Setting Up the Board

VP and BP Rankings
Claire - 161 VP - 8600 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 146 VP - 9250 BP - 3 Achievs
Erin - 144 VP - 12100 BP - 3 Achievs
Sam - 139 VP -9400 BP - 3 Achievs
Riley - 131 VP - 12800 BP - 3 Achievs
Emi - 128 VP - 11750 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 127 VP - 5000 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 126 VP - 10000 BP - 3 Achievs
Emily - 122 VP - 11600 BP - 3 Achievs
Liesa - 107 VP - 6900 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 106 VP - 2000 BP - 3 Achievs
Dawn - 102 VP - 13500 BP - 3 Achievs
Laura - 5000 BP - 2 Achievs

He came back to himself on the wrong side of dawn, breath low in his chest and the full weight of sleep making it hard to know what was up or down. For a long minute Andy lay there, eyes half-lidded, too comfortable to make sense of the world yet. He felt the warmth of another body against his ribs, the press of a naked leg over his own, and only after that did he realize his hand was buried deep in someone’s hair, fingers laced and gentle, as though they’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

He blinked, adjusted, and let the world slide into focus. Andy flexed his hand in the hair and felt the fine, impossibly strong strands slide between his fingers. He traced up to the scalp, then to the curve of a skull, and only then did he remember whose head he was holding.

Erin. She was on her side, her face pressed into the pillow, eyes wide open and fixed on him, like she had been waiting a hundred years for him to come up for air. He wondered how long she’d been awake and found it impossible to tell—she gave nothing away except the up-tilted edge of her mouth, which was somewhere between amusement and a dare.

He whispered, “You watching me sleep?” and his voice came out a low, rough thing, as if it had to muscle past a closed door to get into the room.

Erin didn’t answer with words. She shifted her weight, rolled her naked self up against him, and let her forehead rest against his cheek. The mint-green of her skin was even more alien and beautiful in daylight than at night. “A while.” She paused. “You sleep heavy. Like a tree in winter. I checked a couple times to make sure you were alive.”

He snorted and stretched, and the blanket fell away. At the foot of the bed, Fluffernutter had made a nest in the top layer of the comforter, her one good eye open and tracking the two of them like she expected trouble. Andy blinked at the cat, who did not blink back.

He said, “Best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

Erin’s mouth curved. She didn’t answer right away, just looked at him with that particular patience of hers, like she was deciding how much to say. “You used to sleep like that with me. Before. You’d go out like a light and I’d be stuck there for hours.” Her eyes dropped briefly, deliberately, to the considerable geography of her chest, then returned to his face. “You had a preferred pillow situation even then. It’s just—” she gestured at herself, “—more of a situation now.”

Andy looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were on me like a golden retriever tonight,” she said pleasantly. “Both times I woke up.”

“That’s not—”

“Andy.”

He stopped.

“You’re welcome,” she said, and tucked her chin back down against his shoulder, still smiling.

Andy laughed, let that settle, then glanced at the foot of the bed again. “Has Fluffernutter been up the whole night, too?”

Erin propped herself on her elbow, and her breast settled into the crook of his arm with a confidence that startled him. She looked at the cat and shrugged. “She moved four times, destroyed a quarter of her blanket, and meowed for about half an hour, directly in my ear. Otherwise, yes. She’s been running diagnostics.”

Fluffernutter, as if understanding the implication, rolled over and showed them her one-eyed side, tail flicking once in slow-motion offense.

Andy smiled, genuinely. “She doesn’t look mad.”

“She’s not,” Erin said. “She’s just decided, provisionally, that we’re allowed to be here.” Erin reached down and flicked her finger at the air near the cat’s ear. “Her way of giving us a warning.”

Andy nodded, not knowing what to say in return. He let his hand trace the line of her back, found the tiny bump of her spine at the base and drew slow circles there. She hummed, deep in her chest, a contentment more feline than the cat at their feet.

“Do you want to get up?” she asked, the words vibrating against his collarbone.

He answered without thinking. “Not yet.”

They lay there, not talking, and the light crept higher, softening everything. Andy looked at the wall across from the bed, where the painting of Katherine was hung—exactly where he’d placed it so she could see the room, the people in it, the whole of his ordinary mornings. The painting’s colors seemed to shift with the sun, the woman in it impossibly real, her long black hair spilling down to her thighs, breasts bared, eyes a steady green that found his and did not let go. He looked, and she looked right back, as if she had never slept at all.

He said, “I knew you were there last night.” He let the quiet sit for a second, then: “I was—” He stopped, tried again. “It actually helped. Having you there.”

Katherine’s mouth moved, just the slightest upturn at one corner. She brought her hand up flat to the inside of the canvas, palm out, steady and unhurried. He smiled at her.

Erin caught the look, glanced over, and grinned. “Morning, Kat.”

Katherine’s other hand came up in response, a wordless hello, and she tilted her head so her hair fell over one shoulder, then tucked it back behind her ear. The effect was so lifelike that for a second Andy almost expected her to step out and join them.

Andy cleared his throat. “Are you coming out today?”

Katherine nodded, then gestured with a tilt of her head toward the window, the full daylight behind it. Later, not now.

Andy followed the logic immediately. “Saving your hours for the party?”

She nodded again, then touched two fingers to her lips and held them out in a tiny, practiced salute. He said, “I get it. Twelve hours, you want to spend them when there’s something to actually do.”

She nodded a third time, then pointed to the inside corner of the frame, the place where the world turned off for her every night.

Andy let the conversation lapse. He kept his eyes on the painting, and something about the look on her face made the hair on his arms stand up. He was thinking about how a woman could survive fourteen years in a painting, never once be able to touch or hold another person, and still look at the world with that exact expression, like every day was another chance to be grateful for.

He felt Erin watching him, and didn’t look away from the painting.

“You’re thinking hard,” Erin said.

He blinked, then shrugged. “Just realizing something. Katherine’s never asked me for anything. In all this time. She gives me advice, or comfort, or a shoulder when I need one, but she’s never once asked for anything for herself.” He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, thinking aloud. “I tried already. When I got the latest Coauthor upgrade, that was the first thing I tried to fix. I changed her rules so she could leave the frame for twelve hours a day, but nothing I wrote could get her out for good.” He looked at Katherine, as if she might understand anyway. “The canvas wins every time.”

Erin looked at the painting, then at Andy, then back again. “That sucks,” she said, and her voice was equal parts anger and sympathy.

