The Spaces Between

Emily always opened the tavern with both hands. The ancient-looking key stuck sometimes, so she had to lean her hip into the weathered door, shoulder the weight, and give a little grunt that felt less like work and more like permission. Once inside, she did the usual round: candle wicks trimmed, morning’s dust swept from the floor, a quick check of the stock behind the bar for anything out of place. She didn’t really need to (Arabella had told her that she could just will the Tavern into shape, if she wanted), but she enjoyed the physical act. She’d once joked to Jake that every fantasy pub should have a secret, but The Tavern of Second Chances didn’t need one. The entire place was a secret, carved out of an unlived story, hidden behind hedges so dense you only found it if you needed it.

Emily wore her hair in a long, artful ponytail today, a style that kept the pale-pink-streaked mass contained, and her body fully on display. Even on the island, her skin was still a few shades paler than the wood grain of the bar—but she felt more comfortable in her own body now, and seeing Erin’s confidence had helped Emily come to terms with her own enforced nudity. Her mind flashed back to when one of her temporary transformations, in the old season, had given her a humiliation fetish coupled with her nudity. Now, she realized, she barely noticed anymore. And, if she had to be honest, she liked the way Andy looked at her when she passed by.

The tavern’s warmth suited her. Emily grinned, feeling her own mood brighten at the sound of someone walking on the pavers outside. She poured herself a glass of guava juice and waited.

Dawn arrived in a burst of floral perfume and flustered apology. “Sorry! I didn’t know if we were meeting here or at the beach. I almost ran into Norah, but she was… you know. Doing her Norah thing.”

Emily gestured for her to come in. “You’re early, actually. I just got the lights on.” She set the glass of guava on the counter. “You want anything?”

Dawn grinned, her bunny ears perking forward. “Is it too early for one of your pink cocktails? The last time you made those, I had the best nap of my life.”

Emily went behind the bar. “Coming right up. You want the strawberry or the dragonfruit one?”

Dawn wavered. “Surprise me.”

Emily measured a shot, spun a slice of lime, and within a minute slid a fizzing glass to Dawn, who accepted it reverently. As she sipped, the surface of the drink sparkled under the morning light. “You could put bars out of business, you know,” Dawn said, then, lower, “not that I’m suggesting you leave your dreams about art behind. Just that you have options.”

Emily laughed. “If you ever need a gig when we get back, I’ll hire you as my marketing department.”

The door gave a soft chime and Emi entered, her six arms carefully tucked against her dress, her eyes still a little puffy from sleep. Emily poured a guava spritz for her, and Emi took it with a grateful “Thank you,” settling into one of the booths with Dawn.

Emily joined them at the table, sitting lightly on the bench so her hair just barely brushed the wood. Today, it didn’t fall over her breasts or hips—it swung in a soft, single line down her back, and the air in the Tavern was just warm enough that she didn’t even shiver at the exposure. She liked being with these two, especially when it was just them and the slow, golden hush of a day with nowhere to be.

For a while, the three just sat, sipping drinks, letting the silence grow. The world outside the Tavern felt like it had been politely excused, leaving them in a storybook hush.

It was Dawn who broke the spell. She set her glass down with a soft thump and said, “Okay, I can’t stand it anymore—are we going to talk about last night or just sit here and pretend everything’s normal?”

Emily grinned. She liked when Dawn got impatient. “I was waiting for you to say something,” she said.

Dawn rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Fine. Emi, are you going to tell us, or do I have to play twenty questions?” Her ears twitched with anticipation.

Emi ducked her head, sheepish, and took a steadying sip from her drink. The color had returned to her cheeks, and the usual flutter of her hands was barely there at all. She glanced at Emily, then at Dawn, then back at her own glass, the condensation beading on her fingers.

“I—um,” she started, then stopped, then let out a little laugh that sounded like embarrassment, but not fear. “I talked to Anna last night.”

Emily nodded. “I saw her looking at you during the show. She was… intense.”

Emi settled into the booth, all six hands pressed tight against her glass as if she could squeeze the chill into herself. She kept her eyes fixed on the condensation beading down the side. "Yeah. She asked to talk after the show. I thought maybe I was in trouble."

Emily leaned in, elbows on the table. "Did she say something scary, or…?"

Emi shook her head, then looked up, shy. "No, it wasn’t like that at all." She flicked her gaze to Dawn, who nodded, encouraging, her bunny ears cocked and alert.

"I wasn’t even sure I was awake," Emi said. "She had on this blue dress with all these little stars sewn on it, and she called me over. She looked at me for a long time before she said anything." Emi paused, searching for the right words. "It was like… like she was memorizing my face."

Dawn leaned in, voice low and soft. "What did she say?"

Emi took a deep breath, splaying her fingers over her glass, and looked at them both. “She told me I was hers.” The words, once out, seemed almost embarrassing to repeat, so she blushed beet red and said them again, slower, so the syllables would count: “She said I’m her descendant, and her favorite one at that.’” Emi ducked her head, but a shy smile quirked at her lips.

Emily let out a small, delighted “oh!” while Dawn leaned closer, elbows on the table, her eyes bright. “That’s… huge,” Dawn said. “Are you okay with it?” She reached, without thinking, and squeezed Emi’s hand, then blushed as she pulled it away, worried it was too much.

Emi shook her head, her hair flopping over her eyes, and then she laughed—a surprised, bright sound. “I’m… not not okay? I mean, it’s a lot. But it also makes sense. There was always something in my family—this thing nobody could explain, a thread that didn’t match the rest of the fabric. My grandfather had these little clay statues, and my mom used to say it was just superstition, but he always prayed to them.” She traced a droplet of condensation around her glass, not looking up. “I always thought maybe the secret was, I don’t know, that I was adopted, or some kind of family joke. But now it’s like… the universe was holding its breath, waiting for me to ask.”

Emily poured more guava spritz for Emi, and for herself, then slid back into the booth, her knees touching Emi’s under the table. “Honestly? I’m so glad you have an answer. Even if it’s the weirdest answer imaginable. Doesn’t it feel… better?” She grinned, wide and encouraging.

