Shadows Cast Long, Part 1

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 99 VP - 5100 BP - 2 Achievs
Liesa - 96 VP - 3200 BP - 3 Achievs
Sam - 95 VP - 7700 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 94 VP - 1850 BP - 3 Achievs
Claire - 87 VP - 8900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 86 VP - 6050 BP - 3 Achievs
Emily - 84 VP - 5600 BP - 3 Achievs (2 used)
Marissa - 77 VP - 5000 BP - 2 Achievs
Dawn - 75 VP - 5800 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 45 VP - 7350 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 42 VP - 7100 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 20 VP - 6800 BP - 1 Achiev
Laura - 18 VP - 6950 BP - 1 Achiev

Andy woke to the sharp tang of salt and a riot of gold-pink hair pressed under his chin. Emily sprawled half-on, half-off his chest, her ankle hooked loosely around his calf, her toes just grazing the back of his knee. He lay there for a minute, not moving, cataloging the aches in his hips and shoulders, the warm, damp place where her cheek pressed into his skin, the way her hair tickled his mouth when he tried to breathe. The light in the room was a thin blue, the color of shallow water, and it made the tangled white sheets glow against their skin.

He reached for the clock on the nightstand, but Emily’s hand was already there, pinning it with her palm.

“Nice try,” she mumbled. Her voice was a gravelly purr, sweeter than coffee. “I already checked. It’s too early to go anywhere.”

He gave up and let his hand fall to her back, running his palm up and down the length of her spine. Her skin was warm and dry, and smelled faintly of orange peel and some floral perfume that was probably just her shampoo. It was easier not to talk, so he didn’t. Emily seemed fine with that.

She didn’t move for a long time, but eventually she rolled her head back, squinting up at him through a curtain of hair. “Do you always sleep so intense, or is it just because I wore you out last night?”

Andy snorted. “I was worried you’d pass out before me, honestly.”

She blinked at him, then laughed. “Rude. For the record, I totally could’ve kept going. You’re the one who made all the noises.”

He started to protest, but she slid a knee up over his hip, pinning him. “Say it,” she whispered, leaning down so her lips barely brushed his ear. “Say you love being in control.”

He waited, just to see if she’d keep going, and she did—her teeth nipping at his shoulder, her hands sliding under his arms and flexing just so. Her hair fell in a heavy fan, almost masking her face, but he could still see her grin when she said, “You know, most guys would kill for a naked girl in their bed at night. You’re almost shockingly good at not letting it go to your head.”

He shrugged, which set off a whole-body shimmy from her. She shivered, then nuzzled back down under his chin, content for now.

“Are you hungry?” he said, eventually.

She pretended to consider. “Define hungry.”

He ran his thumb up her side, tracing the indent where her ribs met her waist. “Food hungry, for starters. Unless you want to shower first?”

Emily shook her head, hair whacking him in the face. “Nope. I want breakfast. I want you to make it, and I want to eat it right here, and then I want to go back to sleep until it’s time for the next event.”

Andy smiled. He could do that. “French toast, eggs, and bacon?”

“Now you’re talking,” Emily said, and unwound from him, rolling off the bed in a fluid, practiced move. She stretched, arms overhead, and her hair snapped into place like a sunshield, hiding her nipples but not much else. She padded to the bathroom without looking back.

He found boxers, which felt almost criminal to put on in this company, and started a slow, methodical sweep of the Suite’s kitchen. French toast was easy enough, and the fridge was always stocked; the eggs and bread and butter all tasted fresher than anything he’d bought in Manhattan. The coffee machine was a monster, probably costing more than his first car, but he had long ago figured out the buttons. The whole time, the sunlight inched across the windows, gold now and bright enough to make the glassware sparkle.

Emily returned, toweling off her face, hair tied back into her ponytail, and without preamble slid onto a barstool at the kitchen island. Her legs dangled, feet swinging as she watched him, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You look domestic,” she said.

“Don’t get used to it,” he replied, but she just grinned.

They ate together at the island, sunlight warming the marble and making the food taste like an event. Emily devoured the French toast, chased each bite with coffee, and let out little hums of pleasure after every swallow. At one point, she closed her eyes and said, “It’s so good. I feel like I’m being reset to factory settings.”

Andy watched her, savoring the way she glowed with each bite, the way her hair fell over her shoulders in perfect, unselfconscious waves. There was something new about the way she moved, she spoke. Something… steadier. Like she’d found one handhold she trusted last night, and decided to put her weight on it. Not the bright, performative confidence she sometimes wore like stage makeup, back when he first met her. This felt quieter. Like something she’d decided she was allowed to keep. For a few minutes, they let the meal be the conversation, the sounds of chewing and coffee slurping and plate scraping making a kind of home.

