Shared Notes, Part 2

The Dance Hall that morning was not the same creature it had been in the early days of the round. Gone was the jumbled mess of tulle and confusion, the slapstick chaos of misaligned banners and balloons dropping at odd hours. In its place: order, intent, and a discipline that felt military, if the military were staffed entirely by women in various states of transformation and trauma. The great dome of the Hall glimmered with fresh polish. The strings of micro-lights over the floor hung in neat, intentional spirals. Even the columns, last seen shrouded in duct-taped crepe paper, had been re-wrapped in uniformity, their edges sharp, the seams perfectly aligned.

Riley and Marissa were first there, though only because they’d never left. The two had spent the previous night here, running drills on cake reveals and present deliveries, arguing choreography until the digital clock on the far wall hit 2 a.m. Now, in the watery light of morning, they faced off at center floor, both in track pants and t-shirts, both wearing the battered stubbornness of people who’d been awake too long.

“Again,” Marissa said, her voice calm and maddeningly even. “If the candles go out before the second verse, it’s ruined.”

“I know what a tempo is, Dr. Holt.” Riley yawned and swept a hand at the cake stand, where the fake cake had been rigged with electric candles and a garland of tissue paper. “If you didn’t want improv, you shouldn’t have picked me for the reveal.”

“You volunteered,” Marissa pointed out.

Riley just grinned, the expression all tooth. “I live to disappoint.”

The run-through started again. Marissa counted off, her hands crisp as a conductor’s. Riley moved with surprising grace, hips low, steps measured, each beat matching Marissa’s timing exactly—until, at the crucial moment, she dipped one foot behind and swept her arm up in a dramatic, flamenco-style gesture, flicking the cake garland over her head and landing in a lopsided curtsey.

Marissa pressed her lips together, but a smile fought its way out anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“Flawless execution,” Riley replied, bowing. “I should get a medal for that.”

Claire stood sentinel at the memory wall, her notebook open in one hand, a set of colored pencils fanned in the other. She’d spent all morning repositioning the photos and painted cards, evaluating the symmetry of the display with the ruthless focus of a museum curator. Every so often, she’d step back, tail swishing in silent agitation, then scribble a furious note or sketch a quick, precise fix. Today, she wore a black turtleneck and gray jeans, looking every inch the quiet intellectual—until she climbed a stepladder to adjust the highest row, and the cat ears on her head twitched in frustration at a crooked thumbtack.

She paused to watch Marissa and Riley, eyes flicking from movement to movement, then returned to her wall, shaking her head with the resigned amusement of a scientist observing a failed experiment.

Near the wall of windows, Norah sat at the control station, a folding table stacked high with tablets and printed cue sheets. She wore a tight teal blazer over a bralette and miniskirt, her legs bare except for heels that looked cartoonish with her enormous breasts balanced above them. She was cursing up a storm, providing some choice words Claire had never heard before, but filed away to look them up later.

She toggled between screens, then growled, “The reverb is still trash. We should just mic everyone and use the house PA, even if it’s tacky.”

Sam appeared at her shoulder, grinning. “We’ll tape the mics right into your cleavage, Norah. Doubles as a storage unit and a wind filter.”

Norah shot her a look, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Go die,” she said, then slid a Bluetooth earpiece into place and began cueing tracks, muttering to herself about subwoofers and gain staging.

Sam herself was in full command-mode: clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, a lanyard around her neck with the words “STAGE BOSS” in glitter marker. She’d made it herself, apparently. Today, she’d recruited a half-dozen Mildreds, who now stood in a row by the supply carts, receiving instructions with the dead-eyed focus of trained mercenaries. She would have gotten more, but apparently, several were swarming around Chloe at any given time. Sam was slightly apprehensive about it, but assumed it would be harmless. She ticked down the list, assigning tasks with the kind of brisk authority that would have made even Marissa jealous.

“Claire, you’re on memory wall and backup seating. Riley, you have cake reveals and crowd control. Marissa, you’re in charge of the toast and the present table. Norah, light and sound, but no rewiring the panels—Mildred will kill us if you break another dimmer. Emi—”

She broke off, searching the hall for a certain six-armed silhouette.

Emi was everywhere and nowhere. She’d started at the entrance, taping up the “WELCOME TO THE BIRTHDAY/HEALING/IT’S-A-WAKE-IF-YOU-NEED-IT” sign (her own invention, per Sam), but had detoured to the kitchen when she realized someone had left a crate of oranges on the floor. She picked up all six at once, one in each hand, then juggled them in a lazy arc as she strode back to the party area.

She paused at Sam’s command post. “Sorry, I got distracted. But I finished the table runners. And the glitter bomb for the balloons.”

Sam grinned. “You’re a machine, Emi.”

Emi beamed, cheeks red. “Thank you.”

“Go check the chairs and see if any need replacing,” Sam said. “We want it to be perfect.”

Emi gave a quick salute, then scampered off, oranges tucked in the crook of her elbows.

Riley strolled over to the memory wall, dragging Marissa with her. “If you’re going to judge my cake choreography, you should at least see the inspiration,” she said.

Claire looked up, blue eyes cool behind her glasses, and flicked her tail at the new arrivals in greeting. She tapped a spot on the wall, then turned her notebook so Riley could read: Strong verticals, but the spacing on the bottom row is off. Also, the card about the Spelling Bee needs to be higher—otherwise the eye line is uneven.

Marissa read over Riley’s shoulder. “She’s right.”

Riley groaned. “Not you, too.”

Claire scribbled again, this time holding the page for Marissa: I think you’re doing great.

Marissa smiled, a real one, grateful. Riley caught the exchange, and for a moment the old antagonism faded, replaced by the weird, stubborn affection that was growing between all of them (in Riley’s opinion, rather like weeds growing between cracks in the asphalt).

“I wish I had your focus,” Riley said, turning to Claire. “I get bored and start trouble instead.”

Claire shrugged, then wrote: I get bored too. I just move the pictures around until I feel better.

Riley smirked, then reached up and, very carefully, straightened the crooked Spelling Bee card. Claire nodded in approval.

From her perch at the tech table, Norah eyed the trio. “Don’t mess up the cue order, or we’re all doomed.”

“Please, Norah,” Riley called back. “We’re the best disaster this Hall has ever seen.”

As the rehearsal wound down, Sam gathered everyone by the stage for a final rundown. “All right, team,” she said. “Today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow. Then it’s showtime. When Andy walks in, we want him to see this place at its best. So we’ll do rehearsals and check-ins until then. Riley?”

“Cake reveal and crowd wrangling, confirmed.”

“Marissa?”

“Toasts and presents.”

“Norah?”