Emi sipped at the drink, then nodded. “It does, actually. Is that weird? I thought I’d freak out. But now I feel like I’ve been let in on a secret that explains everything, instead of… you know. Exploding my brain.”

Dawn exhaled a little too loudly. “I get that.” She smiled at her friend.

Emi looked down at her six arms, all resting demurely on the table as if they’d practiced for this moment. “Anna said I’m the only one who dreamed out of all her descendants, like I’m ‘full-powered,’ whatever that means.” She wrinkled her nose, and Emily caught the gesture with a soft laugh.

“Full-powered,” Emily echoed, waggling her eyebrows. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a girl with a transformation track record.”

Dawn rolled her eyes, but her smile was gentle. “Have you told anyone else? Or are we the first to know?”

Emi hesitated. “I told Claire, kind of, but she already had the translation from the diary. I think she might be the only person more obsessed with other people’s stories than with her own.” She glanced out the Tavern’s window, as if she could spot Claire slinking between the hedges, notebook in hand. “I think I’m going to tell Marissa. She always asks the right questions, even when it’s not what you want to hear.” She paused, then looked at Dawn. “Should I tell Norah? I feel like she’d either use it as a power move, or write a whole speech about ‘found families’ and make us all cry.”

Dawn snorted, almost spitting her drink. “You can if you want, but I say keep it just for you for now. You deserve it.”

Emily propped her chin in her hands, her hair spilling forward in a soft curtain. “Are you going to call Anna grandma now? Or, like, super-grandma?”

Emi blushed. “I don’t know! It feels weird. She’s…” Emi searched for a word, then shook her head. “She’s more like a **** of nature than a person, but she made me feel seen in a way I didn’t know I wanted.” She laughed, embarrassed. “Sorry, that sounds so full of myself.”

“Not at all,” Emily said. “It sounds right.” She reached for Emi’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I think you’re meant to do something amazing, even if it’s just being the best version of yourself.”

Emi nodded, her eyes shining. “That’s the plan, I guess. Even if I have to fake it for a while.”

They let the quiet stretch, Dawn savoring her drink, Emily tapping a rhythm on the table, and Emi watching the sunlight creep over the battered wood. For a moment, nothing moved but the dust in the beams of light, and the Tavern felt suspended in its own time—like a postcard, or a memory you could climb into and stay.

There was a lull in the conversation, a gentle thinning of sound, and then the door to the Tavern swung open with the muted creak of old hinges, so subtle it barely even registered. Arabella entered wearing jeans, a navy blue sweater, and battered white sneakers. Her hair was tied up into a ponytail, tumbling down her back in deep auburn spirals, and she wore no jewelry, no makeup, not even her customary ring. It was so out of character that the three women at the booth—Emily, Dawn, and Emi—simply froze, like a video paused mid-laugh.

The path was quieter than Chloe expected, the sunlight softer here, filtered through the trees that lined the Walk of Remembrance. The ghostly hush after their meeting with Laura, Myra, and Andy still clung to her bones, as if she’d been wading through mist all night. Even her hangover felt muted—less throb than memory, distant enough to almost feel tender.

Chloe fell into step beside Riley, sneakers whispering against the weathered planks. The breeze off the inlet carried salt and cedar—familiar island scents Riley used to find sharp, even painful. Today, they felt forgiving. Riley kept her hands in her jacket pockets, shoulders loose.

“Morning,” she offered, voice low. It sounded too bright, so she swallowed and tried again as Riley glanced at her. “Hey.”

Chloe returned the greeting with that careful, real smile Riley had learned to trust. “You okay? That felt… huge.”

Riley kicked at a loose board. “You could say that.” She looked back toward the dock, where the echoes of Laura’s laughter still lingered. “It feels… unreal, somehow. She’s back, and doubled, and… still her in all the ways that count.”

Chloe considered, tracing a leaf pattern in the wood with her fingertip. “I think she’s trying to be everywhere she should have been—finally present. It’s overwhelming, but in its own way… kind of beautiful.”

Riley looked up at the sunlight flickering through branches. She hesitated. “How are you doing?”

Chloe chewed her lower lip, then shook her head. “I don’t know.” She smiled softly. “Doesn’t matter. We did it, though. We closed the book on Willow Run.”

Riley let out a slow breath, tasting the promise of quiet ahead. “Yeah. We did. I never thought…” She trailed off, lost in thought. Chloe wasn’t sure whether she was meant to say anything. Riley glanced at her, and suddenly said, “Actually… I wanted to show you something.” She paused at the path’s end. “But if you’d rather keep walking, that’s fine too.”

Chloe paused. “You’re making it sound ominous.”

“Yeah, that’s my brand.” Riley shrugged, then **** herself to calm down as she felt her hair twitching. “Walk with me?”

Chloe nodded. She followed Riley into the hotel lobby, then through the Inner Gardens exit, her steps brisk but light, and the moment they hit the garden path, Riley’s nerves flared again, all fight-or-flight and old Catholic shame.

They took the long route through the Inner Gardens, past the fountains and the shaded arbor, where the stone benches were slick with last night’s rain. Riley led in silence, hands in pockets, boots kicking up little puffs of old soil and leaf mold. The birdsong was almost too loud here, but Riley barely registered it. She just focused on the path, the twists and turns, and the feeling that somewhere, just ahead, was a door she couldn’t not open.

After a while, Chloe said, “You’re not going to tell me what this is about?”

“Better if I show you.” Riley glanced back, then quickened her pace. “Promise it’s not a prank. Or a cult thing, in case you’ve been spending too much time with Dawn.”

Chloe smiled, and it landed, gentle and just for Riley. “I trust you. Even after last time.”

“Last time wasn’t my fault,” Riley protested, though she was still mortified by the memory of the cronut incident—Chloe, powdered sugar from scalp to sternum, and Riley laughing so hard she nearly choked. “That was sabotage by Emi.”

“Still,” Chloe said, “I trust you.” The words did something strange inside Riley, like a key turning in an old lock.