When they were both halfway through their seconds, Emily set her fork down and looked at him, sudden and sharp. Andy found himself watching for the old tells — the quick glance to check his reaction, the micro-smile before saying something **** or asking him to take control. She still wore her hair in a ponytail, after all. But she surprised him. She took a sip of coffee, set the mug down, picked it back up, then finally said, “So… okay. I might say this badly, so just… don’t panic, okay? So” she said, “about last night. And all the other nights. Where do we stand?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, suddenly shy. “You and me. The Arrangement. You know, with the Coauthor thing. And the ‘toy’ thing. And the whole…” She gestured at herself, then at him, as if trying to encompass the strangeness of their situation in one big sweep. “You don’t have to answer right now. But I want to know what you want from me, for real.” She said it carefully, like she was still expecting the ground to tilt under her feet. Like she was testing whether she was allowed to ask.

Andy swallowed, then set his own fork down. He wasn’t sure how to answer—part of him wanted to deflect, another part wanted to say everything at once, to spill every tangled feeling on the table and sort it together.

“I don’t want you to disappear,” he said, quietly. “I want you to be Emily, and to be mine, but I don’t want to erase the parts that make you… you.” He paused, searching for words that didn’t sound like a script. Because two weeks ago, she would have nodded before he finished talking, or would have argued against keeping any parts of her safe. But now… now she was waiting, and listening.

Emily nodded, her gaze never wavering. “I figured that’s what you’d say. But it’s good to hear it out loud.” She grinned, licked a smear of syrup from her thumb. “I want to be yours, too. But I want to be your girlfriend, not just your project. Or your toy. Or… whatever. Or—if I am your toy,” she added quickly, a little breathless, “I want it to be because I’m choosing it. Not because I lost myself and forgot I’m anything else.”

The words didn’t land like a declaration. They landed like something she’d been building toward since that night with Dawn, since the Tavern, since the Coauthor conversation, last night. He smiled at her, feeling the old tension unspool, thread by thread.

She let out a slow breath, then said, “You know what I realized, the last few days? I want you to use me. I want you to think of me as yours. But I don’t want to be… communal property. Like, I thought I’d be fine with it. Leah primed me for it. But then, when it got close to actually happening…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I was terrified of it. Even if I knew the other girls wouldn’t **** it.” She winced a little when she said it, like she expected him to correct her, like part of her still thought wanting that was selfish. But she didn’t take it back.

Andy said nothing, letting her work through the idea.

She picked up a strawberry and rolled it between her fingers, watching the juice bead on the surface. “I want you to do whatever you want with me. But only you. Is that weird? I didn’t know that was a boundary,” she admitted, quieter. “I thought it was just… me being bad at the game.”

“No,” he said. “I think it’s pretty amazing.”

She looked up, hope and mischief warring in her eyes. “Okay. That’s where I stand, then.”

He smiled. “Deal.”

She reached across the table, and he met her halfway, their hands twining together. She squeezed, firm.

“This is going to sound greedy,” she warned him, but didn’t stop. “I guess what I'm trying to say is—” She hesitated, cheeks flushing. "I want to be your favorite. Or one of them, anyway." She said it with a crooked smile, like she knew how ridiculous and **** it sounded, and was saying it anyway. Her eyes darted down. "I know Laura's probably—well, I get it. I'm not even sure I want the whole marriage thing, but I want to be your girlfriend. Your real girlfriend." She looked back up, her expression a mix of vulnerability and determination. "I don't want you to think I'm backing out of our Arrangement. I still want you to command me, to use me, like last night. It… It’s stupid, but it clears my head, makes it easier not to collapse in a puddle when I’m with the others. But last time I told you I wanted to be your toy and your girlfriend, and now… When you commanded me last night, and I still felt like your equal somehow—" Her voice caught. "I haven't felt that way in so long. Like I could be both things at once. And I think that’s why I’m not panicking right now,” she said quietly, breathlessly. “Because I don’t feel like I have to pick the toy version of me to stay. So I realized that's what I want. I want to flip those. I want to be your girlfriend, first." She paused. “Which is… kind of wild for me to say out loud,” she admitted, almost laughing, “Two weeks ago I wouldn’ve terrified you’d hear that as me pulling away.”

She looked at him. “I don’t know if I felt like that because of what you did with Coauthor, but… I think I really started thinking about it that night, with Dawn. And then… the Tavern. And then… last night was the first time I didn’t feel like I wanted to disappear under your commands. I felt like I was still… me, that I was keeping part of me safe. And… and you said that’s what I should do, right? Not to lose myself entirely?” She looked at him earnestly, but he could see the question in her eyes.

