laura. And with you. And how I just ran away. I’ve never done that before.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

Emily toyed with the edge of her book, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the water as if it might answer for her. “It’s fine,” she said, but the phrase landed with a weight that suggested it was anything but. She fidgeted, crossed her legs the other way, hair waterfalling over her bare chest in a self-protective curtain.

Andy waited.

“I don’t like how it ended, last time,” Emily said finally, her voice stripped of its usual effervescence. “I feel like I… like I ruined something. Or maybe I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.” She pressed her lips together, as if trapping a whole second paragraph behind her teeth.

Chloe reached over, not quite touching Emily’s shoulder but letting her hand hover close. “Em, it’s okay to say what you feel.” Her voice was feather-soft, the kind reserved for frightened children and, occasionally, small animals in need of rescuing. “He’s not going to bite.”

Emily barked a laugh, the old her peeking through. “It’s not that. It’s just—I thought I’d found my place, you know? And then, boom. Laura’s back, and it’s like…” She trailed off, searching for a word. “Like the rest of us don’t matter as much.”

That hit harder than Andy expected. He started to reply, but Chloe beat him to it.

“That’s not true,” Chloe said. She looked at Andy, then back at Emily, as if willing him to say it out loud.

Andy nodded. “You do matter,” he said, and tried to make it sound as sincere as he felt. “Laura doesn’t change that. If anything, she makes me want to hold everyone closer.”

Emily looked up, finally meeting his eyes. “I get that, logically. But emotionally, I feel like… like a side character in someone else’s movie. And when I saw her last night, it was like watching the whole story shift. I’m not mad at her. I just—” She shrugged, helpless.

Chloe’s hand finally landed, squeezing Emily’s upper arm. “You’re not a side character,” she said. “Not in this story.”

Emily smiled, small but real. “Thanks, Chloe.”

Chloe blushed, a pink tinge brightening her cheeks. “You’re welcome.”

Andy leaned back, letting the sun warm his face. “You know, I’m not any good at this, either. The more people I care about, the more I worry I’m screwing it up for everyone.”

Emily blinked at him, surprise softening her features. “You think you’re screwing up?”

He laughed, loud and sharp. “Constantly.”

Chloe giggled, which seemed to break the tension. “He’s actually really bad at guilt. He’s been carrying it around like a backpack at least since I’ve arrived.”

Emily shook her head, hair falling perfectly over her breasts again. “You’re a disaster, Andy.”

He grinned. “Yeah. But I mean it when I say I don’t want to lose any of you. Not just because of Laura.” He glanced at the water, watching sunlight dance across its surface. “You all matter. You make me better.”

Chloe’s blush deepened, and Emily’s mouth curved up at the edges. “That’s cheesy,” Emily said, but she didn’t sound like she minded.

He shrugged. “Sometimes cheese is the right answer.”

Chloe sipped her drink, then turned to Andy, her eyes intent. “You’re going to see Claire today?”

He nodded. “She sent a message. Two o’clock.”

Chloe looked pleased. “She’ll like that you dressed up.”

Andy glanced down at his hastily assembled outfit: collared shirt, light jacket, pants that were not quite pressed. “This is the best I could do.”

Emily made a show of inspecting him, then nodded. “You pass.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, Emily’s foot dipping into the pool, Chloe tracing the rim of her glass with her finger. Andy almost let himself forget the outside world—just for a moment, it felt like a real vacation, like something normal and beautiful.

He leaned back and turned to Emily, lowering his voice. “You know, if you ever want to talk about what happened two nights ago, you can.”

Emily’s response was automatic: “I’m fine,” but her blush said otherwise. She shifted in her seat, bare thighs sticking just a little to the warm vinyl. “Really, Andy, I’m fine. I just…” She chewed her lip. “When Laura showed up, I felt like I should get out of the way. I mean, it was her night, right? It’s not my place to, you know, be in the middle of that.”

Andy wanted to argue, but Chloe beat him to it. “Em, you have a place. You don’t have to disappear just because someone else is getting attention.”

Emily made a face, glancing at Chloe, then back at Andy. “It’s not like I’m mad at Laura. I’m not even jealous. I just… couldn’t imagine being needed less.”

Andy reached over and squeezed her knee, careful to do it in a way that wouldn’t make her flinch. “I’m sorry, Em. I should have made you feel more included. Or at least checked in after.”

Emily covered his hand with one of hers, giving it a little squeeze. The gesture was so natural it surprised him. “You don’t have to apologize. You’re not a mind reader.” She grinned, and the old Emily spark returned. “Besides, it’s kind of fun, seeing you all flustered and guilt-ridden.”