They rounded a sharp bend where the ferns grew thick and the path narrowed to a thread. At the end was a gap in the hedge, one Riley hadn’t noticed until two weeks ago, when the hurt got so bad she’d walked every inch of the garden just to keep from thinking. The gap led to a smaller, hidden court—a brickwork rectangle, unremarkable except for the battered wooden door set into the far wall. It looked like it belonged in a farmhouse, not a hotel: weathered gray, with a porcelain knob and a tarnished number “1” bolted just above the lintel.

Riley stopped in front of it, heart suddenly trying to punch its way through her ribcage. “Okay,” she said, “you ready?”

Chloe nodded, but her eyes were wary now.

Riley turned the knob and pushed.

The room inside was nothing like the rest of the HH. No luxury, no gloss, just a nursery—soft pastels, faded by time and sun. The walls were painted in bands of pink and yellow, with little white stars stenciled along the ceiling. There was a wooden cradle in one corner, old but lovingly polished, with a pale green quilt folded at the foot. Shelves lined the far wall, crowded with stuffed animals, wooden trains, children’s books, a mobile of glass planets suspended in a gentle spiral. In the air: the faint, uncanny whiff of baby powder, sweet and ghostly. A thin layer of dust covered most of the furniture, but Riley’s footprints from multiple visits stood out on the wooden floor.

Riley lingered at the threshold, feeling the air shift and settle around her. She could see Chloe absorbing it—the quick scan, the pinched brow, the way her hands fluttered uncertainly, then drew into fists.

“It’s beautiful,” Chloe whispered. “But why is it here?”

Riley shrugged. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I found it a couple of weeks ago, by accident. Since then, every day, I come here and just… sit.” She rubbed her forearm, feeling the old tattoo throb beneath the skin. “It makes no sense. This isn’t a resort space. It’s not even on the hotel map. But someone built it, and someone—” She stopped, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Chloe crossed the room, trailing a hand over the back of the cradle. There was a film of dust on everything, even the toys, but none of it felt abandoned. More like the room was waiting, holding its breath. And there was a feeling of sorrow, of grief that echoed in the room, making Chloe feel like she wanted to cry without knowing why.

“Who do you think it was for?” Chloe asked.

Riley shook her head. “I think—” She sucked in a breath, trying not to let the quaver in her voice out into the world. “I think it was made by a contestant who never got to use it.”

Chloe turned, arms wrapped around her chest, eyes huge in the soft light. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Not even in the play rooms.” She gestured at the far corner, where a battered rocking chair sat, its cushions worn but inviting. “Do you really think it’s… left over from another story? Like maybe there was a family here, once, before it became this place?”

Riley grinned, but it was all teeth and no laughter. “That’s what I tell myself. That maybe there was a happy ending here, once. Or even a sad one, but at least it mattered.”

They stood in silence, Chloe touching the cradle, Riley standing with her back to the door. It was the only way she could stand it: knowing there was always a way out, always an exit. She stared at the little desk under the window, where a child’s journal or a baby book sat closed, bound in blue fabric and tied with a silk ribbon. Riley had tried, once, to untie it. The knot wouldn’t budge, like it was sealed shut until someone worthy came along.

“I used to think I’d never be able to properly grieve for my son,” Riley said, her voice flat and dry-edged, but steadier than it had any right to be. The confession felt like a breach of contract, even coming from her own lips; a private oath shattered in the dusty hush of a room that none of them should ever have known existed. She watched her hands as if they belonged to someone else, sitting there on her knees, the left thumb flicking the callus on her right palm. They shook, just enough to embarrass her, but she didn’t hide it.

Chloe, always better at holding silence than filling it, let the words settle into the nursery’s thin-walled air. The sunlight had thickened since they entered, painting slow-moving rectangles across the faded rug. Her gaze fixed upward as the glass planets of the mobile swayed in a current Riley couldn’t feel.

Riley kept talking, the words coming from somewhere outside her body. “I thought if I let it in—if I let myself truly feel the loss—it would break me. Not the kind of broken you can patch up. The kind that seeps into the foundation, right? Like, you get up one morning and realize the floor’s an inch lower under your feet, and the house isn’t ever going to be level again. So I used anger as a shield.”

She almost laughed at how easy it was to describe, now that it was done. “But here, it’s… I don’t know. The sadness feels safe. Like it exists in its own box, and if I open the box and look, nothing else falls apart.”

Chloe’s eyes had gone glassy, but she didn’t wipe them. “Maybe because this place is outside of everything else. No one’s judging you for what you feel here. Not even you, maybe.”

“Maybe.” Riley blinked, hard. “But it still hurts.”

“It’s supposed to,” Chloe said. Her voice had settled, the gentle authority she used with skittish students or rowdy family. “You loved him. That’s the cost.”

They were quiet. For a moment the only sound was the soft click of glass planets knocking together overhead, and the distant warble of a mourning dove from somewhere deep in the Inner Gardens. Riley thought she could sense the sadness in the walls, an echo of a contestant’s love and loss, and of absent children.

She got up and wandered to the desk in the corner, fingers tracing the edge of the little blue baby book she could never open. The silk ribbon was still knotted, almost surgically precise, and when Riley picked it up it was as if it weighed nothing at all. Yet she felt the weight everywhere else: behind her eyes, in her jaw, pressed flat beneath her ribs.

“I come here every day, to cry,” she confessed. “I don’t know if this is helping,” she said. “Or if I’m just wallowing.”

Chloe considered that, shifting to sit cross-legged on the faded rug beneath the mobile. “I think if you were really wallowing, you wouldn’t have brought me here,” she said. “You’d keep it for yourself and never tell a soul.”

Riley tried to answer, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Instead she set the baby book down, a little more gently than before.

Chloe pushed herself up and leaned against the wall, arms folded tight across her stomach. “I think it matters, that you found this. That you keep coming back.” She nodded at the cradle. “Places like this don’t just exist. Someone built it for a reason.”