Andy nodded, feeling it in the pit of his stomach. “But—” He stopped. “I had a thought. Two days ago, on the Dream Date Laura bought.” He glanced at Erin, then away. “Laura and I—time stopped. For everyone except the two of us. Just locked up, mid-motion, like the whole world had been paused.”

Erin went very still. “Stopped,” she repeated. “You’re saying you did that?”

“With a Command,” Andy said, the words slow, careful. “The power the show gave me.”

Erin stared at him, then let her mouth drop open, just a little. “You think Command could—?”

Andy looked at Katherine. “It doesn’t work like Coauthor. It doesn’t edit, it doesn’t persuade, it just… orders. Top to bottom, like a law of physics. I never tried it on the frame. Never tried it on anything permanent.”

Katherine was absolutely still. Not a tremor, not a flicker of movement in the painted body, just the full, living weight of attention pointed right at him.

Andy looked at her, then at Erin, then at the place where the wall and the world met. “I don’t know if it would work,” he said, voice thin. “But we only have a day or two left, and I think it’s the best shot she’ll ever get.” He let his head drop back against the headboard, then ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it. Because if I fuck it up, that’s her whole existence on the line.”

Erin let out a long, slow breath. “You won’t fuck it up,” she said, and there was no hesitation at all.

Andy looked at the painting. “I want you to think about it,” he told her. “I want you to really think.”

Katherine’s mouth twitched, and this time it was definitely a smile.

For a few seconds, none of them spoke. The light filled the room a little more, and the cat at the foot of the bed snuffled her way deeper into the blankets, her little body making a perfect oval in the folds.

Andy rolled out of bed, feet finding the rug before his brain caught up. He crossed the room in a straight line for the painting, the air cool enough to wake him fully by the time he was standing before it.

Katherine returned his stare with a calmness that took the wind out of him. She seemed to be waiting for something, not impatient, but like she had already worked out what he was going to say and was just waiting for him to catch up.

He opened his mouth to ask if she wanted to come out, but the words caught. It felt wrong, now, to just throw it out as an invitation. He took a second to put the sentence together right, aware that Erin had also sat up in the bed and was watching him with the same patience, if slightly more amusement.

He said, “I want to try it, if you do. But I need you out here for it. If I do that now, the only way to test if I did it, will be to run through your entire twelve hours and see if the canvas pulls you back. If I fail, it’ll run your twelve hours out by this evening, and you’ll have to go back in before the party is even half over.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to burn your time unless you actually want to try what I’ve got.”

Katherine pressed her palm to the glass. Andy nodded, feeling a little stupid for having made it sound so transactional. “Let me tell you the pitch first. It’s not a sure thing, and it’s not a favor. It’s just an idea that might be worth nothing.”

Katherine raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.

He glanced back at the bed. Erin had brought her knees up to her chest and was hugging them, which had the effect of nearly hiding her entire body behind the twin pillows of her breasts, but her expression was intent. He drew in a breath and said, “Okay. So the way I see it, Coauthor bought you the twelve hours out a day, and that’s a hard boundary—nothing I write can get you past it. It’s like there’s a deeper law underneath, and anything I do just bounces off it. I think if I tried to use Command on the transformation itself, it would treat the whole thing like a physical law and just ignore me.”

Katherine nodded, hair falling over one bare shoulder. Andy pressed on. “But last week, Laura and I found out that Command can touch things Coauthor can’t. I used it in the middle of a Dream Date, and it didn’t just change the rules for the people in the room—it stopped time for the entire world. Paused it, like a button. Until I decided to restart it.”

He looked at Katherine. “If I stack a Command at you—‘Do not return to the painting until you will otherwise’—and another at the canvas—‘Do not let her back in until she wills otherwise’—I don’t know if it will work, but it might. The release would be built in. If you need to go back, you can. I’ll have no say in it. If you change your mind or something goes wrong, it’s over, and everything snaps back to normal.”

Katherine went as still as the paint on her own skin. Not rigid, not shocked, just letting every other part of her fade so she could hear him with her whole being.

He said, “It’s not breaking the transformation, it’s more like… jamming it. The only thing I don’t know is what it would do if it failed. The original transformation was Arabella’s. An elimination, and those are supposed to be permanent. I don’t know if my Command can jam one. If it fails, your twelve hours will still run out, and you’ll go back in. Nothing lost, except maybe a little hope.”

Katherine breathed out, which was strange to see, because she was not technically breathing at all in the painting. Then she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye, searching for the edge or the trap.

Andy said, “I won’t do it unless you want to. This is for you. If you want to try, we’ll try. If not, I’ll drop it. I don’t want to make a move on your existence unless you actually want it.”

Katherine took her time. She looked at Erin, who was now sitting cross-legged and as close to the foot of the bed as she could get without toppling over Fluffernutter. Erin said, “I’d do it. If it was me.” She shrugged, like that didn’t matter. “Even if it doesn’t work, it’s a shot. That’s more than anybody who was eliminated has gotten out of the show before.”

Katherine gave her a tiny smile, then turned her whole attention on Andy. He stepped forward, and when he was within reach, Katherine pressed her palm to the inside of the frame, directly opposite his. She nodded once, deliberate, eyes unblinking.

Andy put his hand to the frame, palm to the cool, living glass, and let himself stand there for as long as it took. The painting of Katherine never really blinked, never quite breathed, but today she managed to be more alive than most people he’d ever met in three dimensions. There was no rush on her face—if anything, she looked like she had been braced for this moment for the whole of her captivity, and now that it was finally here, she was going to take her time.

After a few seconds, Katherine dropped her hand from the glass. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and nodded once, decisive. Then, as if that weren’t enough, she made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and pressed it to her heart, then pointed it at him, the sign so universal that it made his ribs ache.

Andy smiled, nodded back, and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Katherine’s eyes flicked over his shoulder to Erin, and Andy followed the glance. Erin was still on the bed, and she looked up and gave Katherine a small salute. “You got this,” she said, as if she were the one with skin in the game.

Katherine grinned. The grin was fast, like a lamp turning on, and then she leaned into the side of the frame and let the painted version of her go slack, as if she had simply fallen asleep on her feet. Her body slumped, and the art of her leaned against the frame.

In the space next to Andy, the air shimmered, and the flesh-and-blood Katherine took shape out of nothing. Her long hair black as winter, her skin milk-pale, her breasts impossibly full and round. She did not hesitate. The instant her feet hit the floor, she put both arms around Andy, pulled him in close, kissed him soundly on the lips, and held on as if she’d just stepped off a ledge and found the world waiting to catch her. He felt her heartbeat—impossibly fast, then settling—and the press of her cheek against his neck.