Chloe snorted. “You’re a little bit evil, you know that?”

Emily grinned wider, which made her hair slip off one of her breasts, exposing a nipple that instantly hardened in the breeze. She glanced down, shrugged, and left it. “I have my moments.”

Andy squeezed her hand again, then let go, but not before giving her a quick, gentle hug. “You’re amazing, Emily.”

She preened, instantly. “Say it again?”

“You’re amazing.”

She gave a soft, happy moan. “Say it one more time, just for Chloe.”

Andy laughed, then looked at Chloe and said, “Chloe, you’re amazing, too.”

Chloe giggled, shaking her head. “Don’t start, or we’ll never get anything done around here.”

Andy kissed Emily’s cheek, then Chloe’s—lingering just a bit longer, because he could see how much she needed it. Chloe’s face went so pink Andy wondered if she was about to faint. Instead, she reached up and brushed his cheek with her fingers, a silent thank you.

After a while, Andy stretched, then asked, “Either of you know where Riley’s at?”

Chloe’s smile faded, and she bit the inside of her lip. “She’s, um… she’s not around right now. She usually disappears at lunch. Has for the last two or three days.”

Andy frowned. “Disappears where?”

Chloe shrugged. “She doesn’t tell me, but yesterday she was gone for a couple hours. Came back looking… I don’t know, tired.” She toyed with the strap of her dress, which promptly slipped off her shoulder, exposing a heavy, milk-swollen breast. She pulled it up, but not before Andy saw the telltale patch of moisture near the nipple.

“She might be going on the Walk of Remembrance,” Chloe added, lower now. “She doesn’t say it, but… someone sent her a message, after the last voting round. Fan mail, I think.”

Andy’s pulse ticked up. “What did it say?”

Chloe’s expression went a little dark. “That if she won the Wish, she could bring her son back to life. Even after, you know… everything.”

The words landed like a gut punch. Emily’s eyes widened, but she didn’t speak. Chloe pressed on, voice barely above a whisper. “She wants to believe it. But she’s so far behind on points. I think it’s killing her.”

Andy felt a burn at the back of his throat. “I… I had had that thought, but I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want to give her false hope, or… or imply she should do things she might not want to do. I didn’t know someone from outside told her. I should have figured it out—” He broke off, not trusting his voice.

Chloe shook her head, reaching for his hand and sandwiching it between both of hers. “It’s not your fault. But she needs someone to talk to. Maybe not now, but… when she’s ready. She’s just trying to hold herself together.”

Emily sat up, suddenly alert. “You know, I never would have guessed. She always seems so, like… angry. Like nothing gets to her.”

Chloe shook her head. “Everything gets to her. She just doesn’t want anyone to see her cry.”

Andy nodded, and let the silence hang for a while. He watched Chloe’s fingers playing with his, the way she kept glancing at the ground, as if afraid of saying too much.

He finally said, “Could you let her know I’m around, if she needs anything? No pressure.”

Chloe gave a firm, solemn nod. “I will.”

Emily chimed in, “You should do something nice for her. Even if she pretends she hates it.”

Andy blinked. “Yeah? You think I can win her over with muffins, or something?”

Chloe brightened. “She likes poppy seed, but only if it’s lemon.”

Andy tucked the tip away, then patted her hand. “Thanks, Chloe.”

“Anytime,” she said, then blushed anew. “And, um, if you ever want to help with, you know…” She made a vague gesture at her chest, which was now visibly leaking through her dress.

Emily laughed. “You mean milking?” She turned to Andy and grinned. “She loves it when you say it that way.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “It’s a medical necessity. My boobs are out of control and I can’t do it myself.”

Andy laughed, but made a note to check in about it later. “You got it, Chloe.”

She looked away, but her smile was visible.

He stood, stretching again. “I should get ready for my meeting with Claire. But if you see Riley—”

“We’ll tell her,” Chloe said, finishing his sentence.

Andy kissed her, then Emily, and walked away, his mind turning over everything he’d just learned. There was so much more to these women than he’d ever realized before coming here, and the weight of their stories sat with him as he made his way back to the Main Building.

He was halfway down the stairs when Sam intercepted him. “Hey, hotshot,” she called, waving him down with both arms. “You got a minute?”

Andy smiled, slowing his pace. “I have a minute. Maybe even two, if you play your cards right.”

Sam grinned. “Good. Because I was told by three different people to check in on you, and I take my assignments seriously.” She jerked her thumb toward a small, shaded path off the main corridor, where a bench overlooked the koi pond. “Walk with me?”