Riley shrugged, uncomfortable. “I don’t want to get all woo-woo about ghosts and fate, but sometimes it feels like there’s a—” She hesitated, then went on. “Like there’s a version of the world where things turn out different. Not happier, just not the same. And maybe this is a… a leftover from that.”

Chloe snorted, half a laugh. “That’s not woo-woo. That’s survivor logic. I don’t know if it gets easier. I think it just becomes normal.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “You live with it so long, it’s like furniture—you stop noticing the sharp corners until you bump into one.”

Riley laughed, the sound sharp and short. “I’m great at bumping into sharp corners.” She paced a slow lap around the nursery, eyes resting on random objects: the battered rocking chair, the watercolor stencils on the wall, the battered toy giraffe flopped face-down on the shelf as if it too had given up. “I keep thinking if I touch enough of this stuff, it’ll add up to something. That if I memorize the shape of the room, I’ll know what to do next.”

Chloe joined her, not quite touching but close enough to share space. “You don’t have to do anything next. That’s the thing.” She reached out and, after a brief hesitation, set a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “You just be here, and let yourself breathe.” The touch was gentle, with no agenda behind it, and it melted something cold and difficult inside Riley’s chest.

They stood like that until the room’s hush was disturbed by a sudden scatter of birdsong from beyond the window. Riley let her eyes drift around the space one more time, drinking in the color and the dust and the strange sense of safety. She wondered if the room would remember her, too, after she left.

“I don’t know why this helps,” she said, not really expecting an answer. “It just does.”

Chloe gave her a little squeeze. “You don’t have to. Some things just are.”

For the first time that morning, Riley felt the urge to sit. She dropped to the floor beside Chloe, crossing her legs, and let her head fall back against the cool plaster wall. She waited for the familiar ache to start, the guilt and the memory, but instead she just felt tired. Not empty—more like a glass finally set down after years of being held upright, the water inside it level and unspilled.

She let the stillness grow. Eventually, Chloe broke it with a question so gentle that it could have been a thought passing between them: “What was he like?”

Riley didn’t flinch. She closed her eyes, letting the question fill her like music. “He was beautiful,” she said, her mouth forming the words with care. “He had this expression—like he could see right through all the bullshit. Like he’d been born knowing things it takes most people a lifetime to figure out.” She smiled, soft but real. “He was only here for a day, but I remember every second. The way his hands curled when he slept. The little snoring sound he made. When they let me hold him in the hospital, I thought I would break. But I didn’t.” She drew a breath, eyelids fluttering. “I never thought I’d get to say any of that out loud.”

Chloe listened, her own breathing steady and slow. When Riley finished, she said, “Thank you for telling me.”

Neither of them moved for a while. Outside the window, the birds sang and fell silent, and the air in the nursery seemed to thicken with a kind of reverence. It was the sound of two people grieving for things lost and never truly gone, and for once, Riley did not want to leave the feeling behind.

She let her memory run: the bright, hospital-white days, the impossible weight of her son’s body in her arms, the way his tiny fingers curled around hers the one time she’d been allowed to touch him, just after birth, before he was whisked into the incubator. She thought about every moment she had held back, every time she’d sealed the memory in a box labeled DO NOT OPEN, and she reached for them now, quietly, as if she could gather them into a patchwork and wear them as armor.

Chloe said, “Do you ever think about having another?”

The question was blunt, not cruel, and it rattled Riley just a little. She thought about it, about what it would mean to open herself to that risk again, to be that porous and unfinished and exposed. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think I should, someday, just so that what happened to John isn't the way I leave the world behind. Sometimes I think it would be wrong, like I’d be replacing him. But mostly I just want him back, and the rest is noise.”

Chloe nodded, her own eyes clouded. “I get that.” She reached for Riley’s hand, the contact light but real. “If you want, I’ll come with you next time. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Riley looked at their hands, the difference in skin and bone and history. She squeezed, grateful.

“I’d like that,” she said.

They sat together, letting the gentle weight of the nursery close around them. For a little while, nothing moved but the dust motes in the sunlight, and the faint, persistent memory of hope.

Arabella saw Dawn, Emily and Emi, and her eyes shone with private amusement. She walked to the bar as if she’d always been a regular here, slid onto a stool, and turned to face Emily.

“I’ll have a Negroni, please,” she said. Her voice—without the heightened resonance of a performance—was gentle, almost earthy.

Emily went into motion automatically, only catching up to her own body a second later. She slid off her chair and sidled behind the bar. She shot a glance at Dawn, who stared with wide eyes, then at Emi, who hunched a little behind her arms, as if worried she’d been caught saying something bad about the principal. Even the ice in Dawn’s glass seemed to clink more tentatively.

Arabella smiled. “Don’t worry, Emily. I didn’t forget how to operate in the real world.”

Emily blushed. She poured the gi, the Campari, the vermouth, shook, poured onto a single ice cube, and slid the glass to Arabella. “Here you go.”

Arabella smiled. “Thank you, this is perfect.”

Dawn found her voice first. “I didn’t know Hosts took coffee breaks.”

Arabella sipped, then closed her eyes, savoring. “We do, occasionally. The work is… more tiring than it looks.”

Emi peeked over her glass, then said, “You look different.” Her tone was not accusatory, just a little awed.

“I get that a lot,” Arabella said. She exhaled, softening further. “It’s been a long morning.”

Emily, emboldened, asked, “Is something wrong? Or are you just… visiting?”

Arabella set her cup down and considered the question. “A little of both, I suppose.” She glanced at the other two. “I thought I would have a drink to relax, and talk with some of you at the same time.” The compliment was casual, but in the context of her usual Host mask, it landed like a benediction.

Dawn leaned forward, ears alert. “You said the work is tiring. Is it about the next challenge?”

Arabella gave a slow nod. “Preparation is almost complete. You’ll have a new challenge in two days.” She tilted her head, then smiled at Dawn. “You’ll be happy to hear that no one is getting thrown off a cliff this time.”

Dawn grinned, but her voice was sly. “Andy wouldn’t let you do it anyway.”