She kissed him, once again, hungry, then broke the kiss and looked into his eyes, like she wanted to memorize the lines of his face. Then she let go with one arm, brought her hand up, and cupped his jaw. She smiled, wide and wild, and nodded again, but this time it was softer, a thanks rather than a yes.

He blinked hard, then reached for her hand and held it tight. “Are you ready?” he asked, knowing she couldn’t answer with words.

She pulled herself even closer, pressing her naked body to his, and nodded again, eyes never leaving his face.

He took a breath, let it out, and then, still holding her hand, said: “DON’T RETURN TO THE PAINTING UNTIL YOU WILL OTHERWISE.” He let the words hang in the air, the Command thickening the world around them, and he could feel it lock in, a humming in the roots of his teeth.

He turned to the painting, which was now just a meadow, empty and wild, with Katherine’s painting slumped against the frame, breasts and crotch still fully visible as was mandated by the canvas. “DON'T LET KATHERINE BACK IN UNTIL SHE WILLS OTHERWISE,” he said, and this time the world itself seemed to vibrate, as if the island’s gravity had just shifted half an inch.

Andy stumbled back a step, the floor gone for a second, and the breath left his chest in a single, silent jolt. For a moment he could not see. Then the room crashed back in, doubled, then tripled, then slowly resolving. His knees went weak.

Erin was there first, a blur of mint and motion, her hands catching his arms and steadying him. “Andy. Hey, hey. Breathe.”

Katherine was there too, her grip a vice on his hand, the heat of her skin almost too much. She pulled him in, bracing him from the other side, her eyes suddenly wide with worry.

“I’m fine,” Andy gasped, but the words were ragged, his vision still swimming.

Erin guided him to the bed, helping him sit. She let her hands linger at his shoulders, not letting go until she was sure he wouldn’t collapse.

Katherine crouched at his knees, her hands braced against them, her face level with his. She just let her presence speak.

He breathed, slow, until the world settled. “I’m okay. It just—” He shook his head. “That wasn’t like the Dream Date. That was like—” He stopped, tried again. “That was like there was a door in the universe, and I just slammed it shut.”

Erin was watching him with that old, calculating look. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked, her voice low, almost clinical.

Andy nodded. “Yeah. It just knocked the wind out of me.”

He looked at Katherine, still crouched at his knees. “Are you okay?” he asked, and only then did he realize that her whole body was trembling—not from fear, but from whatever had just hit him. She nodded, but then squeezed his hand so tight it nearly hurt.

He managed a laugh. “I think we’re both okay,” he said, and let the quiet work its way back in.

After a minute, Erin looked at the painting. “Should we test it?” she asked, and immediately realized the flaw. She frowned. “Wait. If she goes back in, it cancels the whole thing.”

Andy nodded. “Yeah. I needed to leave an escape hatch, in case something went wrong. The only way to know if it worked is to see if she stays out after her twelve hours are up.”

“Which will be…” Erin did the math aloud, glancing at the alarm clock. “Six-fifty-three tonight.”

Andy smiled, amazed at how precise she always was. “That’s not a lot of time.”

Katherine stood, and shrugged. Then, with a little theatricality, she pressed her palms together, bowed to him, and then turned a slow, deliberate circle, as if to show off every inch of borrowed time.

Erin said, “You’re going to be at the bachelorette party when it happens,” and there was a note in her voice he hadn’t heard before—a kind of reverence, or maybe just awe.

Katherine raised her eyebrows, like she hadn’t thought of that either. Then she grinned, a wolf’s smile, and nodded twice, hard.

Andy looked at Erin, then at Katherine. “If it doesn’t work, you’ll go back in just before seven,” he said, making it as clear as he could. “And I won’t be there. I’ll be on the other side of the island.”

Katherine’s expression softened. She reached out, cupped his face with both hands, and kissed him on the forehead. She stepped back, then pointed at the room, at the light, at Erin, and finally at herself. She spread her hands, palms up, like she was weighing it against the world.

Andy felt the tears prick at his eyes, but he kept his voice steady. “I’d do it again. If it fails, I’ll try again tomorrow. Or the next day. I don’t care how many times it takes.”

Katherine shook her head, then nodded, smiling at him gratefully. She stepped in and wrapped her arms around him. Andy hugged her tight, letting the heat and reality of her body soak through. For a moment, he didn’t care if the whole world saw, or what anyone else thought. He just held her.

She let go and stepped back, then tilted her head questioningly.

Andy laughed, a real one. “Now we see what happens.”

Fluffernutter, as if on cue, extricated herself from the bedding and toddled over to investigate the new person in the room. She made a full revolution of Katherine’s ankles, then sat, one good eye fixed on her with utter suspicion.

Katherine crouched and put a hand out, palm up, and the cat took her time considering it. Eventually, she sniffed once, then butted her forehead into Katherine’s knuckles. A truce, for now.

Andy watched them, then turned to Erin. “That looks pretty normal.”

Erin, who had by now managed to prop herself up on the footboard without giving Fluffernutter a chance to climb her leg, snorted. “You’re looking at a mint-green naked plant woman, a naked art teacher from a painting, and a cat with one eye. If this is normal, I’m not sure I want to see what happens at the party.”

Katherine looked up, then pointed at Erin, then at herself, and then mimed pouring a drink. Erin got it right away. “She’s saying she wants to party, too.”

Andy shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve been out for five minutes and you already want a drink?”

Katherine grinned, shrugged, and spread her arms.

Erin walked over, looped an arm around Katherine’s waist, and said, “I’ll be next to you tonight when it hits. If it works, I want to see you outlast it. If it doesn’t… you’re not finding out alone.”

Katherine nodded, and for a second, Andy could see every year she’d spent inside the frame—every day of stillness, every hour of waiting for a world that might never come for her. She pressed her hand over Erin’s, then looked at Andy and kissed him again.

He couldn’t talk for a second. Then, quietly, he said, “Let’s make today count.” He walked up to the wardrobe and put on some clothes.

Fluffernutter, sensing the mood, wound herself between all three sets of feet and did not trip anybody. She parked herself on the rug and watched as Andy, Erin, and Katherine moved as a unit toward the kitchen.