“All systems go. Unless someone drops a mic into the punch bowl again.” She glared at Emi, who only grinned wider.

“Claire?”

Claire held up a perfectly spaced index card: All done.

“Emi?”

“Ready!” Emi said, waving all six hands at once.

Sam nodded, surveying her army with pride. “Let’s make it a good one,” she said. “Andy’s been through hell. He deserves the best birthday ever.”

They all looked at each other—tired, hopeful, a little anxious, but united in a way that none of them could have imagined before arriving here.

Emi looked at Marissa, then at the others. “You realize we’re basically a family now, right?”

Marissa’s mouth twitched. “Dysfunctional, but yes.”

“Speak for yourself,” Norah muttered, but she didn’t sound like she meant it. Riley, next to her, just grunted.

By two-thirty, the sharp edges of the day had softened, the resort’s halls emptying as if everyone had gone off to nap before the night’s big event. The little tea-service room—halfway between lobby and library, opened now with one side to the open air, and rarely used except for meetings or Mildred’s occasional attempts at “civilized” hospitality—was, for once, occupied by people who had not been **** into politeness.

Dawn and Marissa sat at the small table, their only company a porcelain tea set and the heavy, honey-colored quiet of a weekday afternoon. If you ignored the weirdness of the place—the not-quite-right palm fronds, the distant echo of strange birds—you could almost imagine this was real, that you were sitting in some ancient European hotel, just killing an hour.

Dawn’s bunny ears twitched every time the breeze blew, but otherwise she looked at ease, hands folded, tail pressed flat against the chair. Her dress was yellow today, cinched at the waist with a broad sash, and she wore it with the casual confidence of someone who’d always known how to look cute and wholesome, even when her life was on fire. She didn’t quite sit in the chair, one leg folded onto it, and kept fidgeting uncomfortably, trying to hide it.

Marissa was more formal. She’d dressed in a navy blouse and tailored slacks, hair pinned up in a smooth twist that made her look more professor than party guest. Still, even she couldn’t entirely erase the flush on her cheeks—the result of a morning spent alternately sparring with Riley and corralling the emotional chaos of the crew.

Dawn poured the tea, steady hands showing no sign of nerves. “Do you take milk?” she asked.

“Just a splash, thank you,” Marissa replied, and Dawn obliged, setting the tiny creamer down with a practiced, unhurried touch.

For a while, the conversation stuck to safe topics: weather, the oddity that kept on giving which was Mildred, what the dinner menu might be. Dawn asked about the latest book Marissa read (Kierkegaard, Marissa said, pointedly ignoring the trashy romance novels that now littered her nightstand), and Marissa, in turn, asked about Dawn’s favorite vacation. The answers were gentle, careful, both women knowing that the real talk was coming, but neither in a rush to get there.

It was Marissa who broke the lull. She set her cup down, fingers tracing the rim, and said, “You have a little brother, don’t you?”

Dawn blinked. “Two, actually. Sebastian and Luis. Seb is a senior now, and Luis just started at the fire department in Berwyn. How’d you know?”

Marissa smiled, soft but not patronizing. “You talk about them more than yourself. That’s usually a giveaway.”

Dawn looked down, cheeks pink. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Marissa interrupted, gentle. “I do it too. It’s easier to talk about the people we care for, isn’t it?”

Dawn nodded, then, after a pause: “I guess it’s the thing I am good at. I take care of people.”

“You’re good at a lot of things,” Marissa said. “But I know what you mean.”

Dawn let out a soft laugh, the sound more relief than amusement. “You probably understand. You always look like you have it together, but you’re always looking out for everyone else, too.” She fiddled with her napkin. “Were you always like that?”

Marissa considered the question, then shook her head. “No. I used to be the opposite, actually—more focused on my own work, my own life.” She stared out the window, watching the faint flutter of the curtain. “Then I lost my parents. My little sister, Sarah, has cerebral palsy. She’s brilliant, but she needs help, and after they were gone, it was up to me. I had to grow up fast.”

Dawn’s gaze went soft with empathy. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Marissa laughed, a little bitter. “Some days, I’m not so sure. But I try.” She looked back at Dawn, eyes bright. “Do you ever get tired of it? Of being the one everyone leans on?”

Dawn nodded, but the motion was careful, as if the admission alone might shatter something. “All the time. But then I feel guilty about it. Like I should be grateful people need me.”

Marissa reached across the table, not quite touching Dawn’s hand but close enough that the offer was clear. “I get it. Sometimes the hardest thing is letting yourself be taken care of, even a little.” She smiled, the kind that showed the lines at the corners of her mouth. “Would you like to try it? Just for today?”

Dawn stared at her, unsure if it was a joke. When she realized it wasn’t, she giggled, then covered her mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s try it,” Marissa said, voice gentle but firm. “For the next hour, you don’t have to take care of anyone. I’ll make the tea. I’ll do the talking. You just get to be.”

Dawn hesitated, then smiled—a real, dazzling one. “Deal.”

They switched seats, Marissa taking the pour, Dawn folding her hands in her lap like a student at a manners class, still not quite sitting. For a minute, the roles felt ****, both women trying not to laugh at the artificiality of it. But soon, the awkwardness faded, replaced by an easy rhythm: Marissa pouring tea, asking small questions, Dawn answering honestly and without the usual deflection.

Marissa started with the basics. “What’s the first thing you remember about your brothers?”

Dawn brightened. “When Seb was little, he used to follow me everywhere. He’d copy everything I did—same cereal, same shoes, even tried to wear my hairbands. I thought it was annoying, but now I think it’s kind of sweet.”

“Did you ever wish you were the younger one?”

Dawn’s ears flicked, thoughtful. “I don’t know. I like looking after people, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like if someone looked after me for a change. Even just a little.”

Marissa poured, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “If you could have any wish granted, right now, what would you pick?”

Dawn hesitated, then looked away, cheeks pink. “I’d want my mom back. Not just for me, but for all of us.”

Marissa nodded, the answer exactly what she’d expected. “She must have been wonderful.”

Dawn blinked away the threat of tears, but didn’t hide the emotion. “She was. She used to make these pasteles for Christmas—two days of work, and the whole house would smell like pork and garlic and plantains.” She smiled, soft and small. “She taught me how to do it, but it never tastes the same. Not really.”

The silence that followed was thick, but not heavy. Both women sipped their tea, letting the moment settle.

Dawn shifted, trying to get comfortable, but her tail and skirt kept bunching up under her. She wriggled in the seat, then blushed when she caught Marissa’s eye.

“Sorry,” she said. “The new… transformation makes sitting weird. I can’t get used to it.”

Marissa smiled, then stood. “Let’s try something different.”