Arabella let out a warm, honest laugh. “Touché.” The glint in her eyes suggested Dawn was right, but only insofar as Arabella allowed.

Emi’s eyes darted between Arabella and the Negroni, then back. “Do you ever get to take days off, or… are you always on call?”

Arabella hesitated. “There are no days off, not really. But there are quiet moments. This is one.” She scanned the room, then set her hands on the bar. “Tell me, do any of you want to know more about the challenge? Or do you prefer surprises?”

Emily didn’t even hesitate. “I want to know, but I know you’re not going to tell us.”

Arabella grinned, mischief flickering in her eyes. “You’re right, of course. But I like to see how people try to get it out of me.”

Dawn considered, then asked, “Is it going to be like the last one? Is someone getting—” she looked embarrassed. “Never mind.”

Arabella’s amusement faded, and something like realness replaced it. “There are no elimination challenges anymore. The next one will be different,” she said. “It has to be. The rules are changing, and so are the stakes.”

That made Emily’s hair prickle at her neck, but she tried to keep the mood light. “So we’ll just have to wait and see?”

Arabella nodded, then took a long, thoughtful sip. She let the taste linger, as if it was her first and last cup of the day.

The women sensed the shift in her tone, and fell into silence. Arabella set her cup down gently, then said, “Laura’s return changed things for all of you.”

It wasn’t a question. But the way she watched their faces—each micro-shift, each tightening of lips or flicker of the eyes—made it clear that she was gathering data, cataloguing their reactions.

She went on, voice barely above a hush: “I know some of you weren’t sure what to make of it. Of her. Or of how Andy is with her.” She watched Dawn, then Emily, then Emi. “I want to know. Not in theory. Personally. How do you feel about Laura, now that she’s back? How do you feel about Andy and Laura together, as opposed to you and Andy?”

Emily had expected a curveball, but not this one. For a second, she found herself checking for cameras, waiting for the punchline. None came.

She spoke first, because it was easier than letting the silence grow. “I was afraid at first,” she said, then glanced at Dawn, who nodded encouragement. “When I realized who she was, I thought Andy would drop everything and go back to the way he was, and the rest of us would… disappear.” She splayed her hands. “But it didn’t happen. He still cares about all of us, even if there’s something extra with Laura that none of us can have.”

Arabella didn’t interrupt, didn’t take notes. She just let Emily talk, filling the space as if they were the only two people in the room.

Emily continued, “It’s not that I’m jealous, exactly. Or, well, maybe I am, but it’s not the kind that hurts. It’s more like… watching someone else find their lost puzzle piece. It makes the whole picture clearer, even if you wish you’d fit better. But you still fit, you’re still wanted, so you can still be happy.” She stopped, then gave a self-deprecating laugh. “That probably doesn’t make sense.”

Arabella said, “It makes perfect sense. Thank you.”

Emily’s face flushed, but she didn’t look away.

Dawn, uncharacteristically quiet, took her time before answering. She traced the rim of her glass, eyes lowered. “I was scared, too. Not for me, but for Andy. I thought if Laura came back, it would break him.” She looked up, determination flashing in her brown eyes. “But it didn’t. She made him stronger.” Dawn bit her lip. “I like her, even though she scares me sometimes. She reminds me of girls I knew in middle school—like if you didn’t keep up, she’d leave you behind. But then she smiles at you and it’s like being let in on a secret.”

Arabella nodded, weighing every word.

Dawn’s tone turned gentle. “She and Andy are meant for each other. The way they look at each other… That’s one in a million, maybe one in a billion. But I know Andy loves me too, and I know he’s there whenever I need him.” She glanced at Emily, then at Arabella. “It’s enough to be part of the story.”

Arabella’s gaze moved to Emi, who had gone silent during the exchange. She seemed almost unwilling to speak, as if there was too much at stake.

Arabella said, softly, “It’s okay if you don’t want to answer.”

Emi shook her head, then looked up. Her voice was quiet, but clear. “When Laura first came back, I was afraid she’d hate me. You know why. But she came back, and it was like she’d never left. We forgave each other before I could even ask. She remembered the promise she gave me in the Garden.”

She took a breath, as if the air in the Tavern was thicker than anywhere else. “I like being around them. It makes the world feel less… broken.”

Arabella listened. She asked, “Are you worried about losing him?”

Emily shook her head, answering before she could catch herself. “No. Not really. It’s weird to explain, but… it feels like Laura isn’t one of us, you know? I mean, I don’t mean she’s not welcome, it’s just… she’s not a Contestant like everyone else, even though you say she is. It’s like Andy and Laura together are the Master, if it makes any sense. Or she’s the assistant Master?”

She tried to explain: “It’s not that Laura’s the boss, but she and Andy together are…” She trailed off, searching the shelves behind the bar as if the right label for their relationship could be found among the bottles. “It’s like the rest of us are important, and we love Andy, and we know he loves us. But he was always missing a piece, and now we can see why. It’s like, they only make sense when they’re together.” She blushed. “I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this well.”

Arabella nodded, the gesture just shy of a bow. She didn’t smile, but the lines around her eyes softened, and she let Emily’s words settle into the slow rhythm of the morning.

Dawn nodded. She said, “Laura’s not mean. I don’t even think she cares about being the center. But when she’s there, Andy’s different. He’s happier.” She glanced at Emily, then back to Arabella. “And I feel better, too. Like we’re all allowed to be happy, and that happiness get bigger when Andy and Laura are near. I don’t know if it’s because of her transformation, or because we all care about Andy and seeing him happy makes us happy too, or if there’s more to that, but… it’s a good feeling.”

Arabella tilted her head, and her attention turned to Emi. She leaned forward, her hands folded. “What about you, Emi? You haven’t said much.”

Emi hesitated, chewing her lip, then looked up. “I used to think love was limited. That if someone else had more, I’d have less. But now I think it’s just… different flavors.” She shrugged, her six hands making a ripple of motion across her dress. “I saw Andy and Laura in the garden, some days ago. I thought they wanted time alone, but instead, they embraced me. It was as if they just… wanted to share. I felt… safe. Like there was a piece of the world that couldn’t break anymore.”