---

The air in the living room was still. Not dead, not stale, but holding the same energy as the back hallway of a hospital, the kind of hush that expected bad news and wasn’t going to flinch when it came. Sam sat on the couch with her feet bare and her knees up, looking out the window at nothing in particular. She had a mug of something next to her, untouched, cooling so slow you could tell it was for the hands, not for the mouth.

Every few minutes she looked at the Consort’s bedroom door, then away again, with the rhythm of someone who knew it would open eventually but was not going to be caught staring when it did. The television was off. The silence was the real kind, the kind with no music hiding under it, just the air and the soft noise of time passing.

At a quarter past seven, the door opened from the inside. Laura stood in the doorway, hair damp, both bodies dressed for the morning, both sets of hands hanging loose at her sides. The two of her moved at once, crossing into the room with perfect mirrored precision, and for a moment Sam watched to see if one would ever break cadence, but neither did.

Laura didn’t stop walking until she was halfway to the couch, then stood there and looked at Sam for a full two seconds. The faces were level, all four blue eyes aimed at Sam’s head, but it wasn’t aggressive. If anything, it was the steady look of someone checking to see if a bomb had already gone off, or if it was still waiting for someone to cut the wire.

Sam set the mug down on the low table. “Did you sleep?”

Laura shook her heads. “Not really.”

Sam watched her, then shrugged with one shoulder. “If you want breakfast, I can get it. If you’d rather not deal with food right now, that’s okay, too.”

Laura considered, then said, “Something small now. I won’t be able to eat in front of a whole room anyway.”

Sam nodded and got up, moving without hurry. “Give me a minute.” She passed Laura on the way to the kitchen and stopped with both hands on the counter, scanning what was on offer. “Anything you don’t hate?” she called back.

Laura thought, then said, “Toast is fine. Maybe the cheese if there’s any left.”

Sam cut two thick slices, then built an open-faced sandwich with cheese and an artful squiggle of honey, the way she always did for herself when she needed something but didn’t care what. She plated it, got a napkin, and brought it back to Laura, who had not moved an inch since she’d stopped in the middle of the room.

Laura took the plate. “Thank you,” she said, “You’re a good friend.”

Sam watched her eat the first bite, then dropped back onto the couch, legs folded up. “Not my best work,” she said, “but the bread’s still warm.”

Laura ate two slow bites, then sat next to Sam, a half-body’s width away, the other of her settling on the armrest at the far end like a shadow with a will of its own. Sam looked at the food, then at Laura, then said, “You know, if you ever want to kick me off that couch, I’ll trade you. I’ve had the worst sleep of my life on it.”

Laura gave a small, genuine laugh. The sound was doubled, but it landed right. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to relax on that thing. I remember what Arabella said about it.”

Sam grinned. “That’s fair.” She leaned back, stretched her arms over her head, and let her hands dangle off the edge of the couch, fingers spread like she was getting ready to play catch. “You got anything you need from me this morning?”

Laura considered. “Not really. Just—“ she paused, chewing and swallowing, “just wanted to see how the day was supposed to work. Liesa said something last night about schedules and makeup and hair and dresses and none of it made sense to me.”

Sam nodded. “She’s got you down for hair and makeup at eight, breakfast in the Dance Hall at nine thirty, then I have no idea. She’s got her own thing going.” She waited. “Do you want me to make up a reason to get you out of it, if you change your mind?”

Laura thought about it, then shook her heads. “No. If I don’t go, she’ll worry. It’s easier to go.”

Sam nodded, a knowing sort of nod. “She’s already on her third round of scheduling. You missing the bachelorette thing would unhinge the entire day.”

Laura almost smiled. “I don’t want to do that to her.”

Sam grinned. “You’re a good person.”

Laura didn’t answer, just looked down at the plate and took another bite, then set the food aside and wiped her hands on the napkin, slow and precise. For a moment, neither of them had anything to add. The silence settled back in, easy now, not loaded.

After a while Laura set the plate down on the low table, wiped her fingers, and said, “Has anyone else been up?”

Sam shrugged, the kind of gesture that was honest about not knowing. “I think Erin’s awake. Heard voices from Andy’s bedroom.”

Neither of them said anything for a while, and it was a kind silence, the sort you could live in for a week without having to sweep up after.

“You want to talk about it?” Sam asked, quiet.

Laura was slow to answer. “Did Andy tell you?”

Sam said, “Last night. Most of it. Not everything. But the letter, and the rest, yeah.”

Laura took a long time to process that. “How much did you believe?”

“All of it,” said Sam, and her voice was as flat as a still lake. “It sounds exactly like what it is. I’m not going to pretend otherwise just to make the morning easier.”

Laura nodded, not surprised, maybe even relieved. “Thank you for not lying to me.”

Sam laughed, a low, gentle thing. “If you ever hear me lying, assume I’ve been replaced by an alien.”

Laura tried to smile, but her lips didn’t move right. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

Sam shrugged, but this time there was weight in it. “Harder than most things. But not the hardest. The hardest is waking up and doing it anyway, when you’d rather just not be here at all.” She looked straight at Laura. “You did that.”

Laura didn’t answer. She just stared at her hands, the left set holding the right in perfect mirror, as if by holding both she could keep herself from falling apart.

Sam let her sit with it. Then she leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped loose, and said: “There’s a thing I did say last night. To Andy, I mean. I told him the letter wasn’t the wish. Not exactly.” She waited to see if Laura would look up, then went on. “Your mom wrote that thing in a panic. She wrote it after she’d already made the wish, and she was half-broken by the time she got to the last page.” She kept her eyes on Laura’s face. “Sometimes what people say and how they describe it afterwards… they’re not quite the same thing.”

Laura sat with that for a long moment. “I’ve already thought about that. But I keep coming back to the fact she was the one who said the words, and she was the one who wrote them down after. I don’t see how what came out of her mouth could be any different from what she put on the page.”

Sam didn’t argue. “Not being able to see a difference isn’t the same as there not being one,” she said. “I’d put a pin in that one.”

Laura said nothing, but the muscles in her jaw worked, like she was grinding the sentence down to a fine powder to see if it held anything more.

Sam changed tack. “Does any of this change what you want to do?” she asked, voice soft. “About the ascension. About going through the First Gate with Andy. If it’s even real.”

Laura was quiet so long Sam almost asked again. “I don’t know. There’s nothing to weigh it against. The Gate isn’t even a place yet, just a word. I’ll know when it gets closer.”

Sam let the answer hang in the air. She said, “Well. Today’s not the day you have to be brave about all of it.”