Andy nodded, and squeezed her hand. "Absolutely, Em," he said. "That’s what I want, too. And while I can’t call you my one girlfriend, you’re definitely my girlfriend."

Emily exhaled like she’d been holding that breath since before breakfast. She flushed deeper, then let go and started devouring her French toast with renewed vigor, but he caught the smile she tried to hide behind her coffee cup. “I’m still scared I’ll mess it up,” she admitted, “But it doesn’t feel like if I mess it up, I’ll disappear. It’s… new.”

Wavering Commitment to the Role -5 VP

For a while, they talked about nothing—the weather, the weird flavors in the island’s imported fruit, the likelihood of Norah ever wearing flat shoes again. The conversation meandered, looping back on itself, always comfortable. They finished breakfast, and Andy started clearing the plates, but Emily stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“One more thing,” she said, and her voice was suddenly, softly serious. “The old me—the pre-Hotel me—I don’t remember her much anymore. But I think she’d be proud of this. Of me.” She glanced down, then up again. “I just wanted to say that.”

Andy felt a lump in his throat, but nodded. “She should be.”

Emily smiled, then stood, and in a fluid motion circled the island to where he stood. She kissed him, syrup-sweet and deliberate, pressing her body against him so the only thing between them was air and possibility. She lingered a second longer than she needed to, like she was building up the nerve to ask something real. When she broke away, she looked at him with a strange, fierce joy.

“You said last night you’d do anything I asked with the Coauthor thing. Did you mean it?”

Andy blinked, a little caught off guard, but nodded. “Yeah. Of course. Is there something you want to change?”

She looked down at her bare chest, then back at him. “This might be me being really new at asking for stuff just because I want it,” she said, glancing down before looking back up. “But… can you make me a little bigger?” Her words were almost shy. “I liked it, in the last round. It was fun.”

He blinked. “You want bigger boobs?”

“Little smaller than Marissa,” Emily said, holding up her hands in a comical parody of weighing melons. “But, you know, definitely not subtle.”

Andy stared at her, both amused and startled. "You want to go that big? You liked it that much?"

Emily nodded, her smile a little shy now. "Yeah. I liked how it looked. I liked how it felt. And… I don't know, it felt good to want it. I… felt good to pick something that’s… permanent, I guess. You don't mind, right?"

For a second, Andy didn’t answer. He felt something in his chest shift. This wasn’t like last round: then, she’d asked for the cactus version — temporary, reversible, something she could step into and out of like a costume. Safe. Performative. This was different. She wasn’t asking him to try something on her. She was asking him to change who she was going to be, at least in one small, permanent way. And she was asking because she wanted it. Not because she thought he would. He could see it in the way she looked at him now, earnest, ****, perhaps even a little afraid to ask, afraid to want too much. This was Emily choosing something for herself, not performing or optimizing for him. Not trying to guess what would make her most useful, or most submissive. Choosing. And while it seemed like a small thing… Andy realized it wasn’t.

He leaned across the island, closing the gap until they were nose to nose. "You can have anything you want, Em. You don’t need my permission."

She beamed. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then, “Can you… do it right now?” she asked, like she still half-expected him to laugh and say she was being ridiculous.

He grinned, feeling the weight of her request settle into something more playful than serious. "Let’s try it. Want to watch, or…?"

Emily tilted her head, then bounced on her toes. "Let’s do it in front of a mirror. That way, if you mess up, I can yell at you in real time."

They abandoned the breakfast cleanup, coffee half-drunk and plates still sticky with syrup. Andy led her to the big standing mirror near the bedroom. Emily stood before it, hands at her sides, studying her reflection with a scrutiny that was almost clinical.

"You sure?" Andy asked.

Emily grinned. "Hit me."

He reached for the smartwatch, when an odd thought hit him. Coauthor wasn't part of the Console gift, so why did he assume he needed to use the smartwatch to access it? Could he use Coauthor independently of Console? He took a deep breath and tried to focus, letting his instincts guide him. Nothing happened at first, but when his eyes fell on Emily, he felt an unfamiliar sensation, an odd, slow buzz behind his eyes that he knew meant that Coauthor was active. In his mind, he saw the relevant portion of her description as if written on a page: "Emily has C-cup breasts." He focused on those words, feeling them shift under his mental touch as he rewrote them: "Emily has F-cup breasts, perky and firm." The moment the thought completed, reality followed. Her chest swelled, the subtle arc of her breasts rounding out, growing, the nipples rising slightly as they filled and lifted. The change was slow, almost imperceptible at first, but soon the transformation overtook her, her C-cups swelling to D, then up to F, as requested—full, high, and undeniably present. The process stopped just shy of Marissa's proportions, but only just.