She led Dawn to the lounge across the hall, where the armchairs were soft and deep, designed for sinking rather than perching. Marissa sat, then patted her lap. “Try this.”

Dawn blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I promise. No judgement.”

With a nervous laugh, Dawn lowered herself into Marissa’s lap, angling so her cottontail and skirt wouldn’t get squished. The arrangement was surprisingly comfortable—her head tucked under Marissa’s chin, arms draped loosely around Marissa’s waist. For the first time all day, she looked completely at ease.

Marissa cradled her gently, one hand stroking the top of Dawn’s head in slow, soothing motions. “Better?” she asked.

“Much better,” Dawn said, voice muffled but happy.

They sat like that for a while, neither in any hurry to move or speak. When the tea cooled, Marissa let Dawn stay, content just to hold her and be held in return.

Eventually, Dawn looked up, her eyes bright and unguarded. “Thank you,” she said, the words barely more than a breath.

Marissa smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from Dawn’s forehead. “Anytime,” she said.

The light through the windows had shifted, the golden hour beginning, the world outside quieter than ever. Inside, the two of them stayed close, finding comfort in the strangeness of it all, and in each other.

The 88 Club was still asleep at four p.m.—no scheduled event, no lurking Mildreds, no polished crowd humming with anticipation. The only sound was a muted jazz track on the sound system, the hiss and pop of vinyl lending the illusion of time travel to anyone bored enough to listen closely.

Emily had the bar to herself. She moved with a rhythm that felt as old as the room itself: glass in hand, towel in the other, wiping the counter with the kind of deliberate laziness that only came from years of real practice. If anyone had walked in from the outside world, they would have gawked—her body was as naked as her nerves, skin luminous, hair falling in a perfect curtain to cover what modesty she still pretended to have. But here, with the walls dark and the lights low, Emily felt normal. More than that, she felt… necessary.

Her two guests arrived together, though only one of them could see. Myra led, fingers trailing along the wall, her movements oddly graceful for someone who claimed to be new to blindness. Today, her fox ears were laid flat against her head, the big tail swishing low and slow behind her. Her face was open, almost ****, and Emily noticed the way she tilted her head with every shift in the room, as if mapping the space by sound and the electric taste of emotion.

Behind her came Claire, who at a distance could have passed for human. But the closer she got, the clearer it was: the cat ears, the silent walk, the quick, darting motions of her hands as she clutched her ever-present leather notebook. Her tail curled and flicked behind her, betraying a nervousness she’d never voice.

Emily clapped her hands, the sound sharp in the cool air. “Welcome, ladies! The best happy hour in the multiverse is officially open.” She swished a long strand of her pink-blond hair over her shoulder, the effect both inviting and unconsciously theatrical.

Myra, led by the sound of Emily’s voice, moved to the bar with a confidence that was new to her. She wore a white v-neck and jeans, but nothing about her was ordinary: the russet fox tail nearly swept the floor, and her ears twitched at every footstep. When she sat, she kept one hand lightly braced on the bar top, the other curled into her lap.

Claire ghosted in behind her, silent as always. She perched on a stool and, within two seconds, had pulled her notebook from her bag and started scribbling. When she looked up, it was with the hyperfixated, pale-blue gaze of someone cataloguing every surface, every possible variable.

Emily beamed. “Today’s menu: four signature cocktails, three very weird wines, and a bonus flight of amuse-bouches to cleanse the palate. If anyone gets tipsy and falls off the stool, I get to draw a mustache on you.”

Myra grinned, the expression softening her face. “Challenge accepted.”

Claire flashed a quick smile, then wrote a note and tore it out, sliding it across the bar to Emily. In her calligraphy, it read: This is my first time in a bar. Please don’t let me embarrass myself.

Emily snorted, delighted, and read the note aloud for Myra’s benefit. “She says: This is my first time in a bar. Please don’t let me embarrass myself.” She looked at Claire, then at Myra, then back. “Let’s be honest, embarrassment is my entire brand. You’re in good company.”

Myra laughed, but her face was already turning pink at the edges.

Emily lined up three glasses, each one custom—Myra’s a stemless flute (less chance of accidental breakage), Claire’s an old-fashioned tumbler (hard to tip over), and for herself, a highball filled with glacial cubes and a half-frozen mix of citrus and soda. She poured the first round: a bright, violently yellow spritz that glowed in the overhead light.

She set one glass in front of Myra, gently guiding her hand to it. “First up: The Hello Sunshine. It’s like an Aperol spritz, but instead of Aperol, I use a lemon-peel amaro that’ll make you see God.”

Myra sniffed, nostrils flaring. “I can smell the rind from here.” She sipped, lips pursing. “It’s… sharp. Electric. Like if lemonade grew up and got a divorce.”

Emily cackled, then looked at Claire. “Catgirl, your turn.”

Claire sipped, paused, then scribbled. Emily took the notebook and read: “‘Citrus forward, but not cloying. The bitterness makes it more interesting. Second sip is better than the first. I would serve this at a wedding where you don’t actually like the couple.’”

Myra covered her mouth, laughing. “That’s savage.”

Claire shrugged, her tail flicking in what Emily had already identified as the universal sign for ‘guilty pleasure.’

Emily raised her glass. “To weddings we don’t believe in.” All three drank, and for a moment, the air in the bar felt less empty, as if the act of making a toast summoned a crowd of unseen witnesses.

Second round was a dark, floral concoction that smelled faintly of violets and wet earth. “Okay, this one is my own recipe,” Emily said, pouring with a flourish. “The Midnight Botanist. Gin, rosemary syrup, and a splash of crème de violette. I made it for a guy I was obsessed with in college, but he ghosted me after the first date.”

Myra sniffed again, the fox ears at attention. “That’s… wow. Stronger than I expected.”

Emily grinned. “It’ll knock you on your ass if you’re not careful.”

Myra sipped, held the liquid on her tongue, then let out a sigh. “It tastes… blue. Like a memory you can’t quite place. It’s sweet, but not safe. More like…” she fumbled for words, “like licking rain off a statue in a thunderstorm.”

Emily blinked, then snort-laughed. “That is simultaneously the most poetic and the most punk thing anyone’s ever said at this bar. Also, it implies some things about you I did not expect.” Myra grinned, pleased.

Emily looked to Claire, who wrote: Subtle, aromatic, unsettling in a good way. If the first one was a wedding drink, this one is for a funeral that ends with karaoke. She passed the note to Emily, who read it aloud.

Myra tapped the counter, smiling. “She’s not wrong.”