Dawn wiped a knuckle under her eye, and Emily felt her own throat go tight.

Arabella exhaled, soft and deliberate, like she was letting something go. She studied them for a long beat, then said, “Thank you for telling me.” She glanced at her empty glass, then added, “This was perfect.”

Arabella turned her empty glass between her fingers, letting the silence blossom a little longer. Dawn, Emily, and Emi just sat there, basking in the morning’s hush, each of them braced for a gentle exit or maybe another round of not-too-serious drinks. Instead, Arabella shifted in her seat, set the glass down with a click, and said, “There’s something else I wanted to discuss. It’s about the Harem Queen title.”

The shift in energy was instant. Emily blinked, unsure if she’d heard right. Dawn’s ears went up, wary, as if she’d just heard a distant howl. Emi, already shrinking into her own shoulders, retreated half an inch behind her glass, as if the table might swallow her if she tried hard enough.

Arabella seemed to notice, and smiled with apology. “I don’t mean to spoil the mood. But the assignment of that title is imminent. I thought it best to address it openly.” She hesitated, a glimmer of performance shining through the early-morning weariness. Emily tried to picture whether it would mean any of them would wear a literal crown; even in her imagination, the idea felt more theatrical than threatening. She glanced at Dawn, who looked surprised and also—Emily would bet her next paycheck, if she had one—genuinely nervous.

Dawn cleared her throat. “Can I ask what the title actually does? Like, is it just a fancy name, or…?”

Arabella’s gaze lingered on Dawn, then drifted over the rest. “It’s not just a name, no. But I will explain the full effects only when someone earns it.” She tapped the glass again, rolling it with her fingers. “I can say this: it grants an advantage no one else has, something that may be comparable to the golden keycard Laura received in the last transformation round. It also comes with responsibilities.” She left the rest unsaid, letting the implications sink in.

The three women sat with that for a moment. Emily found herself wanting to ask, Are you sure? or Maybe skip it? But she bit her tongue, letting the others process first.

Dawn said, quietly, “So if someone wins, does that mean… someone else has to lose?”

“Not at all,” Arabella said, voice warm. “It’s not about elimination or exclusion. If anything, it’s a way to give one woman a tool she can use to help the group.” Her expression softened. “The choice is up to her.”

Emi’s hands curled together, knuckles going white. “Doesn’t it make things weird, though?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Like… if one of us is Queen, does that mean she can tell the others what to do? Or is it just a title, like Head Girl in a boarding school?” The flush that bloomed on her cheeks suggested she’d had experience with that sort of hierarchy, and it hadn’t been good.

Arabella smiled, the Negroni poised between two fingers. “It can be both. But it only has power if people let it. The Harem Queen—should anyone claim it—won’t gain authority, only a form of… anchoring.” Her eyes drifted from Emi to Dawn to Emily, as if measuring whether the word would land. “A tool, not a crown. It does come with responsibilities, though. Most of those are not obvious at first.”

Dawn let out a long, slow breath, ears drooping. “So, like, a Queen with homework.” She said it lightly, but the faint crease between her brows told another story. “What if someone doesn’t want to win? What if we just let it go?”

Arabella considered, the lamplight softening her features. “It isn’t a choice, to receive the title. But you should know, if you’ve seen the leaderboard: someone is close. More than one of you, actually. Erin, Norah, Liesa, Chloe, Sam and Marissa are all close enough that a few more points would get them over the threshold.” She paused, then added, “Of course sometimes, the contest changes in the last hour. It’s happened before.”

The words hung there, the silence deepening. It was Emily who broke it, more to fill the quiet than anything else. “If I won, I’d probably make everyone take naps and bake them cookies.” She glanced at Dawn. “You’d probably run a kindness cult.”

Dawn blushed, flattered and a little panicked. “I’m not cut out for a title. I just like things being peaceful.” She played with her straw, eyes down. “Honestly? I wish all of us could win, or none. The whole Queen thing makes me nervous.”

Emi nodded hard. “Me too.” She took a long sip, then said, “I don’t want to boss anyone around. It’s better if no one has to be the center.” She considered, then added, “But if someone must be, then I’d rather not be her.”

Arabella beamed at her, her face suddenly a shade lighter, as if the answer let her relax. “You understand it better than most. In all the seasons I’ve seen, most harems splinter at this stage—jealousy, competition, bitterness.” She looked at all three of them, letting her gaze linger on Dawn. “Yours is the only group I’ve hosted where the prevailing feeling is hope. I wish you could know how rare that is.”

Dawn lifted her chin, her ears perking in a shy, proud way. “Maybe we’re just weird.”

Emily grinned, and Emi, finally, laughed for real.

Arabella tapped her empty glass and said, “Let’s see if it lasts. May I ask a question?” She turned, her body language soft, like a teacher inviting a circle of children to story time. “If any of you did win Queen, how do you think the others would react? Not just in public, but behind closed doors?”

The question Arabella had posed to the three of them hung in the air, each word a pin in the plush upholstery of the Tavern’s morning hush.

Dawn considered it first, brow creasing as her brain mapped out the reactions of the women she knew best. Emily waited, all amusement gone now, and Emi huddled into herself, her six hands slowly collecting into two clusters—one clutching her glass, the other bunching the hem of her dress.

It was Emily who spoke, unprompted. “Norah would absolutely take it as a challenge.” She let the sentence land. “Not in a bad way. But she’d want to outwork whoever won, just to prove a point.”

Emi nodded, a tiny, wry smile at the corner of her mouth. “She’d also give a long speech about how she didn’t need the title, but then she’d get weirdly protective of the Queen.” She giggled, nerves spilling out, then glanced at Arabella, as if to check if she’d gone too far.

Arabella only nodded, smile gentle.

Dawn’s turn. She didn’t hesitate. “Marissa would try to be supportive, but it would make her question if she was being left behind. She’d probably work herself into a hole for a couple days, then apologize for being weird.”