Willingly and permanently changed herself (sexy) (in line with Master's preferences)! +1 VP
First! x2

The new Emily looked at herself in the mirror and laughed—a full-bodied sound that filled the Suite. She bounced on the balls of her feet, watching how her new breasts moved with her, how they caught the sunlight, how her nipples instantly tightened in the chill of the air. She watched herself for a second longer than necessary, like she was checking whether she was allowed to be this happy about it.

"Oh wow," she said, running her hands over the new curves. "They’re heavy, but… not in a bad way. Less so that the cactus ones."

Andy smiled, watching the delight play across her face. "You like?"

She nodded, then grabbed her hair in a fist and yanked the ponytail out, letting the hair fall around her like a curtain. It still covered just enough to maintain her odd, personal modesty, but now her boobs pushed the hair out at new, intriguing angles. She turned, side to side, then faced him, arms akimbo. "Does it look weird?"

He shook his head. "It looks perfect. But you know, if you get tired of them, we can always go back."

Emily giggled. "Not happening. I want to keep these forever." She cupped one breast, experimentally. "God, it’s so weird, but I feel more… me. Like… me-me. Not show-me. Is that stupid?"

Andy shook his head. "No, I get it. It’s like you’re finally getting to choose who you want to be."

The words landed deeper than she expected, like hearing something she’d been circling for weeks finally said out loud. Emily nodded, face serious now. "Exactly."

He watched her admire herself, then, on a whim, reached out and squeezed her left breast. It was firmer than he expected, heavy and real, and the touch made Emily’s eyes go wide. She inhaled, surprised, then leaned into his hand, her own fingers guiding his.

"You know," he said, "I could upgrade one of your transformations for twenty-four hours, if you wanted to try it out. As a treat."

Emily considered. She bit her lip, then shook her head. “Thank you, but… I think I want to get used to this first. I don’t even know what I’d pick. I don’t want to stack new versions of me on top of each other until I know which one I am.”

Andy nodded, respecting the choice. "Offer stands."

She pressed against him, her new breasts squashed between their chests. "You spoil me, Master," she whispered, and he could tell she meant it only half as a joke.

He kissed her, slow and deep, letting the warmth of her body and the citrus-floral scent of her hair seep into his senses. She melted into him, the old desperation replaced with something softer, more relaxed. When they parted, her eyes were bright and her smile even brighter.

"I love you," she said, and this time it was a declaration, not a question or a test.

He hugged her tight, feeling her new shape press into him, feeling the simple joy of holding someone who wanted, truly wanted, to be held. "I love you too, Em."

They lingered like that for a long minute, basking in the morning sun and each other’s company. Eventually, Emily broke away, her cheeks flushed and her mood so light she seemed almost to float.

"I should get going," she said, casting one last look at herself in the mirror. "I want to show these off to everyone before I forget what it’s like to be new."

Andy laughed. "You’ll turn heads, that’s for sure."

She grinned, then headed for the door, pausing in the threshold. She glanced back, hair spilling over her breasts in perfect, practiced waves, and blew him a kiss. The gesture was so natural, so unburdened, it almost made him dizzy.

He looked at himself in the mirror, wondering if anyone could ever get used to so much change, so fast. Then he shook his head, smiled, and went back to the kitchen to finish the dishes. The day was only just beginning, and he found, to his own surprise, that he was looking forward to every minute of it.

Dawn walked ahead, her hands folded at the small of her back, guiding Chloe and Erin up the woodland path. The air was already warm, shot through with that vanilla-cinnamon scent that always followed Chloe, with a sharper tang of sap and wild mint from Erin. Dawn risked a glance over her shoulder. Erin moved with the unselfconscious power of someone who’d long ago gotten used to the way her body startled people—now, she seemed almost proud to see how the morning sun turned her skin from mint to opal green. Chloe, for her part, was modestly dressed in an embroidered caftan that failed to hide the curve of her L-cup breasts, the fabric stretching at the seams even though she’d only worn it a few times. She clutched a little notepad in both hands, the edges already ruffled from nervous fidgeting.

The path crested a rise, and the Chapel of Small Kindnesses appeared ahead, its woven arch lit gold by the new sun. Dawn hesitated at the edge of the clearing, suddenly nervous, as if the others might find her secret place childish or overwrought. But then Erin stopped beside her and said, with open surprise, “Holy shit, it’s beautiful.”