They tasted through the rest, each drink stranger than the last—one with smoked salt and pineapple that Claire compared to a prank pulled by a chemistry major, another that Myra said “tasted like a dare, but one you’d win on purpose.” Emily enjoyed every reaction, sometimes pausing mid-pour to jot down the best one-liners on a cocktail napkin. Each time she tied a new recipe, her hair slipped artfully into place, veiling her nipples or just barely grazing the top of her thigh.

By the time they hit the wines, the formality had dissolved. Claire was curled over her notebook, writing not just tasting notes but little sketches of each glass, while Myra leaned in close, the tips of her fox ears brushing Emily’s arm every time she made a particularly intense point. Emily poured the first wine—a sparkling red that frothed up like soda—and asked, “Okay, real question: If you could invent your own transformation, what would it be?”

Claire froze, her tail flicking not in alarm but contemplation. She tapped her pen against her notebook, considering, then wrote with deliberate strokes: Wings. Not decorative ones—functional. I'd want to feel what it's like to catch thermals at dawn, to see the island from above. To fly without needing anyone's help.

Emily read the note, then turned toward Claire, her voice curious. "Not your voice back? I always wondered if you missed it."

Claire's pen hovered over the page as she weighed Emily’s question. Her eyes flashed up, startled, then back to the notebook. She wrote, hesitated, crossed out the line, then wrote again with a furious flurry. She slid it over.

Emily read, voice a little softer. "‘No. I miss being able to sing, but words get me in trouble. Most of the time it’s easier to be quiet and just… watch. I like seeing people’s faces when they forget I’m here. I hear all the secrets that way.’"

Emily blinked. "Wow. That’s kind of haunting."

Myra leaned in, curious. “What would you sing, if you could?”

Claire’s written answer was quick, and Emily dutifully read it: “‘Lullabies. Or, if the world was ending, I’d do ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and make everyone join in.’”

This got a genuine laugh from Myra, whose own voice had lost the edge of hesitation. “I want to see that. But only if you do the air guitar part.”

Claire mimed it, deadpan, and Emily almost lost it.

Emily refilled the wine glasses—first the sparkling red, then a viscous, honey-gold white. “Myra, what about you? If you could invent a transformation?”

Myra held the stem between her fingers, thinking. The air shifted, the fox tail curling tighter around her chair. “My sight back. But if I couldn't have that... I’d want the power to calm a room. Like, if everyone is losing it, I could just—snap my fingers—and everyone would feel like they’d just had a warm bath and a really good cry.”

Claire nodded vigorously, scribbling, then held up: That’s the best one yet.

Emily poured her own glass, swirling it for show. “Honestly? I’d want something totally useless. Like, the ability to always know the best punchline for a joke, or to get the right trivia answer at a party.” She shrugged. “If I had to pick, maybe wings, but only if I could use them to wrap myself up when I get embarrassed.”

Myra cocked her head, lips curling up. “You get embarrassed?”

Emily sipped, cheeks pink. “Less than I used to, but yeah. Sometimes the show-off thing is… you know, armor.”

They let that sit, the three of them absorbing the mutual admission. The next wine was a syrupy, dark red that tasted like smoke and cherries and something slightly illicit. Myra sipped, then let out a sound that was half-moan, half-sigh.

“This one tastes like…” She groped for words. “Like being kissed by someone you shouldn’t be kissing, but you do it anyway and hope it burns the memory in so deep you never forget it.”

Emily choked on her own sip, then giggled. “I don’t even want to know what your palate is like for the weird stuff.”

Claire wrote, then held up the page; her script was a bit loopier than usual, not quite as straight as she normally produced it: I want to get drunk with you every day for the rest of my life. Then she added, in smaller script: Is that a weird thing to say?

Emily read Claire’s words and Myra blushed, then put her hand over Claire’s on the bar, squeezing. “It’s not weird. Thank you.”

Emily refilled their glasses, letting the warmth of the wine settle in. The tasting was clearly a pretense now—the real menu was the growing comfort, the way each woman’s edges grew softer, their laughter louder and more frequent. If they were all going to be bound to Andy for the rest of their lives, and if their lives would last for centuries, they needed strong bonds among each other. Not romantic, necessarily, but familial, nonetheless.

By the time the amuse-bouches appeared—a trio of tiny, perfect bites that Mildred must have prepped in advance—the three of them were leaned in, foreheads nearly touching over the bar. They traded stories: Emily told the infamous tale of her first job at a nude beach coffee stand (she’d lasted three hours, mostly because the old ladies tipped well); Myra recounted her disastrous attempt at pole-dancing (“I slipped, broke the mirror, and the instructor made me pay for it in installments”); Claire wrote about her high school attempt at prank-calling the principal and accidentally confessing to a crime she didn’t commit.

They laughed until the tears ran. Myra’s fox ears stood upright, trembling with the **** of it.

The last wine, a pink sparkling with the taste of strawberry candy and grapefruit, was the loosest round yet. Emily poured, then lifted her glass. “Okay. This one’s for us. For being weird, for being alive, for making it to round four of the strangest game show in the universe.”

Claire scribbled, then handed over the note: For friends you never knew you needed, and for drinks that taste like regret and also, somehow, like hope.

Myra nodded, the tail fluffing behind her. “To hope,” she said.

They drank, and for a moment, the room was golden with the memory of it.

Afterward, Emily cleared the glasses with a showy sweep, then propped her chin in her hands. “You know, I used to think I’d never belong anywhere. Not in the real world, not in the weird game-show world. But this—” She looked at Myra, then at Claire, who was drawing tiny hearts in the margins of her tasting notes. “This is good. This is enough.”

Myra’s hand found hers across the bar, and Claire’s tail wound around both their wrists.

The music, the empty club, the dizzy happiness of the wine—it all blended together into something that felt, if not like home, then at least like a place worth remembering.

Claire scribbled her last note of the day, then passed it over. This is better than flying, she’d written. I want to stay right here.

Emily smiled, a real, unguarded smile, and for the first time in a long time, believed it.

If The 88 Club was for tastes and secrets, the rec room was for blood sport. This was Sam’s kingdom, and she ran it like an old-school fraternity den: battered couch, a TV tuned permanently to HDMI1, and a closet full of every board game known to man, most of them missing at least two pieces by now, to Mildred's chagrin.

Sam arrived first, arranging the game table with the meticulousness of a pit boss: cards shuffled and stacked, dice corralled in a whiskey glass, pens for keeping score. She sprawled into the captain’s chair, stretching her legs and popping her knuckles, the picture of relaxed authority.

Erin entered next, a vision of scientific impossibility: mint-green skin, breasts so large that when she crossed her arms, they practically folded themselves, and nothing but battered sneakers on her feet. She moved with the confidence of someone who had once been the most practical person in the room and now had nothing left to lose. Today, her hair was down, a wave of russet that nearly reached the small of her back. She gave Sam a curt nod, eyes narrowed at the setup.