Laura looked down at her hands, then back at Sam. “I wasn’t brave last night. I just sat and let it happen.”

Sam reached over and took one of Laura’s hands, squeezed it once, then let it go. She took the other, squeezed, then set both of Laura’s hands back in her own lap. “You don’t have to be brave every time. Some days, surviving is enough.”

Laura watched her own hands, as if memorizing the way they fit together.

After a few seconds, Laura stood up, both bodies at once. “I’m going to make tea,” she said. “You want some?”

Sam smiled. “If there’s any left, sure.”

Laura nodded, and for a moment, she looked less like someone carrying a mountain and more like a woman who just wanted her tea.

---

The door to the Master’s bedroom opened with the sound of an argument being held just below the threshold of human hearing. Andy came out first, wearing old jeans and a t-shirt, hair still sticking up. Erin was close behind, skin that impossible shade of mint green. Katherine stepped out last, and it was always a small surprise to see her moving in three dimensions, the muscles of her body loose and effortless, her long black hair swinging like a living thing behind her.

Trailing them, Fluffernutter stalked into the living room with the staccato stride of someone auditioning for the role of Inquisitor General. She made a beeline for Laura’s left ankle, sniffed once, then sat, tail curled around her feet, single eye fixed on the blue-eyed twin that had just caught her attention.

Laura didn’t see any of it at first. The minute Andy entered, her gaze cut to him and did not let go, the other of her still watching Sam, the two of them splitting focus so perfectly it looked choreographed.

“What was that?” Laura asked, not a greeting but a demand. “A few minutes ago. Something landed on you.”

Andy blinked, then flexed his hand, as if making sure it was still there. “I used the Command Gift,” he said, his voice low and a little unsteady. “On Katherine’s transformation. I tried to jam it—to keep her from being pulled back into the painting when the twelve hours are up tonight.” He let out a slow breath, like he’d just set down something heavy. “It worked, I think. Or it felt like it did. But we won’t know for sure until tonight, when the cycle resets.”

Sam cut in, voice sharp but not unkind. “You sure about that? Because you’re moving like somebody pulled the rug out from under you.”

Andy shrugged, not quite making eye contact. “It just hit harder than I thought it would. Felt like trying to hold a door shut against a storm.”

Sam looked at him, saw the tell, then shifted her gaze to Erin. “Did you know he was going to try that this morning?”

Erin shook her head. “He only told me about it a few minutes ago.” She looked at Andy, then back at Sam. “It’s not like he had a week to prep. He got the idea last night and waited until he was sure he wanted to risk it.” She said it with that particular tone of voice that implied she had already done the risk calculus and was going to support it even if she hadn’t signed off on the plan herself.

Laura’s attention moved back and forth between Andy and Erin, but the left body never stopped tracking the microexpressions on Andy’s face.

“What did you do?” Laura asked.

Andy started to answer, but Erin stepped in. “He stacked a Command on top of what Coauthor already did. Katherine is not going back in the painting unless she chooses to. Possibly. Nobody will know for sure if it worked until her twelve hours run out tonight and she’s still standing here.” Erin let the words drop, then shrugged, her chest moving in a way that would have been distracting if the topic were less dire. “If it fails, it’s back to the canvas.”

Sam whistled, low. “You picked a hell of a day for it. Half the island’s at one party or another, and you go for broke with nobody home to call for help.” She looked at Andy, not entirely disapproving. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Andy nodded, slower this time. “It knocked the wind out of me, but it’s already passing.”

Laura watched this exchange and, for once, said nothing. She just observed, both bodies turned toward Andy, eyes unblinking.

Katherine crossed the room to Laura, the distance covered in three steps. She stopped just in front of her and put a hand on Laura’s shoulder. The gesture was careful, almost ceremonial. Katherine smiled, then reached up and smoothed a damp curl of Laura’s hair behind her ear, as if she were a bridesmaid and this was some ancient, necessary ritual.

Laura said, “I’m happy for you,” both voices in perfect sync, and the other of her softened visibly. “Are you scared about tonight?”

Katherine shook her head no, then stopped, and after a second, nodded yes, just once, as if admitting the truth made it less sharp. She pressed Laura’s hand against her own chest, just over the heart, and then let go.

Andy watched this happen, and for a moment he felt the weight of the last night lift enough to let him breathe. He looked at Erin, who was watching him with a focus that bordered on clinical.

“You okay?” she asked, quietly. “Do you want to sit down?”

Andy almost protested, but the feeling passed, and he let her guide him to the couch. Katherine watched them, then settled onto the armrest beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder.

Sam, having witnessed all this, said, “You realize the cat is the only one here who’s not traumatized by the last twenty-four hours?”

Laura finally noticed Fluffernutter at her feet. “Why is there a cat in the Suite?” Her tone was caught between genuine wonder and the suspicion she was the last to the punchline.

Erin, without looking up, said, “She’s mine. Has been for six years.” She scooped Fluffernutter under one arm, the cat’s paws dangling, and held her up for Laura’s inspection. “She’s not a fan of strangers, but she makes an exception for anyone carrying old trauma. You’re probably safe.”

Laura tentatively reached out, let the cat sniff her hand, and then, when Fluffernutter made no move to bite, stroked her head with a single, careful motion. “She’s soft,” Laura said, sounding faintly surprised. “And heavier than she looks.”

“She’s a tank,” said Erin, setting the cat down, where she promptly inserted herself between Andy’s ankles and the kitchen island.

Andy, moved by some unkillable muscle memory, went to the counter and started the coffee pot. The smell began to fill the Suite, and for the first time since they’d woken, it actually felt like a morning and not a series of interconnected disasters.

---

While the pot worked, Andy brought the velvet-lined box out of the Inventory. He carried it over to where Laura's left body stood at the counter, still orbiting him in that slow, careful arc, and set it down without a word.

Laura looked at it, then at him. ”What's this?”

“Came for you yesterday. I meant to give it to you last night, and then last night happened instead.” He opened the lid. The claws caught the kitchen light, six curved blades laid neat against the velvet.

Laura's right body drifted over from the window without seeming to decide to, until both of her were looking down into the box at once. “From Shar,” Laura said. It wasn't a question. She reached in with one hand — just the left — and lifted a gauntlet free, turning it so the blades tracked the light. “These are well-made,” she said, in the same even voice she'd used on Sam an hour ago, the one that sounded like a verdict already reached. “Good balance. Whoever made these was a professional.”