Chloe let out a gasp, hands flying to her mouth. “Dawn, this is—” She broke off, eyes shimmering. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

It was, objectively, not much—a space defined mostly by what wasn’t there. The benches were rough-hewn, the only architecture an arch of willow and birch that looked more like a question mark than a triumphal entry. The floor was just packed earth, but the light spilled through the arch so clean and clear that it drew shapes in the air, as if you could walk through the bands of brightness and change something fundamental about yourself.

The three of them stepped inside. The hush in the clearing made the world feel miles away, just the sound of bees in the flowers at the periphery and a soft rustling as the pale blooms turned to face the day. Chloe ran her hand over the bench, feeling the grain, the knots and scars in the wood. Erin paced the open circle, nostrils flared, taking in every smell and sound.

Dawn coughed, suddenly shy. “There’s a promise board,” she said, pointing to the side where a battered plank hung by fine threads from the arch. “It’s where I—where Andy and I—put up things we want to remember.”

Chloe hurried over, eager. She scanned the pinned-up cards, each one written in Dawn’s neat, looping hand. There were only two:

I PROMISE TO COOK SUNDAY DINNER EVERY WEEK, NO MATTER WHAT. EVEN IF IT’S JUST PB&J. EVEN IF WE’RE FIGHTING. EVEN IF WE’RE SAD. I WILL KEEP ALL OF US FED, SO WE DON’T FORGET HOW TO SIT AT THE SAME TABLE.

I PROMISE TO BE THERE WHEN YOU NEED ME. EVEN IF I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY. EVEN IF ALL I CAN DO IS LISTEN. EVEN IF YOU JUST WANT SILENCE. I’LL SHOW UP.

Beneath the cards hung a little basket with scraps of paper and colored pencils. Chloe picked up a pencil, blue as the sky, and stared at it like she was afraid to break it. “Can I—?”

“Of course,” Dawn said.

Chloe perched on the bench, tucking her knees up beside her, and wrote with a determination that made her knuckles go white. When she finished, she folded the paper and pinned it to the board with a trembling hand. Then she stepped back, face pink but proud.

Erin watched, then said, “Why not?” and picked up a pencil, too. She stared at the blank page for a long time, the tip of her tongue sticking out, then wrote a few deliberate words. When she was done, she signed it with a flourish.

Dawn waited for them to finish, then read the new cards aloud, careful not to make it sound like a test.

Chloe’s said: I promise to always give my children the warmth and safety I missed.

Erin’s said: If I am pregnant and I do have a kid, I promise to love them better than my mom loved me.

The two women stood together, facing the promise board like it was a shrine, their freshly written cards hanging side by side, the blue and green pencil marks vivid in the slanted morning light. They read each other's cards, then looked at each other, bewildered. Dawn's gaze flickered from one to the other, understanding glimmering in her eyes alongside excitement. For a while, nobody moved. The hush in the little chapel deepened so that every birdcall and lazy bee sounded like an interruption. The three of them lingered there, uncertain whether to laugh or cry, and in the end did a little of both.

It was Chloe who broke the spell, voice fragile as spun glass: “Erin, do you really think you might be…?”

Erin didn’t answer right away. She stared at her own note on the board—If I am pregnant and I do have a kid, I promise to love them better than my mom loved me—and for a second her face was as blank as the paper had been. She let the silence stretch until it was almost painful, then snorted, but the sound was low, embarrassed, and softer than the old Erin would ever allow. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Erin said, scuffing the ground with her foot. She glanced sidelong at Chloe, then at Dawn, then away again so quickly she might have been afraid to be seen. “I mean, it’s just a maybe. But, uh—” She stopped, and now her cheeks were tinged a faint greenish-pink, like seafoam. “Let’s just say Andy thinks I should check.”

Chloe’s hand moved automatically to her own stomach, fingers splayed as if she could feel the pulse of life through her skin. “Oh,” she said, voice gone small, and the syllable hung there, heavy with meaning. “That’s wild.”

Dawn felt her own heart lurch. “Wait, both of you?” She hadn’t meant to sound so shocked, but she also hadn’t expected this, not even a little. The idea of two of her friends carrying new life inside them at the same time made her skin tingle, all the way up to her scalp.

Chloe nodded, once, a quick nervous flutter. “I don’t know for sure,” she said, hugging herself tight. “I mean, Mildred kind of told me? In the kitchen? It was weird. She just said it, like it was a fact, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.” She swallowed. “It’s probably nothing.”

Erin let out her breath all at once, the sound like someone letting the air out of an old tire. “I skipped my period, and Andy thinks it’s not the plant thing. I don’t know. I’m scared to ask Arabella, in case she makes it a whole production.”

Dawn couldn’t help it—she started to laugh, but it was a sound full of delight and terror both. “You guys,” she said, grabbing their hands and squeezing, her voice trembling. “If this is true, you’ll have each other. You won’t have to do it alone.”