Emily added, “She’d probably be the only one who ever brought the Queen tea and checked on her mental health, though.”

Arabella let the commentary run, not correcting or even guiding, only listening with something like professional fascination.

Emi offered, “Erin would pretend to be mad, but she’d get over it in like, half an hour. Then she’d make fun of whoever it was every chance she got. She likes to push people, but she likes having someone stronger to push back.”

Dawn nodded. “I think she’d be proud, if it was someone she respected. But if it was someone she thought didn’t deserve it, she’d try to knock them off the throne.”

Emily caught the look and added, “She’s not wrong. I think Erin needs a rival, or she gets bored.”

“Sam,” Emily said, then shook her head, as if it were the obvious one. “She’d be fine with anyone being Queen, as long as it wasn’t her. She likes being the power behind the throne.” She grinned, thinking of Sam’s perpetual running of the emotional scoreboard. “If it was Liesa, she’d be thrilled. If it was Norah, she’d laugh and call it poetic justice. If it was me, she’d hug me until my spine cracked.”

Dawn giggled at that, then added, “Sam would also make up weird new rules, just to see if the Queen could enforce them. Like a punk band testing a new bouncer.”

Arabella smiled at that, her eyes flicking to each of them as she absorbed the assessment.

“Claire?” Dawn said, her voice quieter. “She’d overthink it for a week, then make a list of how to be the best possible Queen. She’d drive herself crazy trying to do it right.” She hesitated, then said, “But if she decided it was a good thing, she’d be loyal. She’d never let the rest of us down.”

Emi offered, “She’d also probably invent a whole new system of government. With notebooks.” She mimed a cat tail flicking behind her, and the three of them burst out laughing, even if it was mostly nerves.

Emily wiped a tear from her eye, grinning. “Liesa’s the wild card. I don’t know if she’d want it or not. She’d either be amazing at it, or she’d quit the second it stopped being fun.”

Dawn nodded, then added, “She’d never hurt anyone, though. Even if she had power, she’d use it to help people who were scared, or didn’t fit in.”

“Chloe,” Emily started, then trailed off. She thought hard, then said, “She’d panic, at first. But if it meant protecting someone else, she’d get it together. I think she’d end up being the best Queen, honestly.” She looked at Dawn, who smiled wide.

“She’s already the mom of the group,” Dawn said. “Just without the title.” She looked at Arabella, then at the ceiling, and said, “She’d probably use it to make sure no one ever got eliminated, if she could.”

“I think you’re the co-group mom, Dawn!” Emi said, laughing. “Now, Riley would burn the whole system down. She’d last ten minutes before hiding the crown and daring everyone to find it.” Emi thought about that, then nodded, satisfied. “Yeah. She’s the chaos option.”

They all laughed, then turned a little more serious as Arabella sipped her Negroni and waited.

“Myra,” Dawn said, then stopped. She glanced at Emi, who only shrugged.

Emily tried, “She’d say she didn’t care, but I think she’d be relieved if someone she trusted had the title. She’d never say so, though.”

Dawn nodded. “She needs someone steady. If she trusted the Queen, she’d relax.”

There was a pause. Arabella didn’t fill it, just waited, her eyes kind and soft.

Emi was the one to break it, and her voice dropped a little, as if the subject deserved it. “Laura… I think she’d hate it, if it wasn’t her. Not because she’s selfish, but because she’s always been the center, and losing that would make her feel—” Emi stopped, searching for the word. “Like she was a backup singer instead of the lead. But I think, in the end, she’d make peace with it. Maybe even better than the rest of us.”

Dawn nodded, slow and thoughtful. “She’s a lot less fragile than she looks. If Andy loves her, that’s all she needs.”

Emily shrugged. “She’s the heart of the story. She’s why we’re all here, isn’t she? If she had never died, she’d be married to Andy and he would have never met most of you.” She glanced at Arabella. “Is that why you asked?”

Arabella’s face had gone a little still, her usual performance mask showing just a hint of wear at the edges. She said, “Thank you,” and there was a weight to it, a hush that made the rest of the conversation feel like it had all been leading to this.

Dawn watched her for a second, then asked, “Are you okay?”

Arabella smiled, a flash of the old bravado returning. “I’m always okay,” she said, and if it was a lie, it was one she told with genuine affection.

They let the silence rest. The sunlight through the Tavern’s windows caught motes of dust and slow-drifting pollen, turning the air gold.

Emily, ever the fixer, picked up her glass and said, “If it helps, I think most of us would be happy for whoever won. Even the ones who’d make a fuss.”

Emi grinned. “We’d probably just throw a party and call it a day.”

There was a feeling of finality in the moment, a sense that something had closed, or maybe just come into focus. Arabella finished her drink, set the glass on the polished wood, and stood.

“It’s almost time for me to get back to work,” she said, but her tone was not regretful. “You three are a delight. Thank you for the company, and the conversation.”

Dawn beamed. “Thank you for being here.”

Emily echoed the sentiment. “You can come by anytime. Even without the Host mask.”

Arabella laughed. “I may take you up on that.”

She walked toward the door, moving with the easy grace of someone who had once been a champion at something, even if only for herself. Just before she left, she paused by Emi’s side of the booth, leaned down a fraction, and said, with a conspiratorial smile, “By the way, your grandmother has always had a knack for throwing wrenches into careful plans. It runs in the family.”

Emi blinked, nonplussed, and started to ask a question, but Arabella only gave her a wink and a squeeze on the shoulder. “You'll see what I mean, tomorrow. Tell her I said hello,” Arabella added, then slipped out, the door swinging quietly behind her.

For a moment, the three women just sat there, processing. Emily looked at the empty glass, then at Emi. “Did she just call your grandma a saboteur?”

Dawn giggled, and Emi just shook her head, still blushing, but smiling in spite of herself.

“I don’t know what she meant,” Emi said, “but I kind of love it.”

They sat in silence for a while longer, each tracing their own thread of thought, until Emily poured a round of pink cocktails and proposed a toast: “To mischief, and found family.”