He followed, and they settled in together. Sam set her phone on the bench between them, but didn’t look at it; her attention was all on him.

“Are you going to survive this week?” she asked, deadpan.

He considered. “So far, only minor bruising.”

She made a face. “Not funny. You know what I mean. With Laura back, and all the old wounds, and the rest of us walking on eggshells.”

He picked at the seam of his jeans. “I’m just trying not to crowd her. Or anyone else.”

Sam looked at him, appraising. “You think you’re being subtle, but you’re about as obvious as the ‘non-exploding’ volcano outside.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Do you know how many of us were expecting a meltdown, after two nights ago?”

“From Laura?” Andy asked.

She shook her head. “From you.” She softened, voice dropping. “But you didn’t. You let her be weird, and you let the rest of us be weird.” She tilted her head. “That was well done.”

He shrugged, uncertain how to take the compliment.

Sam nudged him. “Hey, can I say something that’s going to sound mean, but isn’t?”

He braced himself. “Go ahead.”

She grinned. “You’re a black hole, Andy. You suck people in. Always have. It’s not a bad thing—sometimes people want to be caught, you know?” She paused. “But so does Laura. She’s like a gravity bomb.” Her gaze stayed on the pond. “The only way this ends in a disaster is if you both try to pull the whole world into your orbits, but refuse to acknowledge that you’re each pulling on the other.”

He laughed. “That’s not mean, that’s just astronomy.”

She grinned. “I minored in metaphors.”

They sat for a while, watching the koi. Sam nudged him again. “You know, the others aren’t blind. They get that Laura’s… Laura.” She made a vague circling motion with her hand. “She’s first love, ghost story, unfinished sentence. They can live with that. I told you this.”

Andy’s jaw tightened. “Even if you were right, could they live with that?”

Sam glanced at him, sharp and steady. “Yes.” Then, more lightly, almost conversational: “Because it doesn’t mean you only get one way to love.” She shrugged. “Comparing how you feel about her to how you feel about the rest of them is like comparing coffee to soup. Same mug, totally different job.”

Andy huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.

Sam continued, eyes on the pond. “Dude, I told you, they don’t need to be loved like Laura. They just need to be loved like them.” She finally looked at him again. “Do the same thing you did with Erin and Claire. As long as you’re choosing everyone because you actually care—and not because you think you owe them—most of them are good. And stop fretting about this.”

Andy mulled this over. “I don’t want to lose anyone,” he said.

Sam nodded. “Good. Then stop bracing like something’s about to break.” She popped open a paper bag and handed him a sandwich. “Turkey, no cheese. Don’t say I never learned anything.”

He laughed and took a bite. It was perfect—heavy on the turkey, just how he liked it. “Did you get this from the Banquet Hall?” he asked.

She snorted. “Please. That place wouldn’t know good sandwiches if they hit it in the face.” She winked. “I stole it from the kitchen, same as always. You can’t teach old dogs, but you can bribe them.”

He took another bite, then paused. “Hey. Speaking of not owing things,” he said slowly. “I kind of want to do something nice for you.”

Sam arched a brow. “That’s ominous.”

Andy smiled. “I’ve got a Gift—Contribute. I can temporarily juice up one of your transformations. Let you really feel what it’s meant to do.” He shrugged. “Call it a thank-you. Or… data collection.”

Sam leaned back, considering. “Huh.” She ticked off fingers. “Okay. Options. One: Sworn to Carry Your Burdens. I become the magical linchpin for someone else’s nonsense. Useful, but exhausting. Two: Bearing the World Upon Her Shoulders. Which would be great, except you’ve turned into a walking power fantasy and I’d still be the weak link.” She grinned. “Or three: Beerista. Which is objectively the funniest.”

She paused, then rolled her wrist. “Then we have the dark horses. Four: Life Hugger.” She made a face. “I have to get a hug from you every day or I emotionally shrivel?” She snorted. “That’s not intimacy, that’s a hostage situation. Not sure how upgrading that would work. Five: Fantasy Weaver.” She raised an eyebrow. “I get to subtly reshape the others into your ideal?” She shook her head immediately. “Nope. I don’t want that kind of power, especially upgraded, and I definitely don’t want that kind of blame.” She paused, her eyes going glassy for a moment, and Andy stifled a smile, knowing who she was thinking of. Sam blinked, shook herself, and continued. “Six: Abundance of Riches.” She considered it for half a second, then waved it off. “Tempting, but I haven’t tried the original version yet.”

Andy laughed. “You’re ruling these out fast.”

Sam eyed the koi pond, then the path back toward the hotel. “You know what? Beerista.” She smirked. “If I’m going to help hold this whole circus together, I want to do it slightly buzzed.”