You guys!

Chloe looked up at her, eyes wide and wet. “Wouldn’t that be something?” she said, and her voice was threaded with awe and a little bit of dread.

Erin’s smile was slow to appear, but when it did, it was the most honest thing Dawn had ever seen on her face. “I always thought I’d be a terrible mom,” she said, voice rough. “But maybe if we all screw up together, the kids will never notice.”

Dawn, feeling like her heart was a basket of puppies, let go of their hands only long enough to dart to the board and scribble out a new promise on a piece of pink paper: I will be the best aunt ever for your little ones. She pinned it next to the others, then turned back, grinning through her tears.

Chloe giggled through her own sniffles, then, impulsively, hugged Dawn so tight it squeezed the air from her lungs. Erin joined in, one arm around each of them, and for a minute they swayed together, laughing, crying, and making jokes about who would be the first to puke or cry or give birth in the garden. Every time they tried to break it up, one of them would collapse into giggles and set the others off again.

The sunlight shifted, dappling the benches, and the hush of the garden seemed to grow lighter, as if the place itself approved of their pact.

And then it was Dawn’s turn to get serious. She looked at Chloe, at the way her hands kept drifting to her belly and her eyes kept darting to the promise board. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Like, really okay?”

Chloe took a shaky breath. “I think so. I mean, it’s a lot to process. But… it feels different this time. If it’s true, I’m not alone.” She looked at Erin, then back to Dawn. “And, I know I’m not supposed to say this, but I kind of like that it’s weird here. I don’t think I ever would’ve made this work in the real world. Not with my job, or my family, or… or me.” She laughed, then pressed her palms to her face. “God, I sound like a Hallmark movie.”

Dawn squeezed her shoulder. “Hey, Hallmark movies are classic for a reason.”

Erin rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, too. “If you start writing Christmas cards, I’m out. And I’m double-out if there’s a Secret Santa.”

The threat landed, and for a second they just giggled at the idea of Erin, world’s most **** mother, being **** to play along at the annual Hallmark Christmas movie. It felt good to laugh like this, good in a way that was so sharp and sweet it left Dawn a little dizzy. She squeezed her friends tight, then finally let go.

Chloe wiped her eyes, still smiling. “Can I ask something dumb?” She hesitated, then plowed ahead. “I’m really happy for you, Erin. And if it’s true for me, too, I’ll be happy, but also… terrified?” She looked at her hands, then at Dawn. “I didn’t think I could have this and now I’m terrified. I don’t know if I’m supposed to have it now. I don’t know if Mildred said the truth.”

Dawn hugged her again, but this time softer, just a squeeze around the shoulders. “You’d be a great mom.”

Erin grinned and added, teasingly, “Even if your kids end up as weird as you.”

Chloe snorted, but it came out more as a hiccup. She held her hands out in front of her, as if expecting a verdict. “Can I just—can I just sit here for a minute?”

“Yeah,” Dawn said, and all three collapsed onto the nearest bench. For a while they said nothing, each absorbed in her own new future.

The sunlight arched higher, bathing the clearing in warm gold, and it was Erin who broke the silence. “You wanna see my Sanctuary?” she asked, not looking up.

Chloe blinked. “You have one too?”

Erin nodded. “It’s not like this. I made it out of the ruins. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Dawn, already feeling lighter, bounded to her feet. “Lead the way,” she said, and Erin took point, striding out of the clearing with a determination that dared the world to follow.

They hiked another ten minutes, Erin’s stride so long that Dawn and Chloe had to hurry to keep up. The path narrowed, sunlight cutting through in uneven stripes, until the trees thinned and the ground began to dip, opening into a ring of battered stone arches. At first, Dawn thought they were just old landscaping—maybe the bones of a greenhouse, or some leftover challenge set. But as they stepped through the moss and tangled wildflowers, it became clear the place had been here for centuries, maybe longer.

The arches weren’t evenly spaced. Some were toppled, half-buried, others so overgrown that the vines looked like veins. But the whole structure bent toward a center hollow, a place where the light hit the earth in a perfect green bowl. It was both wild and deliberate, the kind of thing that only nature or an ancient obsession could have made.

Chloe stopped at the entrance, staring. “Did you do all this?” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

Erin shrugged. “Some of it was already here. I just cleaned it up. Fixed what I could. Arabella gave me the seeds, but the rest was me. I didn’t use any BPs.”

Dawn let her hand brush one of the arches, feeling the cool stone, the lichen soft as suede. “I thought they reset everything every season,” she said. “I thought nothing was real here, except what we brought with us.”

“Guess not,” Erin said. She traced her fingers along a carved groove in the stone, the gesture almost reverent. “I think it matters that something lasted. Even if it’s just this.”