Sam, from the couch, went still over her mug. Erin's eyes cut sideways, tracking without turning her head. Neither said anything.

“Laura.”

“They're a little small for combat use, honestly, unless the wearer's built like—” She stopped, because both her voices had stopped at the same word, and for a second neither of her seemed to know how to start again.

Andy took the gauntlet out of her hand, gently, and set it back in the box. “You don't have to catalogue it. Not for me.”

“I'm not cataloguing it.” Both her jaws tightened in the same instant. “I'm looking at a weapon somebody sent me two days before my wedding and trying to decide whether to be grateful or terrified, and it turns out if I talk about the stitching long enough I don't have to pick.” The room had gone quiet around them without anyone deciding to make it that way. Katherine's hand, still resting on Andy's shoulder from a minute before, didn't move.

“Okay,” Andy said, quiet enough that it was only for her. “Then don't pick. Not this morning.” He closed the box halfway, leaving the claws visible but no longer demanding to be assessed. “You don't have to be fine about this in front of everyone. You don't have to be fine about it in front of me, either.”

Laura's composure held for one more second, both faces set in the same careful line, and then something in it gave — not a break, just a give, the kind of small surrender that looked, from across the room, like nothing at all. “I don't know what I'm supposed to be ready for,” she said, both voices together, quieter than either had managed all morning.

“Neither do I.” He closed the lid the rest of the way. “But I'd rather you have something sharp than nothing, whatever it turns out to be for.” She didn't answer that. She took the box from him instead, both sets of hands closing around it at once, and held it against her chests the way she might have held something breakable rather than something built to cut. After a moment she said, “I'll pack it,” in a voice that had found its footing again, mostly, and carried it off toward the bedroom without looking back, both bodies moving in the same unhurried line.

Sam waited until the door clicked shut before she looked at Andy. “You good?”

“No,” Andy said, and went back to the coffee, because there was nothing else in reach to do with his hands.

---

Andy watched the bloom of brown in the cup and tried not to think about the thirty million ways this morning could fail. The Suite was quiet, the kind of hush that was only half from the hour and half from the knowledge that, behind every wall, somebody was bracing for a future that had gotten too big for the room.

Katherine hovered just at the edge of the living room, naked and newly incarnate, her hair a black flag down her back. Erin—also naked, and as serenely comfortable as if she’d invented the concept—had taken her tea on the couch, one foot tucked under the other thigh and her body angled, somehow, to make it look as if she’d been airbrushed into the furniture by an obsessive, horny god. Sam’s feet were up on the ottoman, and the way she cradled her mug suggested she was keeping her hands busy just so she didn’t have to carry anything for anyone else this morning.

Laura’s two bodies had split the labor of presence. The left one was in the kitchen, doing something that looked like browsing for food but really just orbiting Andy in a slow, careful arc. The right was propped against the window, arms folded, eyes on the horizon, as if a piece of her might actually climb out onto the terrace and vanish before anyone noticed.

He was about to take the chair opposite Erin when the Consort’s bedroom door, closed since Laura’s double-exit an hour earlier, swung open with no warning. Claire stepped through it in mid-stride, the move so abrupt that even the air didn’t have time to catch up. Her notebook was tucked against her chest, one hand flat on the cover, the other trailing at her side as if it wasn’t sure what to do now that it had been yanked here by a force outside its jurisdiction.

Claire blinked, made a fast, mechanical sweep: the couch, the coffee, the faces, the door behind her that had not been the one she’d opened a minute ago in some other wing of the Hotel. The effect was disorienting, but not new. Her tail lashed once, then settled. She sniffed, a small catlike motion, then zeroed in on the kettle still on the stove.

Erin, without missing a beat, said, “You got summoned again?” There was no edge to it—just a curiosity honed by repetition.

Claire made a tiny nod, the agreed-upon signal for Yes, thank you for noticing, and shrugged with her whole torso. She crossed to the counter, found a bag of herbal infusion, poured hot water in a mug for herself, and set the carafe down without making a sound.

“Did you ever get used to that?” Sam asked, watching as Claire folded herself into a seat at the end of the breakfast bar.

Claire shook her head, not once but twice, slow and deliberate, then raised her mug to her lips and sipped. The notebook stayed in her lap, fingers drumming on the spiral binding.

Laura said, “I think the story missed you. It always brings you in when the plot gets stuck.” She glanced at Andy, and something passed between them—a flicker, a question not spoken because there was no way to ask it without admitting it was the only thing left to talk about. Andy let the silence do the work of a reply.

Claire, apparently settled, took one more long inhale of herbal tea, then reached for the notebook. Her tail, which had begun to twitch with excess voltage, stilled as soon as her hand found the pen loop. She opened the book to a page already covered in writing. Andy, out of habit, looked for the angle of her arm, the slant of her head: she filled every inch of the paper with notes before she’d let herself flip to the next.

She wrote for a minute, then angled the notebook toward Andy, but she didn’t slide it across. Instead she tapped once on the top of the page and let her eyes say: This is for you.

He leaned forward. The letters, as always, were perfectly legible, precise as type. The first sentence was a stunner:

I do not believe the Ereshkigal debt is automatic.

Andy looked at her, then read on.

The text was dense but surgical: When a case falls outside Law’s known precedent, Ereshkigal is not only a collector but a judge. She can decide, at her own discretion, whether to apply the debt mechanically or to rule on the unique facts. Precedent is everything to the Law. When a case has no precedent, the death deity must create one.

Andy felt the words settle in his chest, the way an elevator settles when it drops a floor too many.

He said, “What makes a case count as unprecedented?”

Claire set the notebook down, grabbed her pen, and wrote at a speed that looked almost painful.

She turned the page and wrote: I do not know the threshold. But it is not just quantity or quality. It is about whether the scenario has been seen before, by anyone in the chain of Law. If nobody in the record has ever ruled on it, she will hear argument. She must.

Erin looked at the notebook, then at Claire. “What happens if she rules against you?”

Claire’s face did not move, but her tail tip flicked. She wrote, very small: I think that is the bad ending.

Andy let his hand rest on the bar, close to hers but not quite touching. “Is there a way to force this? To make her judge rather than just collect?”

Claire nodded, sharp, then wrote: Yes. But it would require a case she cannot decide by formula. No easy way to map it to what’s come before. She will try, but if the facts are weird enough, it triggers a court. It’s the only way gods ever get surprised.

