Aftershocks

The Sky Archive was never silent, not really. Even when no one spoke, there was the whisper of papers rearranging themselves, the perpetual flutter of a dozen book-ghosts seeking the proper shelf, the soft click of the glass doors settling into place after you forgot you’d left them open. For Sam, who’d spent most of her academic life in the din of college libraries, the place felt weirdly homey—a cathedral for the insomniac and the intellectually desperate.

She arrived a few minutes before two, Thrustworthy balanced across her back like a mascot or a dare, contorting herself so that the oversized weapon would clear the entrance. The moment she let the doors swing shut, she could hear voices—one actual, one barely more than a breath. Norah and Claire had claimed the central study table, six feet of blank wood littered with index cards, highlighters, and at least three open books. The fragments were arranged like tarot cards along the center, each weighed down by a different paperweight: a chunk of colored glass, a velvet-wrapped brick, and a weird little figurine that looked like a catgirl curled up into sleep. Claire’s taste, obviously.

Sam dumped the sword on the floor, let it thud, and dropped herself into the nearest chair. “Okay, team. What did I miss?” Her tone was all bravado, but she scanned the faces with the alertness of someone waiting for the punchline.

Norah didn’t look up from her notes. “Nothing you couldn’t have slept through. We’ve gone through the fragments eight times and found exactly zero new connections. If you want, you can take the next lap.”

Claire set her pen down and pushed her glasses up her nose, an old reflex. She spun her notebook so Sam could read the top line: Norah is grumpy, but correct. We are officially in diminishing returns.

Sam grinned. “So you’re saying I showed up at the part where we need to start breaking shit.”

Norah snorted, and this time she did look up. “Only if you count our brains. You’re not going to swordfight Nergal in here, unless you want to get transformed into a potato.”

“Would it be permanent?” Sam asked, eyes wide.

Claire’s pen was already moving. Mildred said it would be “quite permanent.” And then, in a new line: Unless you want to test it? (Sam, please do not test it.)

Sam made a show of stretching her arms over her head, nearly taking out an index card. “Nope. I need these for hugging and carrying. So what’s next?”

Norah closed her laptop, not gently. “We’ve been looking at the same question for two hours. If we take out Nergal, does it actually do anything? Or does the Law just reroute and Ereshkigal collects anyway?”

Sam went still, as if this was the real reason she’d showed up. “Can I say something weird?” She waited just long enough to see if anyone would object. “I get that the plan is violence. I’m fine with violence, even if it’s on cosmic debt collectors. But what if it’s not about who’s next? What if the whole point is that nobody ever gets away, unless you kill the guy holding the ledger?”

Norah looked at her, thoughtful. “That’s been the first thought. Kill the agent, the debt has nowhere to go. But Claire’s notes are all over the place—some say the Law never stops, it just waits for a new agent. Some say it ends with the agent. We don’t know if there’s a difference.”

Sam nodded, then turned to Claire. “What do you think?”

Claire didn’t answer right away. She pulled the notebook toward her, flipped back several pages with the focused efficiency of someone who’d already done the work, and turned it around.

The sword belonged to Palamède. Arab woman. Warrior. She was the one who hunted down and killed the Questing Beast—which was, by every account, immortal. Later sources rewrote her as Sir Palamedes. Male, ‘the Saracen Knight’, one of Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. A short pause, then the next line: Nergal is already dead. You can’t kill him the ordinary way. But Thrustworthy has already done the impossible once.

Norah had gone very still. “They just erased her,” she said, not quite to the room. “Took everything she did and put a man’s name on it.” There was something personal in the flatness of her voice.

Sam was looking at the sword on the floor. “So it’s a dead woman’s weapon, made for killing things that won’t die.” She reached down and picked it up. “And we’ve been calling it Thrustworthy this whole time.”

Claire had already flipped to a new page. She wrote without looking up, the pen moving fast, like she’d been sitting on it: It wasn’t just Palamède. The source I found—the one that had her name—said the same thing happened to the others. All of them.

She turned the notebook around.

The Knights of the Round Table. The book argues they weren’t knights. They were his harem. Wives, partners, lovers—women who fought for him, bled for him, some of whom died for him. And then the Church got the stories, and the poets got the stories, and they couldn’t have that, so they made them men instead. Loyal and celibate and male. Nothing inconvenient left.

A beat. Then, underneath, she added, if Thrustworthy came from a season of Harem Hotel, it makes sense. It’s the only way the sword ends up here.

Norah stared at the notebook for a long moment. “So Camelot was—”

“Yeah,” Sam said.