“You picked Carcassonne,” she said, voice flat. “You know I always win at Carcassonne.”

Sam grinned, flashing perfect teeth. “Today’s the day, babe. I can feel it.”

Liesa was last to arrive, gliding in with all the uncertainty of a foreign exchange student who’d just learned she’d been placed in a dorm full of Olympic wrestlers. She wore a gauzy white dress, the effect both ethereal and slightly illicit; it barely covered her, and every step seemed to ripple up her thighs and across her chest. The minute she saw the other two, she slowed, then froze, visibly calculating the best angle of approach.

Sam solved it for her by leaping up and offering a dramatic bow. “Princess Liesa, welcome to the lair. Ignore the mess—it’s deliberate, like jazz.”

Liesa laughed, awkward but genuine. She settled into the nearest chair, pulling her knees up and tucking the slip beneath her. “You are always like this, Sam?”

“Worse, usually,” Erin said, already stacking tiles with military precision.

Liesa glanced at the table, trying to suss out the rules. “I have never played this one before. It looks… like building a city?”

Sam nodded. “Exactly. Except instead of working together, you try to screw over your friends at every possible opportunity.”

“I see,” Liesa said, dry. “Like Belgian politics.”

Sam howled, already loving the new recruit. She leaned in, conspiratorial. “Tell you what, we’ll teach you as we go. Just watch Erin—she’s ruthless, but fair.”

Erin shrugged. “I prefer efficient.”

The game began, and almost instantly, the energy in the room shifted from polite to bloodthirsty. Erin played like a surgeon—each tile placed with cold calculation, every move designed to maximize her lead or cut Sam off at the knees. Sam, for her part, played with reckless glee, bluffing, trash-talking, and occasionally making up new rules just to see if she could get away with it. Liesa started tentative, but it didn’t take long for her to spot the patterns and adapt. Within three rounds, she was holding her own.

“Sam, you can’t put a tile there,” Liesa said, pointing at the board. “It breaks the road.”

Sam leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Oh, you’re good,” she said. “She’s good, Erin. Watch out.”

Liesa blushed but didn’t retreat. “I learn fast.”

Erin shot Sam a look. “Told you.”

As the city grew, so did the banter. Erin told the story of her last college all-nighter, the one where she spent eight straight hours in the science library, then hallucinated a raccoon in the microfilm drawer. “I called campus security,” she said. “Turned out, it was just my reflection.”

Sam recounted her freshman year disaster: trying to make ramen in a coffee maker and setting off the fire alarm. “The RA made me write a five-page essay on the dangers of starch-based combustibles,” she said. “He was very thorough. I learned nothing.”

Liesa, growing more comfortable, offered her own: “At UIC, I was in the art dorm. We could paint murals in the hallways. One night, I did the entire third floor in glow-in-the-dark paint.” She smiled, shy. “It took weeks before anyone noticed. They called me the Phantom.”

“Legend,” Sam said, raising a fist for a bump.

Liesa obliged, the gesture making her grin even wider.

Between rounds, the women drifted into easy talk.

“Your move, Hulk,” Sam said, nudging Erin’s hand. “Unless you’re too distracted by the scenery.”

Erin snorted, but the blush on her mint skin was impossible to miss. “Just play your tile, Collins.”

Liesa watched them, amused. “You two were always like this in college?”

Sam nodded. “Best frenemies. She once stole my lunch out of the break room fridge and replaced it with a note that said ‘Survival of the fittest.’”

“I was conducting an experiment,” Erin deadpanned. “You were the control.”

The three dissolved into laughter, the tension of the earlier rounds now a running joke. By the second game, Liesa was playing as hard as the rest, and while Andy had reduced the intensity of her Paint Me Like One of Your French Girls transformation, allowing her to dress more lightly, her arousal was still spiking every time she accidentally brushed knees with Erin or Sam. The slip did nothing to hide her body's reactions, and by the end of the session, she was nearly vibrating with energy.

Sam noticed, of course. She leaned over, voice low. “You doing okay?”

Liesa nodded, cheeks pink. “Is more fun than I expected. Even if I am… how do you say? Overstimulated.”

Sam grinned, then patted her hand. “That’s the spirit. It means you’re playing to win. We’ll do something about it when we’re done.”

Erin set the last tile, then counted the points. “Game over,” she said, looking at Sam and Liesa with barely concealed pride. “But honestly, Liesa almost beat me. Sam, you’re losing your edge.”

Sam threw her hands up in mock despair. “The student has become the master.”

Erin smirked. “You were never the master in the first place, Sam. You should take lessons from Liesa.”

Liesa giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

The room fell quiet, the aftermath of competition leaving a peaceful haze behind. Sam lounged back in her chair, arms folded, looking at her two friends with a fondness that was new and unguarded.

“You know,” she said, “When we first arrived, I thought this place would be hell. But it’s not so bad, with you two around.”

Erin nodded, serious. “Yeah. It’s weird, but… I don’t miss the old world as much as I thought I would.”

Liesa looked at the board, the tangled city they’d built together. “I like it here. With you.”

They sat like that for a while, the three of them connected by a chain of hands, the game forgotten. For all the strangeness of their new reality, this moment felt honest, hard-won, and real.

Erin broke the silence, glancing at Sam. “You want to play again? Best two out of three?”

Sam grinned, wild and fierce. “Absolutely.”

Liesa reset the board, her movements sure and confident now. “This time,” she said, “I will win.”

The balcony above the Inner Gardens was the kind of spot built for postcards: white iron railings, wisteria vines creeping up the stone, a panorama that caught the gold of late afternoon and turned every shadow into something cinematic. Emi loved it here, but she rarely visited. It was too quiet, and the silence made her think.

Today, though, she had a mission.

Norah was already on the balcony, propped against the railing with both elbows. She wore a crisp white blouse and a skirt that looked aggressively tailored, as if she’d woken up and declared war on the very concept of “resort casual.” Her hair was pulled into a sleek bun, but the breeze off the bay tugged loose a few spirals, softening her face. Emi hesitated at the threshold, watching her for a beat. She’d learned to read people’s emotional state by the set of their jaw, the angle of the neck, the way hands clutched a wineglass or not.

Norah was as rigid as a compass needle.

Emi was still intimidated by Norah, four rounds in. She hadn’t really spent as much time with her as she had with the others, and even when they were bedmates, they’d barely talk in or out of bed. But today was the day. She was going to make a new friend, whether Norah wanted to, or not.

Emi tiptoed up, keeping all six arms tucked in, the top two hugging a notebook, the middle ones holding a box of colored paper, the bottom pair knotted with nerves.