He looked at her, and for a second she looked back, ears up, eyes enormous behind the glasses. She gave a very tiny, very reluctant smile, which meant she was proud of the reasoning but hated the consequences.

Sam said, “Would she have to come here for that? In person?”

Claire wrote: Yes. She cannot rule from a distance. She must be present to see all the facts and arguments.

Andy almost smiled, then looked at Laura. Both bodies were watching the notebook, but only one of her was paying attention to Andy.

He said, “Does this help us, or hurt us?”

Claire shrugged, but it was a calculated move. She wrote: It makes it possible to win. But it also makes it possible to lose in a way nobody has ever lost before.

Katherine, silent until now, drifted behind Andy, placed a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed, a gentle, steadying pressure.

Claire watched the hand, then looked up at Andy, and for a second the world compressed down to just the two of them and the words nobody else had the voice to say. She turned the page, then wrote something else, the pen biting deep this time. She tapped the line, and this time she slid the notebook so everyone could see.

I can also name the man from your vision. You have seen him in two of the eight fragments. The bearded man is called Nergal, but that is not his real name. He is also called Abi-Eshu. He was the first Master Arabella Hosted during Dilmun, long before this Hotel. He died in Sumer. Ereshkigal claimed him as bound to her, and there is no record of the binding ever ending.

Andy read the words twice, then felt the room bend around them.

Sam said, “You mean she’s got a debt collector?”

Claire nodded, and this time her tail went flat, a sign of something approaching admiration. She wrote: If a goddess has an enforcer, she sends him. If she comes herself, it’s because she cannot trust anyone else to make the call.

Erin said, “So if Nergal comes for us, it’s just the bill being collected. But if Ereshkigal comes, it means we made a mess no one can clean up.”

Claire nodded, pleased.

Andy let the words settle. He thought about what it meant to be seen by a judge who ruled only on the uniqueness of your suffering, who could decide, on a whim or a principle, whether you would be the first and last of your kind.

He reached for the coffee, found his hand was shaking. He wrapped both hands around the mug, let the heat ground him.

Claire, sensing the moment was for him alone, closed the notebook and held it to her chest. She nodded once, not a cat-nod but a human gesture, and the meaning was: I’m with you, whatever you decide.

Laura, both bodies now close together, said in a small voice, “Does this make you want to try, or does it make you want to run?”

Andy took a long, shaky breath. “It makes me want to win,” he said. “Honestly, it makes me want to win.”

The Suite was quiet, and the quiet was not the cold kind anymore. It was the quiet that comes after the moment of impact, when everyone is still standing and nobody’s sure how. Katherine squeezed his shoulder again, Erin let her hand rest on his thigh, and Fluffernutter, sensing the shift in gravity, jumped up onto the breakfast bar and curled herself directly between Andy and Claire, a small, fuzzy detente.

Andy saw the way Claire’s hand hovered over her notebook, restless and knuckled white, like she was bracing herself for a punch only she knew was coming.

She took a breath—Andy could see her ribs move under the cotton of her shirt—and then, almost against her own will, she scribbled something new. Claire tapped the margin, a tiny, urgent sound. Andy’s eyes flicked to the page.

I went back through all eight fragments, she wrote, to check for patterns. Most scenes with Ereshkigal also have Abi-Eshu somewhere in the periphery. But one does not: the beach, the day of the confrontation, the woman in black present and the man absent. If he was her enforcer, he should have been there. He was not.

Andy felt his mouth go dry. He thought of the vision—waves breaking, the lowering sun, the sick feeling of being summoned to a reckoning. In that memory, only the goddess had spoken. No Nergal, no bearded man. Just the Law in person.

He said, “Why does that matter?”

Claire took the notebook, wrote in all-caps with the blue pen: I think it means you can compel her. There is a mechanistm—unknown—that removes the enforcer and can bring her in person. I don’t think it belongs to her. I think it belongs to the opposite party.

Laura made a noise, an incredulous little laugh. “That’s what you’re thinking? That if we find the trigger, we can force her to rule in person?”

Claire nodded, fast, both ears flicking in agreement.

Sam, who had been steepling her fingers in front of her mouth, asked, “What about getting rid of Nergal? Would that do it?”

Claire hesitated, then wrote: It might.

Andy put his hands flat on the counter, trying to steady himself. “So what are you saying? That we could call her in, somehow, and if we do, there’s a chance to actually argue Laura’s case?”

Claire hesitated, then wrote, Only if it is enough of an edge case. She just nodded, her chin tucked almost to her chest, and her eyes wide behind the glasses.

Laura, both bodies, said, “That’s better than what I thought.” Then, softer, “Is it enough?”

Claire looked up, and whatever she was about to say, it showed on her face: the sudden, darting shift of her cat-like pupils, the subtle flattening of her ears, the way her hand hovered over the page like it might decide to stop writing and never start again. Andy could see how hard it was for her to keep going. She forced her pen to the paper and, in a neat, clear line, wrote:

I need to talk about the blue rose.

Laura stilled, a visible freeze running through both halves of her, but it was the right that spoke. “Go ahead,” she said, and the words had a chill to them, but no anger.

Claire wrote, slow this time:

I have found five records of this kind of ritual—no two the same, but most share a pattern: to feed the rose, you use something tied to how the person died, and something tied to where they were born. Death from where she died; life from where she came in.

Andy felt a pressure in his chest, the sense of something very old, and very final.

Claire wrote: For you, it was Willow Run for the water. That’s the river where it happened. The feather of Ma’at for justice. The seeds of Persephone for transition. The Edict of Ereshkigal for binding. But for birth—she underlined this—Nothing. There was nothing from where you started. I was in the room for the whole thing. I saw nothing added for it.

Laura was silent, her eyes locked on the page. She pressed her lips together, a careful, practiced motion. “Does that mean it didn’t work properly?” she asked.

Claire shook her head, then wrote: I don’t know. There is no single “correct” version in the records. Only the pattern. It is possible yours is a variant that works anyway. Or that you are not all the way back. I don’t know what to look for, but I am scared that something is missing, and that nobody noticed until now.

Andy felt the room squeeze down around him, the walls of the Suite suddenly less like a place of safety and more like a container for everything they were afraid to say out loud.

He said, “Could it be something nobody saw? Could Arabella or Anna have added it at the end, or before they brought you in?”

Claire wrote: Maybe. Or it could be something that is only visible at the finish line.

Sam exhaled, slow. “So the job is to hope it holds until then, and if it doesn’t, pray it fails in a way that gives us a shot to fix it.”