“And Arthur—”

“Had a harem,” Sam said, her voice low. She turned the sword over in her hands, the metal catching the library’s dim light. “And they took an entire harem of fierce, powerful women and turned them into a boys’ club.” She looked up, her jaw tight. “Well, I’m going to make Palamède proud with this thing.”

Norah’s eyes gleamed. “Now I want a sword too.”

“This harem,” Sam said, hefting the blade, “is going to show the world what a group of fierce women can do when they set their minds to it.” She burst into sudden laughter. “Can you imagine Andy as some kind of King Arthur? The old Andy would’ve tripped over his own feet trying to pull a sword from a stone.”

Norah didn’t smile. “The old Andy, maybe.” Claire watched them both, her pen still.

Sam looked down at the sword again, thoughtful. “But the new Andy… if he gets through this… yeah. Maybe he could.” Sam’s laughter died as she looked from Norah’s serious face to Claire’s notebook, where she’d drawn a crude crown over Andy’s name. The grip of the sword felt different in her hand—heavier, more certain.

Claire wrote: I still don’t know if destroying Nergal ends the debt. But Thrustworthy is the only thing I’ve found that could actually destroy him.

Sam considered that. “So if we kill him, all we get is a timeout?”

Norah took a deep breath, which did interesting things to her shirt. “Unless we find a way to leverage the pause. Or to get the Law to recognize a technicality.” She looked over at the next fragment in the lineup—the one with the beach, the showdown, Mildred, Arabella, and the weirdly pale figure standing at a distance. She tapped it with a single finger. “This one’s been bugging me. If Ereshkigal is coming herself, why send Nergal at all? Why use an agent if you can just show up and do it yourself?”

Sam grinned. “Maybe she doesn’t want to get her hands dirty. Maybe she’s allergic to funerals.”

Claire’s eyes tracked back and forth, reading, and then she wrote: In almost every story, it’s the death god themselves who shows up to take the soul. The agent is a rare thing. Sometimes it’s a way of keeping distance. Sometimes it’s a way of hiding weakness.

Sam read that, then banged her fist lightly on the table. “That’s it. There’s a reason she can’t do it herself. Or won’t.”

Norah didn’t react right away. Then she said, “What if it’s not a weakness? What if there’s a rule? I mean, the show has rules. Arabella is all about the rules. Maybe Ereshkigal is stuck with them, too.”

Claire went still for half a second—the kind of still that meant something had just clicked—and then her hand shot to the notebook and she was already flipping, not forward but back, way back, past the Nergal pages and the Palamède notes, all the way to a section marked off with a folded corner. Sam stopped bouncing her leg without seeming to notice she’d done it.

The page Claire landed on was from a week or two ago, the handwriting more careful, like she’d been transcribing something important. At the top, in a box she’d drawn around it: Andy told me this. Arabella told him. Then, underlined hard enough to ridge the paper: THE CARDINAL RULE OF THE HOTEL.

Underneath: No one who has passed through the Hotel, or been born of it—Contestant, Master, Consort—may be the direct/indirect cause of death or grievous harm to another who has passed through it, or been born of it.

And below that, in different ink, added later: Greg. He didn’t drown Laura with his own hands. But Arabella proved he was the cause. That was enough. She took everything. Punished him. Freed all of them.

Claire stared at it for a moment, like she was seeing it differently now. Then she picked up the pen and wrote in the margin, fast, the letters crowding each other: Ereshkigal is bound by this too. She was a Contestant. She passed through.

She underlined it once, then turned the notebook around and pushed it across the table.

Norah read it. Then read it again. Her eyes moved to the fragment—the beach, the pale figure standing at a distance—and stayed there. “So if we kill Nergal,” she said, working it out as she spoke, “we’re not just buying time. We’re forcing Ereshkigal to step in herself. To break the only rule she can’t afford to break.” She looked up, then her expression shifted, a new thought dawning. “But wait—doesn’t that same rule apply to us? If Sam kills him—”

Claire was already writing, her pen moving in quick, sharp strokes: Nergal is already dead. He died as a Master thousands of years ago. You can’t kill what’s already dead.

Sam leaned forward, her hand resting on the sword’s hilt. “So what happens if I run him through?”

Claire underlined her previous statement, then added: Probably just banishes him. Sends him back to her. But if he breaks the cardinal rule first—harms one of us directly—then he forfeits protection either way. The rule is not just about death, but sufficient harm as well.

Sam’s grin was sudden and fierce. “So we piss him off. Make him throw the first punch.”

Norah stared at Claire’s notebook, then slowly nodded. “He breaks the rule, he becomes fair game.” Her voice was low, almost reverent. “And then we destroy him.”