Norah noticed her at once. “Hey,” she said, the word short, but not sharp.

“Hi,” Emi replied, perching next to her. The silence that followed wasn’t unfriendly, just thick. Emi found herself watching the garden below: the fake bee-crowded hydrangeas, the shock of blue water in the ornamental pool, the ghostly flicker of Mildred resetting the pavers for the hundredth time.

After a while, Norah said, “You know, I never learned to play an instrument.”

Emi blinked, unsure if she’d heard right. “Really?”

Norah shook her head. “No money, no lessons, and my sisters all did sports, not music. I was good at math and yelling at people, so that’s what I did instead.” She looked at her hands, then at Emi’s. “I thought maybe, when I got here, I’d have time to pick something up. Chloe’s picked up gardening, a bunch of the girls play board games, Dawn and Claire play Mario Kart… But it’s like the world doesn’t want me to learn anything new.”

Emi smiled, gentle. “There’s still time.”

Norah laughed, a brittle sound. “You don’t know me. I suck at anything that’s not numbers, words, or winning.” She huffed. “And I hate being bad at things.”

Emi nodded, thinking. She remembered a time in high school when she’d tried to join a band, only to be kicked out because she couldn’t keep tempo and kept getting lost in daydreams. Her face went hot just thinking of it.

“You know,” Emi said, “there’s one thing I’m decent at that doesn’t require a lot of lessons. Want to try?”

Norah side-eyed her, skeptical. “Is this a trick?”

Emi grinned, all six hands producing the box of origami paper with a magician’s flourish. “Origami. All you need is paper, patience, and a willingness to mess up.”

Norah raised her eyebrows, then shrugged. “Couldn’t be worse than my first day at calculus camp.”

Emi pulled out two sheets—one a bold crimson, the other soft violet. She handed the crimson to Norah, demonstrating with the violet.

“I’ll show you how to make a crane. It’s not hard. Well, actually, it is, but I’ll help.”

She folded the paper, her hands a blur, each step precise. Norah followed, mimicking the creases, but her first fold tore near the top.

“Crap,” Norah muttered.

“Try again,” Emi said, not missing a beat. “Paper is cheap, learning is priceless.”

Norah tried again. The second crane came out better—lopsided, one wing too short, but still a crane. Emi applauded, her lower hands clapping softly.

“See?” Emi said. “It’s a bird! Or a dinosaur, depending on the angle.”

Norah snorted. “It’s ugly. But… kind of cool?”

Emi nodded, holding her own crane next to Norah’s. “I still make ugly ones from time to time, too. I like the mess-ups. Makes it more real.”

They made another, then another, Norah growing more confident with each try. Emi taught her the secret of the final crease—how to pull the wings gently so the body puffed out, making the crane “come alive.” When Norah succeeded, she held up her creation, examining it from all sides, and for the first time that day, she smiled without reservation.

“Not bad,” Norah admitted. She set the crane on the balcony rail, letting the breeze riffle its wings.

Emi leaned back, proud. “You made that.”

Norah was quiet for a minute, then said, “Thanks. For showing me.” Her eyes tracked the fake bees in the garden, then darted to Emi. “You ever get tired of being… you know, different?”

Emi shrugged, stretching all six arms overhead. “Sometimes. But most of the time, I just like being able to do things other people can’t. Or to help people who think they can’t.”

Norah nodded, then, softer: “I wish I had that. The helping people thing.”

Emi smiled. “That could be your project.” She gestured to the crane.

Norah’s cheeks colored. “Nah, not going to give up the bitch approach.”

They sat in companionable silence, folding more birds, the stack of paper shrinking as the sun dipped lower. When the balcony was crowded with cranes of every color, Norah reached out, touched Emi’s hand—the lowest right one, because it felt like the least threatening.

“I never had a friend who’d just sit with me before,” Norah said. “Not without an agenda.”

Emi’s smile widened. “I’m not great at agendas.”

Norah squeezed Emi’s hand, then let go. “Good.”

As the sun set, painting the world in impossible color, Emi and Norah watched their paper flock shiver in the evening breeze. For once, Norah didn’t worry about whether she was good at it, or if she’d win. It was enough to make something that lasted even a little while, and to have someone beside her who understood.

They stayed until it was too dark to see, letting the cranes keep silent watch over the garden below.

Sunset in the Suite had always been a stage for ghosts, but tonight the only specter was real: Katherine, immortalized in oil and a thousand brushstrokes of longing. Andy walked up to her after entering the Suite, while Chloe was showering and changing.

Katherine’s painted body glowed faintly, her eyes startling in the semi-dark, arms akimbo in a pose that dared the world to look away first. She always seemed happiest at night. Andy suspected it was because the dark couldn’t show how little she changed from day to day; when the lights were dim, the illusion of possibility grew stronger.

He stepped closer, bare feet muffled by the rug. “Hey, trouble,” he said softly.

Katherine waved, as if she’d been waiting hours for company. She grinned, rolled her eyes, and did a pantomime of blowing a kiss, then caught it, palmed it, and held it up like a trophy. It was a performance just for him, and it worked: he felt lighter, a little less buried by the day.

“Do you just haunt my room for the attention?” he joked, dropping onto the edge of the bed.

She nodded, once, then shrugged in a way that suggested “obviously, dumbass.” After a beat, she mimed shivering, then made a dramatic show of planting both feet and standing firm, arms flexed. Stay here. Brave the cold.

He laughed, then sobered. Tonight, the need to process his own feelings had worn thin. For once, he wanted to know what made her tick—not the magic, not the endless striptease of her condition, but Katherine herself. What did she want, when nobody was watching?

He asked her. “What do you think about all day? Do you have thoughts, or does it just… run together?”

She considered, then raised her hands and fluttered her fingers in little swirls around her head. Then she held both hands to her temples and mimed blowing them outward, like dandelion seeds. A thousand thoughts, always. She pointed at him, then pointed to the side, then above, then below. You, everyone, everywhere, all at once.

He nodded, imagining it. “That sounds… loud.”

She smirked, then did the universal sign for “eh,” which in her case was a shoulder wiggle and a cartoonish eye-roll. Then she pointed at herself, at the painting, at her naked body, and shrugged, making a face that landed somewhere between “whatever” and “it’s not like I have a choice.”

He tried a different tack. “Do you miss anything? Not just freedom, but the little stuff—TV, music, books?”

Katherine perked up at “books.” She pantomimed turning pages, then mimed reading aloud, then squinted and pointed at her mouth, and shook her head. Couldn’t read out loud, not anymore. Then she feigned writing with one finger on her thigh, looking at him expectantly.

He caught the drift. “You want to write things down? Or do you want to read what I’m reading?”