He raised his hands. “Your call.” He reached out and touched her gently. A static discharge shook her slightly.

• Beerista [UPGRADE] Designated Driver: Sam can exclude specific effects of **** she creates, on a per-creation basis (she can prevent hangovers, remove impairment of judgment, prevent loss or coordination, remove brain fog and leave only warmth and buzz). She can only make one such modification every time she uses Beerista. If Beerista triggers unconsciously, Sam cannot choose to apply this upgrade.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Huh.” She rolled her shoulder once, like she was settling into a new jacket. “Okay, yeah. That’s… neat.” She glanced at Andy, a spark of amused interest there. “I can still make drinks fun, just without the part where people trip over furniture or regret text their ex.”

Andy blinked. “Wait—really?” A beat, then a surprised laugh escaped him. “That’s actually kind of amazing.”

Sam smirked. “Right? I was half-expecting something messier.” She considered it again, more thoughtfully this time. “This means I get to decide what kind of drunk I’m serving.” Then, lighter: “Buzzed and chatty, sure. Buzzed and stupid? Optional.”

Andy shook his head, still smiling. “I’m glad that’s where it landed.”

Sam studied him for a second, then snorted. “Yeah. Me too.” She waved him off, already easing back into her usual posture. “And hey—don’t get weird about this. You don’t have to be ahead of the curve all the time. Sometimes the curve just behaves.”

Andy smiled, softer now, a little crooked. “I’ll take it when it does.”

She grinned, then punched his shoulder lightly. “Go check on the others. I’ll keep the koi company.”

He stood, giving her a mock salute, and headed toward the Banquet Hall.

Behind him, Sam leaned back on the bench, watching the koi drift lazily through the water—already thinking about the difference between a drink that loosened tongues and one that loosened knees, and appreciating, quietly, that she now got to choose.

The hall was half-empty, just a few stragglers from an early lunch and a Mildred restocking plates with grim precision. At a table by the window, Andy spotted Myra—alone, her cane propped beside her, a plate of half-eaten pasta in front of her. Her fox ears twitched once, then stilled.

He crossed to her, making just enough noise to avoid spooking her.

She heard him anyway, and smiled. “Is that you, Andy?”

“Yeah,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “How’d you know?”

She tilted her head. “I can smell the cologne,” she said. “Which is good, because you walk like a ninja, but with sneakers.”

He laughed. “Is that a compliment or a complaint?”

She grinned. “A little of both.” She gestured at the seat. “You don’t have to stay if you have somewhere better to be.”

He shrugged. “Nowhere better.”

Myra nodded, then fidgeted with her fork, twirling it between her fingers. The silence stretched, until she said, “I heard you were meeting Claire. Big day?”

“Just a date,” Andy said. “Although she did send an invitation. Letterhead and all.”

Myra’s tail bristled with what looked like amusement. “So formal.”

He smirked. “Have you met Claire?”

She shook her head, laughing softly. “She’s so weird. I love her.”

He watched her, looking for signs of distress. Myra looked more relaxed than usual, her posture loose, her hands steady. But there was a tightness around her mouth, a wariness that didn’t quite reach her voice.

Myra twirled her fork, hands steady, but there was a tension in the set of her jaw that Andy recognized: the mask of control she put on when she didn’t want to be the center of attention, but also didn’t want to disappear. Her fox ears were perked, listening, but her tail lay flat, the big plume of it draped so that nobody would step on it by accident.

“You’re smiling,” Myra said, after a beat. “I can hear it. Or maybe it’s just your breathing.” She grinned, a little wry. “You’re bad at hiding it, you know.”

Andy shrugged. “Maybe I’m happy to see you.”

She laughed, genuinely, and it was like the ice cracking in spring. “You really shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, tone half-joking, half-exasperated. “It’ll go to my head, and then I’ll start getting ideas.” She reached for her water, missing the glass by about three inches, but played it off with a little flick of her tail that suggested she knew exactly how it looked from the outside.

Andy studied her, watching for the flickers of unease that sometimes surfaced when Myra let her guard down. She was different from the last time they’d been alone, and he wanted to know if it was a real change, or just the exhaustion of having to keep up with the emotional traffic of the house.

Myra's tail swept the seat as she shifted, the big plume twitching with some inward calculation. She leaned in, elbows on the table, head canted so the white tips of her fox ears pointed at him—eyes blind, but somehow more direct than ever.

“Tell me the truth,” she said. “How are you doing?” She said it with a slyness, but there was a weight to the question.