Chloe turned in a slow circle, drinking it in. “It feels old,” she said. “Like, really old. Like—” She stopped, then started again. “I used to visit the Field Museum in Chicago, and there was this exhibit with ancient ruins. It smelled like dust and wet cement, and I’d always get lost in it. This is like that, but alive. Like the past is still here.”

Dawn wandered to the center of the hollow, then spun in a slow arc, letting the sun hit her face. “It’s gorgeous, Erin.”

Erin grunted, but there was a faint, shy smile on her lips. “Thanks.”

Chloe followed the curve of a fallen arch, running her fingers along a line of worn markings. “Did you ever notice these?” she asked.

Erin glanced over. “Yeah. I tried to copy them, but I couldn’t figure out what they mean. Claire might know.”

Dawn joined her, squinting at the groove. Up close, the marks weren’t just random scrapes or weathering—they were deliberate, arranged in neat rows, like a language. She traced a spiral with her fingertip, then looked at Chloe. “What do you think they are?”

Chloe pressed her nose nearly to the stone, studying it the way her students peered at a magnified cell in a science class. “It’s not Latin,” she said. “Not Greek, either.” She paused, then grinned. “This is going to sound nuts, but I think it’s cuneiform.”

Erin raised an eyebrow. “Like, Sumerian?”

Chloe nodded, suddenly excited. “Or maybe Babylonian, but definitely from that part of the world. I saw it at the museum once. They had these tablets, and the writing looked exactly like this—little triangles, wedges, and lines.”

Dawn stared at her, then at the arch, then back again. “That’s wild. I didn’t think they’d bother with real ruins.”

Erin shrugged. “Maybe the place built itself out of what was left, when the show started.”

Chloe shook her head. “I think this is older than the show. Or its current incarnation. Didn’t Andy mention that Arabella said her show started in Sumerian times? I mean, cuneiform is, like, the oldest writing in the world.”

Dawn shivered, but not from cold. The idea that something could outlast every game, every transformation, every attempt to erase it—that was both terrifying and comforting.

For a moment, they just stood together in the center of the ruins, breathing in the heavy green light, the scent of moss and earth and something that felt like memory.

The gardens were always damp this time of morning, and the air still held a wet shimmer that made every petal and blade of grass look freshly painted. Emi had chosen a patch of flat stone in the heart of the inner garden, right beside a riotous tangle of fuchsia bougainvillea, as her workshop. She’d spread a blanket for them to kneel on, arranged a low table with bright squares of paper, spools of thread, and a pile of battery-powered tea lights at one end. The moment the sun climbed above the highest trees, it would catch every finished lantern and set them all aglow.

Today, she’d invited Riley and Liesa. “Lanterns bring hope,” she’d explained in her note, “and I think this place could use more of that.” Liesa had replied with a string of exclamation points and a little doodle of a paper crane, while Riley’s RSVP was just: "Fine, but if you laugh at my folds, I’m setting the garden on fire."

Now, the three of them sat together, cross-legged and close, with Emi at the head of the little circle. Emi wore a sky-blue dress printed with tiny gold moons, her six arms moving with the unhurried efficiency of a spider spinning a web. Each hand seemed to have its own mind: two held a sheet of orange paper, creasing it with gentle, precise pinches, while the other four manipulated string, cut with tiny snips of scissors, and sorted the finished lanterns into neat rows along the table.

Liesa’s hair was unbraided today, and she wore a simple white tee over jeans that had been painted, deliberately, with bursts of yellow. She watched Emi’s hands as if she were studying a master class, her own fingers slow but meticulous as she mirrored each step.

Riley wore a black tank top, a pair of cutoff jeans, and a battered denim jacket covered with enamel pins. She rolled her sleeves up so her arms looked even thinner and more angular than usual. Riley’s hair was loose, a spill of black-red, and she never seemed to stop moving it away from her face, as if every new task required a blank slate. For a few minutes, she sat and watched Emi’s demonstration, then set to work on her own lantern, eyes narrowed.

It went well, for three steps. Then, in the fourth, Riley’s lantern buckled at the base and slumped into a sad, crumpled boot. Riley snorted. “It’s a metaphor for my life,” she said, voice low and sardonic. “Four steps forward, then collapse under my own weight.”

Emi giggled, a little silver sound. “It’s not broken,” she said. “You just need to pop the bottom seam, then reverse-fold.” She reached out, two of her arms hovering for permission, then gently took Riley’s paper, unfolded it with a touch so light it barely made a sound, and refolded it in three quick, practiced moves. She offered it back, now perfectly upright, a beacon of orange hope.