She shrugged again, then looked away, embarrassed. After a beat, she pantomimed reading a book again. Please.

Andy leaned his forehead against the glass, then pressed his palm to the frame. She pantomimed reading again, then stuck her tongue out at him.

He laughed softly. "Alright, hang on. I think there's something in the den." He walked downstairs and pulled a book at random from the few bookshelves there—a battered John le Carré novel, one of the few real books in the suite. It smelled like libraries and time capsules.

He returned to the bedroom and set it up on the dresser in front of her, wedging it between two glass bottles so the pages stayed open. Katherine leaned forward, gaze sharpening, and mimed turning a page. He obliged, flipping from the title to the first chapter. She looked up at him, then nodded, approving.

"You know," he said, settling on the edge of the bed, "you could have asked for this weeks ago." He smiled, but his voice was gentle. "I would have read to you."

Katherine shrugged, then held up a finger and wagged it, teasing. She couldn't resist. Then she did a strange little double-gesture: a hand to her chest, then a sweep outward, palms up. Thank you. Or maybe, I'm glad you thought of it.

He rested his chin in his hand, watching her eyes move line by line across the page. "What's your favorite book?" he asked.

She thought, then mimed something long, then something thin, then held her hand to her brow in the old 'thinking man' pose. She drew a rectangle with her fingers, then pointed at her own face, then at him.

He puzzled it out. "You like biographies? Or… mysteries?"

She shook her head, frustrated, then pinched the bridge of her nose—an echo of his own habit. She mimed a circle with one hand, like a world, then traced a spiral inward, then pointed at the book, and at herself.

"Stories about people," he guessed. "About lives. Worlds inside a single person."

She nodded, relieved. Then she flicked her eyes up, waiting for the next page.

He obliged, careful not to skip ahead too fast. For a while, he just turned pages for her, sometimes reading aloud the best lines, sometimes letting the silence pool. There was something meditative about it: the slow burn of the lamp, the hush of evening in the hall, the certainty that at least in this one room, nothing was going to be asked of him except presence.

After a chapter, he closed the book. "You know," he said, "I've been selfish. I come in here and just… unload. I never think about what you want, what you need." He laughed, low. "You should get a wish too. Everyone else here does."

Katherine made a face: a little surprised, a little touched. She mimed holding a heavy box, then staggered with the weight of it, then pointed at him, then at the book.

He smiled. "I don't think I'm quite as heavy as a box full of regrets," he said, "but I'll take the compliment."

She gestured, urgent now, her hands framing her face, then pointed at his chest, then at herself.

"You're saying you want… me," he said, then frowned. "No, you want to know me?"

She shook her head, then traced a line from her heart to his, then made a looping gesture, connecting the two.

He understood, suddenly. "You want me to stop apologizing. To just be here, with you."

She nodded, then beamed.

He grinned, a little embarrassed by how much the approval meant to him. "Deal," he said. "I'll be here."

They sat together in the quiet, letting the moment last as long as it needed to.

The elevator chimed, a delicate sound barely audible over the hum of the lights. Andy looked up, expecting Mildred, but it was Arabella who stepped into the bedroom after a few moments.

Tonight, she wore a simple black dress, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail, no jewelry, no hint of Host formality. She looked, if anything, tired. Not physically—there was never a hair out of place—but in the way someone looked when they'd been carrying secrets for centuries.

She saw Andy, saw the book propped up for Katherine, and her lips twitched in a smile that was almost private.

"Andy," she said, voice soft as smoke. "Good evening."

He rose, awkward. "Evening."

She came into the room, her steps measured, and for a moment she just studied the two of them. Arabella walked to the bookshelf, brushing her hand across the spines. "I always liked this one," she said, pulling down a battered copy of Remembrance of Things Past. She held it out to Andy. "For when you run out of le Carré."

He accepted it, still off balance. "Thanks."

She nodded, then looked back at the painting. "How is she?"

Andy hesitated. "I think… okay? As okay as she can be."

Katherine, for her part, watched Arabella with an intensity Andy had never seen. She did not move, but every line of her body was alert.

Arabella touched the glass, fingertip to fingertip with Katherine's painted hand. "I wish you could have known her before," Arabella said, voice more to herself than to Andy. "She was fire and joy. Even in here, she still is. But—" She stopped, then drew a breath. "But it's not the same, is it?"

Andy shook his head. "No. But it's something."

Arabella nodded, then turned her attention fully to him. "May I sit?"

He gestured to the bed. She folded herself into it, posture perfect.

After a beat, she said, "How are you doing, Andy? Not the polite version. The real answer."

He looked at her, surprised. "I'm fine," he started, then stopped. "I mean, I'm—" He faltered.

Arabella waited, no hurry at all.

He tried again. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I want to believe this place is real, that everyone is safe, that I'm not just screwing it up. But every time I get close, I remember—" He shrugged. "I remember who I used to be. Who I lost. What I did to end up here."

Arabella's eyes softened. "You're not alone in that."

He looked at her, skeptical.

She smiled, rueful. "Every season, every contestant, even every Host. We all carry our ghosts, Andy. Some of us just hide them better."

He wanted to believe her, but the knot in his chest didn't loosen. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to love them all the right way. I don't even know what 'right' is."

Arabella sat back, folding her hands in her lap. "There is no right. Not for this. You do the best you can, and you forgive yourself for the rest." She looked at him, unwavering. "It's not about being perfect. It's about being present."

He tried to meet her gaze, then looked away. "What if I play favorites? What if someone gets hurt?"

She considered, then said, "Someone will. It's inevitable. And you will have favorites. It’s human. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't try. Or that your love means less because you can't give it equally to everyone."

He chewed on that. "But that's the rule, isn't it? In the stories? You have to love them all, or you lose."

Arabella shook her head. "That's the old world talking. The one that says love is a zero-sum game." She smiled, gentle. "Here, you're allowed to have favorites. You just have to be honest about it."

He stared at the carpet, the words settling in. "Is that allowed?"

"In this place," she said, "anything is allowed if it brings you closer to the people you care for."

He looked at her, the knot in his chest a little looser. "You're good at this."

She laughed, not unkind. "I should be. I've had a lot of practice."

He wanted to ask her how many times she'd seen this, how many men (and women) she'd watched drown under the weight of their own longing. But he didn't. Some questions weren't fair.

She changed the subject. "Laura's birthday is in a week, isn't it?"

Andy blinked. He'd always been meticulous with dates—a byproduct of every year marking the week in two: the day he was born, and then, three days later, the day the world gave him Laura.

"Yeah," he said. "Next week." The words landed heavier than he'd meant.

Arabella watched him with the patience of a saint, or maybe a really good therapist. She let the quiet stretch, then said, "Will you celebrate?"