Dawn clinked her glass against theirs. “To whatever comes next.”

Emi raised hers last, the nerves gone now, replaced by something lighter and brighter. “To the Harem Queen, even if we’re not the ones in the crown.”

They drank, the moment crisp and sweet, and somewhere beyond the Tavern’s hedges, the world spun forward—still weird, still hopeful, and, for now at least, exactly as it should be.

Arabella stood at the edge of the world, or the closest the island had to one: a tongue of sugar-white sand jutting into the impossible blue of the lagoon, morning sun beating its way through the haze like a drum. She was alone, and for once, that wasn’t a performance—it was the kind of emptiness that let the mind wander, let old habits surface without anyone to see.

She wore the clothes she had worn earlier: battered white sneakers, faded jeans with a single worn knee, and a navy-blue sweater that swallowed her wrists and floated loose at the hem. The air smelled of salt and ozone, and the roar of the sea out-shouted any hint of civilization, even the songbirds that usually staged their own musical above the palmettos. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, no makeup, no jewelry. She could have passed for a tourist, if you squinted. The ring was back, and her thumb was stroking it gently, remembering.

Arabella’s eyes weren’t on the horizon, but a little past it—a tiny dark speck, irregular, maybe a boat, maybe just an island of its own. She watched it as if it might come closer if she stared hard enough. There was a time when she would have described the sensation as concern; today, it was more like duty.

She sighed, and the exhale caught on something in her chest, then turned into a smile, small and private. There was something freeing in being unknown, even for a second, even if you’d engineered the entire scenario for yourself.

She turned inland, and as she did, the change was instant: jeans became liquid gold, the sweater became a sheath of crystal and silk, and her hair swept into a classic 1940s wave. Heels clicked on the hard sand, and makeup set itself with a gesture—eyes dramatic, lips a perfect coral. She was Host again, as if the realness had only ever been a rehearsal. The smile, now, was bright enough to shatter glass.

“Hello again, darlings,” Arabella said, and though there was no one there, the air shifted, aware of being watched. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but I know you never left.” She winked. “Not with a season like this.”

She strolled the tide line, the camera (and if there wasn’t one, the world itself) tracking her, zooming in on every detail. She spread her arms wide, as if to embrace the impossible blue, and the breeze caught her dress, flaring it just so.

“So much has happened,” she said, voice dipped in honey and edged with something sharper. “We’re well past the halfway mark, which means everything is about to change. The show ends when every remaining Contestant hits 100 victory points, or after the eighth Challenge. But you can count, can’t you?” She looked sidelong, as if the audience might answer. “We’ve already finished four, and several Contestants are close to the 100-VP mark. Maybe less than three Challenges left to go, if the group continues at this pace.”

She cocked a hip, the movement calculated to be both effortless and iconic. “Let’s recap, since you love that sort of thing. This round alone: the Garden of Glass shattered even my expectations, and I’m hard to surprise. The resurrection of Laura Ashford—what a moment! It was everything I’d hoped for, and yes, maybe more than I deserved, but that debt is now paid.” She let her eyes narrow, as if confessing to a crime. “The way the harem responded—some with jealousy, some with adoration, most with a stubborn refusal to let go—has been exciting. Even I can’t predict what they’ll do next.”

She wandered up the beach, picking up a shell, turning it over in her hand. “The Sanctuaries. They’re not just places—they’re anchors, refuges. Each one tells a story, each one is a promise. I have to say, I wish I could tell you which ones I like best, but it would not be professional of me. If you haven’t visited, do. Voting will open at the same time as the popularity poll.”

The shell flashed, then vanished, replaced by a glass of something bright and fizzing. Arabella took a sip, and went on. “The oddities: Erin’s presence making the gardens bloom? It’s not an accident. Nor is the egg reconstituted in Laura’s hand, or Claire’s tireless days in the Sky Archive, or the moving painting in Liesa’s Atelier, or the string lights on Andy’s balcony. Dawn’s abuela visitation—yes, that happened, too. The rules are only as strict as the hearts of the Contestants, and these girls are breaking them daily.”

She knelt in the sand, letting the water lap her toes, careless of the hem of her gown. “And then there’s Warrenville. The things you haven’t seen yet—well, let’s just say, some stories are worth the wait.” Her eyes glittered, promising secrets. “I know you’re all rooting for someone, or maybe you’re like me and just want everyone to win. But it’s not that kind of show. Or is it?”

She straightened, brushed imaginary sand from her skirt, and faced the invisible audience head-on. “Fanmail is open. Write your hearts out! The notes will be delivered directly to the cast, when the pop poll and Sanctuary poll are announced. Don’t hold back—this is likely nearly your last chance. If you want to change the story, say so. I, or the cast, might even listen.”

She let the smile go crooked, just for a heartbeat, then smoothed it back. “You’ve been with us since the start. And whether you know it or not, you’re as much a part of this as the girls are. Maybe more. If you haven’t written yet, there’s still time. But not much. The story is going to end, and you’re going to want to say you were there for it.”

Arabella gave a tiny, perfect curtsy, as if she could hear applause from over the water. “Thank you for watching. For caring. For hoping. Even for the complaints, which, frankly, are a way to make us better.”

She laughed, light as champagne bubbles, and the wind picked up, dragging the last of her voice down the sand.

She walked up the beach, glass in hand, and never looked back. By the time she hit the dunes, she was gone, the prints in the sand already erasing themselves, as if the world could hardly bear to let her linger.

Author's Note: Fanmail is once again open! Please get your letters to me by March 15, 2026. You can send them via DM here on CHYOA, or if you're on Discord, you can do so there too (either in the dedicated channel, or via DM).

As Arabella mentions, this will be one of the last Fanmail calls for the story (there may be one or two more, but I can't promise). So if you're a long-time reader who would like to write the cast, do so! Remember you can write to everyone in the cast, including Arabella, Katherine, Anna, Herman, and even Mildred! You can even write Samson Drei, although I doubt he'll respond with more than an enthusiastic lick to the letter.

As always, thank you for reading!