Erin, who had gone silent since the start of the blue rose discussion, reached across the bar and put her hand over Laura’s. The touch was feather-light, but it made both bodies look up at once, and the two sets of blue eyes met, the same color but from different universes.

Laura said, “If I don’t make it, you still go through. All of you.” Her voice was flat, but not empty. “I don’t want to be the reason—”

Andy cut her off, voice raw. “You are the reason.”

Claire, after a second’s pause, wrote: I am sorry for making this harder. I did not want to say it unless I had to. But I would rather you knew, in case it helps to be ready.

Laura looked at her, the right-side face softening, the left staying tight. “Thank you,” she said, both voices overlapping but with different emphasis. “You did the right thing.”

Andy reached for Claire’s hand, not sure if it was okay to do it, but she let him, her grip cool and dry and surprisingly strong. He said, “How long have you been sitting on this?”

Claire shrugged, then wrote: Two days. I wanted to be sure.

Andy squeezed her hand. “Which of the things you just told us scares you most?”

She wrote, instantly, in red ink: This one. Because it could already be wrong and we wouldn’t know until the end.

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

Claire, eyes suddenly wet, wrote one last line: I am glad you ask questions instead of only listening. Then she set the notebook aside, leaned forward, and put her arms around Andy in a quick, desperate hug. He held her, and neither of them let go until the room felt safe enough to risk it.

---

The hug ended, as all hugs did in this place, with an awkward untangling of limbs and a few seconds where nobody knew whose turn it was to talk next. Andy and Claire separated, each pretending not to notice the flush on the other’s face, and for a moment the two of them just stood there in the half-light, letting the rest of the world resume its rotations.

It was the elevator that got things moving again. The sound was just as perfect as always—a crisp bell, bright enough to be heard everywhere in the Suite, even in the thick of emotional aftermath. At the first note, every head in the room snapped up. Katherine’s went so far as to tilt, as if she could see through the walls.

Andy hesitated for a second, then went to open the front door.

There was a blur of blue-and-gold just outside, and then Liesa swept into the entryway, moving like a runway model. She wore a sleeveless sheath dress that looked like it had been airbrushed onto her, with a vertical stripe of lemon yellow down the side. Over one shoulder she carried a thick garment bag, and in her other hand, a box so carefully wrapped it might have contained plutonium or the fate of nations. She had on strappy wedge sandals, which made her a head shorter than Andy. For a split second she looked at him, and then did the tiniest wink.

“Hallo, good morning,” she said, her accent extra thick in the first two words, maybe on purpose.

Andy, thrown by the intensity of the greeting, blinked. “Hey. You’re early.”

Liesa put the garment bag on the coat rack and set the box on the little table by the door, then shook out her hair, which fanned behind her like she was prepping for a Renaissance portrait. She glanced around the room, taking in the population. “I think, better to be early than to make the whole group late.” She scanned the rest of the Suite, clocked every body in it, then seemed to assign each to a spot in her internal spreadsheet.

Andy was watching all this, trying to reconcile the Liesa of this moment—a little more tired, a little more driven, but with the same magnetism she’d always had—with the Liesa from his memories. She looked so much like herself now, down to the little dabs of green-blue eyeliner, that it threw him out of the present and back into the lost years they’d only recently talked about.

But she didn’t let it get weird. She pivoted back to the group, looked at each person in turn, then clapped her hands once, so loudly it made Andy jump. “Okay. First group is me, Erin, Katherine, Claire, and Laura.”

“I will not be the one who makes the entire schedule late,” Liesa said, with the gravity of a woman who had, at some point in her life, nearly been crushed by a schedule. “We are already two minutes behind, but that’s okay. If we are on the elevator by thirty after, we win.”

Erin shot a glance at Andy, a look that was half warning, half surrender. She scooped up her mug, set it on the counter, then bent to pick up Fluffernutter, who had been winding herself between ankles ever since the elevator opened. The cat made a little noise of protest, but let herself be hoisted, and within two seconds had reconfigured her bulk to sprawl across Erin’s forearm like a small, furry briefcase.

Katherine just walked over to the door and parked herself next to Liesa, hair cascading all the way to the hem of the garment bag. She winked at Andy, then did a little circle on her heel, as if to show she was ready for whatever came next.

Claire, who had been quiet up to this point, closed her notebook, then made a gesture at Liesa and another at Erin, as if to say: Let’s go. Then she looked at Andy, held his gaze for a full two seconds, and gave the tiniest shake of her head, like: You don’t need to worry about me.

Liesa, suddenly all business, said, “Time to go. Guests are arriving.” She beckoned to her group, and started for the door.

On her way past, Laura stopped by Andy, and for a second it was just the two of them in the doorway. She looked at him, both faces in perfect sync, and said, “I’m going to be fine.”

He started to say I know, but she cut him off with, “You don’t have to check every five minutes. Today I’m going to make it through a whole party without needing you to carry me out.”

He laughed, but he didn’t push it. “I’ll hold you to that.”

She smiled wanly. “Good. Because if I come back before noon, you’re not allowed to say I told you so.”

He reached for her hand instead of answering — the left one, out of a habit neither of them had ever named — and held on a second longer than the moment called for. "I'll be right here," he said.

Something in her face eased, just slightly, before she caught it and put it away.

He nodded, and she went. Liesa hustled them into the elevator, already narrating the plan for the morning. Andy caught the phrase “treatments,” “champagne,” and “it will be fine, you just wait,” but the rest of it was lost in the closing of the doors.

The minute the group was gone, Sam stood and stretched, her t-shirt pulling up over her stomach and showing off a sliver of tan, muscular abs. She rolled her neck, then looked at Andy with a conspiratorial grin. “If you want a real breakfast, we should get out of here before they come back,” she said. “I’m not letting Liesa schedule me until I’ve had three more cups of real coffee and at least one greasy carb.”

Andy, suddenly feeling like a seventh wheel, shrugged.

Sam grinned. “Let’s go group table. I want to see if Mildred’s got the eggs Benedict right today.” She did a little stretch, then pulled on a pair of low-top Chucks by the door. “Give me thirty to go freshen up, then meet me by the elevator.”

He nodded, and she was gone.

The living room felt enormous with just him in it. Fluffernutter had left with the girls, Katherine’s painting was empty, and even the air felt a little more hollow than usual. Andy let himself just stand there for a minute, staring at the window and the endless, rolling blue of the resort beyond.