Riley snatched it, but with a wry smile. “Show-off,” she said. But she set it on the table, next to Emi’s growing parade, and started another. Liesa, who had been watching the whole exchange, leaned over and traced her finger along the crease Emi had made. “You are a miracle-worker,” she said, her accent softening the words.

Emi blushed, but didn’t slow. “I used to do this all the time with Andy and Laura, when we were children,” she said. “Andy was really good, but always tried to make up his own designs. We made a dragon once. It caught fire on the first night.”

Liesa’s mouth curled into a smile. “I think you are maybe a perfectionist,” she teased.

Emi shook her head, all six hands going briefly in different directions before coming back to the task. “Not at all. I just like it when things work. It’s nice when they stay together.”

The three worked for a while, making small talk, folding and stringing lanterns, the silence between words never sharp or awkward. Emi loved these kinds of silences—full of focus, but also warmth, like a quiet house at night when all the lights are on and nobody’s worried about the morning yet. She lost herself in the rhythm, and after a while, she realized that Riley’s pile of failed lanterns was growing, each one more twisted than the last.

Riley finished another, then set it down and shoved both hands through her hair. “This is impossible,” she said. “How do you make it look so easy?”

Emi shrugged. “Practice, I guess.”

Riley laughed, but it was a dry sound. “Right. Practice. Or maybe I’m just not built for delicate things.”

Liesa glanced at her, concern in her eyes. “You don’t have to be perfect, Riley. The ones that are strange are the ones you remember.”

Riley muttered something, but Emi didn’t catch it. She refocused, determined to help. She reached over and took Riley’s next piece, folding it slowly, step by step, so Riley could watch. “See? You pinch here, then here, then… fold the flap down.” She did it again, slower, hands moving in hypnotic synchrony. “Now you try?”

Riley watched, jaw set, then picked up her own sheet and folded it. This time, she managed the first four steps, but her fingers slipped on the last fold, tearing a tiny seam near the base. She looked at it, looked at Emi, then set it down gently and stared into the bougainvillea.

A silence followed, heavier than the last. Emi noticed Liesa’s concern and, for the first time all day, felt a pang of worry that maybe she’d overstepped, or made Riley feel worse.

It was Liesa who finally spoke, her voice low and kind. “You don’t have to talk about it, but if something is hurting you, we are here, okay?” She reached across, squeezed Riley’s wrist.

Riley didn’t look at her. Instead, she started rolling a strip of paper between her hands, tighter and tighter, until it looked like a tiny, clenched muscle.

“They always told me these pains come in waves,” she said. Her voice was rough, as if she’d spent the morning shouting into pillows. “But I didn’t know what that meant until now.” She didn’t look at either of them, but Emi saw her jaw working, her throat moving like she was holding back something big and mean and loud.

Liesa said, very gently, “You miss him.”

Riley snorted, but didn’t deny it. She let the rolled paper fall into her lap. “It’s dumb. I didn’t even get to meet him. Not really.” She ran her hands over her knees, as if they could absorb the shaking in her bones. “But it feels like I’m being cut in half all over again.”

Emi didn’t know what to say. She knew it, too—the loss, the fear, the impossibility of ever filling the holes that grief made. She looked at Riley, then at Liesa, who just nodded, her eyes bright.

“Do you want to stop?” Emi asked, voice small.

Riley shook her head, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “No. I just… needed to say it out loud. If I don’t, it’s going to chew through my stomach.” She stood, abruptly, her body casting a long shadow over the table. “I’m going to go walk for a bit. Let me know if I should set the garden on fire.”

Before anyone could answer, she walked away, steps heavy on the soft grass.

Liesa watched her go, lips pressed together. She sighed, then turned to Emi, her voice softer than Emi had ever heard it. “She is very strong, but sometimes strong people break harder than the others.”

Emi nodded, tracing the rim of a finished lantern with her fingertip. “I wish I could help.”

“You do help,” Liesa said, her smile a tiny sunbeam. “Just by being here.”

They worked in silence for a while, folding and stringing the rest of the lanterns. Emi tried to imagine what it would be like, to carry that kind of pain around all the time, and not let it show. She thought maybe she understood Riley a little better now, even if she didn’t have the words for it.

When they finished, Liesa took one of Riley’s ruined lanterns, patched it with a strip of gold washi tape, and hung it in the very center of the bougainvillea. The broken edges caught the sunlight, scattering it in every direction.

“Maybe she’ll see it when she comes back,” Liesa said, almost to herself.

Emi nodded. “It’s the best one,” she said, and meant it.

They stayed there until the garden was full of color, lanterns swinging gently in the morning breeze, each one a little imperfect, a little brighter for it.