Sam ran a thumb along the flat of the blade. “I like those odds.”

Claire wrote, Nergal was a Master. He will be destroyed for collecting the debt. Ereshkigal would rather lose him than herself.

Sam ran her hand over the sword, slow. “So what’s the play? We kill him, hope she has no more agents. What’s she going to do then?”

Norah grinned, teeth bared. “Then she has to either find a loophole, or lose the game. And if she’s anything like Arabella, she’ll do anything not to lose.” She paused. “Unless we all ascended. In which case we don't know if she could just pick someone from Laura's and Myra's family in the real world and call it a day. They aren't protected.”

Claire wrote, That’s our new research. Two questions: What happens if she tries to take a Contestant? What’s the consequence for her? (Also, what if she finds a new agent?)

Sam let out a long breath. “I love it when a plan comes together.” Then, more softly: “If we can make it through this with nobody dying, I’ll eat a whole pan of Emily’s brownies. And I hate brownies.”

Norah looked at her, incredulous. “Who hates brownies?”

“I do, but that’s not the point.” She looked at the sword again. “I’m going to need to get good with this. I’d say we need a practice dummy, but that’s probably offensive to Mildreds everywhere.”

Claire scribbled, You could use one of the flamingoes. Mildred won’t care. Also check the Commissary, or talk with Arabella. There may be transformations that might help. I’d also suggest asking Andy to use Coauthor to give you the right skills.

Sam brightened. “Perfect. I’ll start tomorrow.”

Norah glanced over at Claire, then at Sam, and for the first time since they sat down, she actually smiled. “You’re not going to let him get you, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Sam said, and for a second, it was easy to believe her.

They let the quiet settle, the weight of the new idea anchoring them in place.

Above, the sky through the Archive’s glass walls had gone that strange, stormy blue—the color that came just before the evening’s rain. For now, at least, they had a plan. Maybe not a perfect one, but better than any they’d had all day.

Sam hefted the sword, and this time, the grip felt right. “Alright,” she said. “If you two find anything, ping me. Otherwise, I’ll be in the gym. Or the garden.”

Norah picked up her laptop, gathering up the index cards. “Don’t get yourself killed. And if you do, haunt us somewhere nice.”

Sam winked. “I’ll send a postcard.”

Claire just held up her notebook, the word AGENT circled and underlined, and pointed at the beach fragment. For the first time, it felt like the next step wasn’t just waiting to happen to them—they were the ones moving the story forward.

---

The garden bench was too warm for comfort, but Liesa didn’t move. She’d found a spot in the shade under a loquat tree, far enough from the footpaths to feel invisible, and sat there with her skirt bunched around her knees, picking at the hem whenever her thoughts went in circles.

She’d tried to nap after lunch, but her mind kept rerunning the fragments as Andy had described them: the four women kneeling in the dust, the way Laura’s bodies trembled, the man tearing her apart. It was harder now, knowing the real Laura, having sat across from her at dinner, having laughed at her weird jokes and seen the look in her eyes when she talked about wanting a normal life for a day. The vision wouldn’t let go. Liesa closed her eyes, let the sun filter through her lashes, and imagined it was a different world, one where the worst thing she had to worry about was a smudge of dirt on her hands.

A gentle shift of air said someone had joined her. She didn’t need to look to know it was Marissa; the faint hint of woodsy perfume, the evenness of her footfalls, the subtle dip of the bench as she sat. Marissa didn’t say hello, just took the spot beside her, careful not to crowd.

“You came to check on me?” Liesa asked, softer than she meant.

Marissa didn’t turn, just looked ahead to the beds of azaleas and the winding path beyond. “A little of both. I needed the break.” Her voice, as always, was a little too calm for how she probably felt.

Liesa waited for the pitch of teasing, but none came. “Did you find anything?” she asked.

“Not yet. Claire is still reading. Sam’s already planning the violence.” Marissa paused, then said, “What about you?”

Liesa laughed, but the sound didn’t carry. “I’m supposed to be plotting out what to wear for the wedding, but all I can see is that fragment. The one where both of Laura’s bodies are kneeling in front of that man.” She ran a finger up her own forearm, following a vein like a thread in a sewing pattern. “It’s not even that it’s scary. It’s that now I know her. The real her. It’s different when it’s someone you’ve sat next to, you know?”

Marissa folded her hands in her lap, looking down at them. “I had a moment like that today. Usually I can read a room, figure out what everyone needs. I’m supposed to be the expert, right?” She laughed, short. “But today I just… sat there. Watching, no idea what to do.”

Liesa glanced over, surprised. “Is that unusual for you?”