He laughed, sharp and automatic. "Not much to celebrate."

Arabella's mouth quirked. "You underestimate the power of remembrance. Even the hard kind."

Andy set the book down, stared at the battered cover. "Some days I want to remember everything. Most days, I'd rather forget."

Arabella nodded, and there was no judgment. "Grief is stubborn. It sneaks up even when you've barricaded all the doors." She paused, then added, "Sometimes it takes other people to help you carry it. You know that, don't you?"

He glanced at Katherine's painting, then back at Arabella. "I try. I'm not always good at letting people in."

"You're becoming better at it," Arabella said, voice so gentle he almost missed the compliment embedded there.

He wanted to believe her, but there was still a cold knot under his ribs, the one that always tightened this time of year. He picked at the corner of the book, silent.

Arabella leaned in, her tone shifting from the careful cadence of the Host to something more conspiratorial, even sly. "I will warn you again," she said, "that the days ahead may hold… challenges. And not the kind I set up. Some expected, some less so. You are adapting well, but soon the game will test you in ways you might not anticipate."

Andy narrowed his eyes. "That's cryptic, even for you."

She smiled. "I am allowed secrets, Andy. But this is not a threat—just a reminder that the future isn't always shaped by rules or plans. Sometimes, the wild card changes everything."

He thought of the faces in the Suite, all the women he'd somehow been trusted with, and how easily the addition or subtraction of even one could tilt the world. "Is this about the last new contestant? Can’t you leave her alone, whoever she is? Doesn’t the Audience have enough people in this game?"

Arabella shook her head, laughing softly. "I can't say. But do not make the mistake of thinking you have to hold it all alone. You have a family here, even if it doesn't look like what you expected."

He nodded, absorbing it. It was hard not to believe her, when she made it sound so reasonable, even kind.

She eyed him over folded hands. "Now," she said, "I have a question for you."

"Shoot," he said, bracing for impact.

"How are the dreams?" Her eyes were sharp now, almost searching. "The ones that started after the second round. Are they better, or worse?"

Andy flinched. "You remember that?"

Arabella shrugged. "It's my job. And my hobby, sometimes."

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "They're… more vivid. And more often. Sometimes it's just old memories. Sometimes it's—" He hesitated, then **** himself to finish. "Sometimes I see her. Laura. And it's like I'm thirteen again, and the world hasn't gone to hell yet."

Arabella nodded, but didn't interrupt.

"It's not just her," Andy said, voice lower. "Sometimes it's others. I’ve seen a face, craggy, black-bearded, laughing at me as if amused that I may seek to fix what happened."

"And do you want to fix it?" Arabella asked, her tone unreadable.

He shook his head. "I wish I could, but I know I can’t. I just want it to stop. Or at least to make sense."

She considered that, then said, "I can help, if you wish. There are… ways to reduce the frequency. Or to change the subject matter, if it's too much."

He glanced up, surprised by the offer. "You can do that?"

Arabella smiled, but it was sad. "You'd be shocked what I can do, Andy."

He thought about it, then shook his head. "No. Not yet. I don't want to lose her, even if it's just in a dream."

Arabella's smile turned real, if a little wistful. "That," she said, "is exactly why you are different. Most Masters in your position would want to forget. You just want to hold on, even if it hurts."

He nodded, staring at the carpet.

"Still," she said, voice gentle, "be careful. Sometimes grief becomes its own transformation. It can change you, if you let it."

He looked at her, eyes rimmed red, but he didn't blink. "I'm used to being changed," he said. "At least here, it doesn't feel like I'm losing myself."

Arabella nodded. "Then I'll let you keep your dreams, for now. But if you ever need help—" she hesitated, then finished, "you know where to find me. It's what friends are for."

He almost laughed. "Do you have a lot of friends?"

Arabella smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Some. But I'd like one more."

He thought about that, about the way she watched the Suite, the way she always seemed to know a little more than she let on. "Then I guess we're both getting what we need," he said.

Arabella rose, smoothing the front of her dress. "Before I go, I have something for you."

She reached into the folds of her skirt and somehow produced a narrow, gleaming lectern—polished metal, collapsible, light enough to move with one hand. She set it on the dresser and flicked a switch at its base. The top half unfolded, revealing a thin glass plate etched with a grid of lines.

"This is for Katherine," Arabella said. "You saw she misses books. But if you simply left one open for her, she’d read two pages, and then need to wait for you." She tapped the glass, and the lectern responded, the panel glowing faintly. "It took me a little while to get this ready. This lectern turns the page for her, when she finishes reading. All she has to do is glance at the lower corner, and the magic takes care of the rest." She smiled, a touch of pride in her voice. "It's not freedom. But it's something."

Andy reached out, hands brushing the smooth edge. "She'll love it," he said, and he meant it. “Thank you.”

Arabella inclined her head. "You're welcome," she said. "And—" She hesitated, then met Andy's eyes. "Thank you. For seeing her as more than just a punishment."

He looked at her, really looked, and saw the shimmer of emotion just beneath the perfect surface. "You're not so bad yourself," he said.

She grinned, then turned to go. "Take care, Andy. And wish her happy reading, from me."

He watched her walk to the elevator, the lamplight painting her shadow long on the carpet. When the doors closed, the room felt strangely empty, even with the painting watching him.

He carried the lectern to the bedroom, balancing it carefully in both hands. The moment he opened the door, Katherine's eyes snapped to the metal frame, then to his face, then back again—hope and disbelief in perfect, flickering sequence.

He set the lectern on the dresser, propped open the le Carré novel, and angled it so the glass plate reflected the page just right. Katherine's body vibrated with joy, a silent laugh trembling through her shoulders. She pantomimed applause, then mimed reading, then raised both hands in an exaggerated, grateful prayer.

Andy felt his face heat. "It was Arabella's idea," he said. "She wanted you to have something to do. Something more than just… waiting."

Katherine's face softened. She touched her heart, then held her palm out, as if offering it to the world. She gestured at the book, then at him, then at the space between them. A gift, shared.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her for a while. The room was quiet, but not empty anymore. Katherine mouthed the words as she read, her lips forming the sentences, her eyes darting line by line. Every now and then she'd glance at Andy, as if to make sure he was still there.

He was. For once, he let the silence stay, content to just be present, not to solve or fix or heal. There was comfort, even in the not-enoughness of it all.

Andy lay back, the last embers of grief and guilt settling. Katherine kept reading, the page turning with a tiny, soft whoosh. She looked up at Andy, winked, then dove back into the story. In the hallway, the elevator chimed again.

Andy smiled, left Katherine to her reading, and headed to welcome his nightly guest.