Andy considered his answer. “Truth? I'm less tired than I thought I’d be. And I actually slept, for once.”

Myra’s lips quirked. “Because of Laura, or despite her?”

He laughed. “A little of both.”

She nodded, as if this was the only possible answer. Then she pressed, a little softer: “And how are you—really?”

He looked down at the table, then up at her. “Sometimes it feels like my whole job is just not messing up what everyone else has built for themselves.”

She gave a sound like a purr, low and approving. “That sounds like a good project manager.” Then, after a beat, “You do realize most of us are happier now than we’ve ever been?”

He blinked. “Even you?”

Myra’s mouth twisted into a smile. “I’m starting to think so.”

He let that sit for a moment, not wanting to rush the conversation.

She moved her hands, tracing the rim of her glass with a fingertip. “I’m going to say something dumb, so don’t laugh,” she warned.

He crossed his heart with a finger. “Never.”

“I’m looking forward to our date night,” she said, the words coming out too fast, like she was afraid she’d lose her nerve. “I even… I made a list of topics to talk about, so I wouldn’t get stuck.” She flushed, ears flicking back. “God, that sounds pathetic.”

Andy grinned. “It sounds awesome. You’re the only one who would think to do that.”

Myra laughed, abashed. “Yeah, well, Claire would.”

He leaned in, mock-conspiratorial. “Or, we could just wing it.”

She considered, then nodded. “Okay.” Then, too quickly: “I have a question.”

“Hit me.”

“What kind of character do you play in Pathfinder?” She made a face. “I mean—this is me changing the subject. I’m aware of that.” She added, hurriedly, “The last time you mentioned it, you said something about ‘inventor’, and I’ve been meaning to ask what the hell that even means.”

Andy nearly choked on his water. “Wait—you want to hear about my character?”

She gave a little shrug, fox tail curling around her hip. “I don’t actually understand most of it,” she admitted. “But I can tell when you like something.” She smiled, faint but genuine. “I can hear your voice… light up. Even when you’re embarrassed about it.”

Andy smiled, the realization landing gently. She wasn’t asking because she cared about Pathfinder. She was asking because she cared about him. “Okay,” he said. “So… My character is a human inventor, which means he’s basically a fantasy version of MacGyver…” He launched into the explanation, enthusiasm carrying him forward. His voice sped up; his hands started moving before he remembered she couldn’t see them. “…His name is Wenar Clockblood, which is… unfortunate, at times. But his thing is, he’s really, really bad at being a wizard, so he overcompensates with gadgets. He has this prosthetic arm made out of, like, a clockwork mechanism—”

He stopped, suddenly aware of himself. “Sorry. I’m doing the thing.”

Myra’s face was politely neutral, and Andy realized she was following maybe one word in five—but her smile when he apologized was real, and her ears were tipped toward him, listening for him, not the details.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “I’m mostly here for the vibes.”

He laughed, relieved, and finished more briefly. “…He’s a disaster, but he means well. And when he’s nervous, he sort of overcompensates by talking.”

Myra’s smile cracked wide. “Wow, Andy. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were projecting.”

He rolled his eyes. “Guilty as charged.” They laughed, and the sound was easy, even for her.

After a minute, she said, “I’m glad you told me.” She hesitated, then: “Sometimes I worry that people only want to talk about the things they think I like, or the things that make them look strong.”

He thought about it, then nodded. “I’m trying to get better at talking about the things I like, even if it’s embarrassing.”

Myra tapped her cane on the floor, a gentle rhythm. “That’s good,” she said. “You should.” A beat. “And for the record? I like you way more than your fictional gadget man.”

Andy laughed, pushed back from the table and stood, stretching his arms over his head. “Hey, I’ve got a little time before I need to go. Can I walk you anywhere?”

She considered, then nodded. “The 88 Club,” she said. “Marissa and Emi are in there. I like listening to Marissa play.”

He offered his arm, and she found and took it, her grip delicate but confident. She tucked her cane under her other arm, and with her tail balancing, they walked together toward the club.

As they stepped out of the Banquet Hall, Myra said, “You know, I didn’t realize how much I missed walking with someone. The cane really helps, but it’s easier to map the space when I have an anchor.” She squeezed his elbow. “You’re a very good anchor.”

He smiled. “You’re very good company.”

They walked in companionable quiet, her fox tail brushing his pant leg, until the corridor began to echo with the soft sound of piano. Myra’s ears turned toward the music, and she let go of his arm, instead trailing her fingers lightly along the wall.

Bonus Art! Chloe's halfling bard, Melody Stagelight.

Tomorrow: Sparkles the Destroyer!