“I used to be terrified by it. Not knowing. But lately, I’m less scared of not having an answer. I just hate that I don’t have a plan for how to help her. Or Andy. Or any of them, really.”

Liesa rested her hand over her own stomach, a gesture that had become more habitual than conscious. She let it linger, then admitted, “Some days, I worry about the world I’m bringing a kid into.” The words came out small, and she was immediately embarrassed by them. “Not just the debt, or the god stuff, but… everything.”

Liesa felt the flush of embarrassment, instantly regretting having said anything about her future child to someone who’d had to fight for every connection in her life. She dropped her hand and picked at the hem of her skirt, then tried to steer the subject somewhere else. “But it’s not just that, isn’t it?” she said, voice lower. “It’s that this world also has Sam in it. I mean… sometimes I forget how strong she is, what she’s already done for all of us.” Liesa glanced sidelong at Marissa, the unspoken story between them obvious. “She’s never once backed down from something scary, not even the times she should have.”

Marissa turned her head, giving Liesa a real, unguarded smile. “She’s the reason half of us made it through the early rounds. She just pretended it was nothing. I know she’s scared, but she’s the bravest person here.”

Liesa nodded, and her eyes went a little glassy, but she let it pass without comment. “And Andy too,” she added, voice steadier now. “He’s the only reason we’re all still here. He didn’t have to save us from elimination twice. He stood up to Arabella. He broke through to Riley. He put himself on the line, again, and again. And he even…” She stopped herself, then said, “He even brought Laura back.”

The two of them sat with that, neither looking directly at each other for a long moment.

Marissa spoke next, quieter than before. “Do you believe that?” she asked. “That he can do it again, whatever it is this time?”

Liesa nodded, but the gesture was slow, uncertain. “I do. But it’s not my life on the line. And it’s hard not to be scared.”

Marissa considered her next words with care. “He surprised me, too,” she said. “He did something for me once, something I never thought anyone could do.” Marissa’s lips pressed together, and she looked straight ahead as if checking the garden for interlopers before confessing. “He brought my parents back during my date night. Just so I could say goodbye the way I never got to. He didn’t even mean to do it. He just wanted to make me happy.”

Liesa let out a slow exhale, the kind people made when a story touched them in the place behind their ribs. “Did it help?”

“It did,” Marissa said, and her voice was light, but the sadness underneath was real. “I still dream about them. But now, I have a better ending to those dreams.”

They let a minute go by, the garden buzzing with the insect song and the drip of water from a nearby hose that the Mildreds must have left running again. Liesa bit her lip, then asked, “Does that scare you? That Andy might have that kind of power someday, if he crosses the Gate?”

Marissa answered honestly. “A little. But mostly it makes me think he’s nowhere near done surprising people. And neither is Sam.” She reached over, placed a hand over Liesa’s, and left it there.

Liesa’s fingers trembled just enough for Marissa to notice, but she didn’t move away. Instead she twisted her hand so their palms pressed together, warm and solid.

They sat together, hands joined, watching the breeze tease the tips of the loquat leaves. The bench was too warm, and the sun was sinking, but neither wanted to let go first.

Marissa gave Liesa’s hand a light squeeze. “I know it’s hard to believe in good outcomes. Especially after…” she trailed off, but Liesa shook her head.

“I want to believe it,” Liesa said, “but it’s like the part of me that does keeps getting drowned out by all the ways it could go wrong.”

Marissa gave a short, dry laugh. “That’s the truth for a lot of us. But you know what? Sometimes the good thing happens anyway. Whether or not you believe in it.” She let her fingers twine with Liesa’s, easy and casual. “That’s how Sam and Andy do it. They just keep showing up.”

For a long moment, the only movement was the rise and fall of their joined hands on the bench, the subtle shift of their breaths as they found a comfortable sync.

Eventually, Liesa said, “Thank you. For coming out here.” It sounded small, but it wasn’t.

Marissa smiled, the rare, unguarded kind. “I didn’t really have anywhere else I wanted to be.”

The sun shifted. The garden air cooled, and a breeze brought the faintest scent of night-blooming jasmine. Liesa closed her eyes and let herself be held there, in the moment, without having to think about the next two days.

---

The library was empty, but for the faint dust ghosts and the trailing notes of old books reshelving themselves, not quite ready to rest. Emi moved through the stacks without a sound, her four lower hands trailing over the shelves like she could find the story she needed by touch alone. She found Laura exactly where she’d expected: both bodies curled together in the library’s farthest window nook, wrapped up under a single blanket, as if sheer force of will could keep the world at bay.

Emi didn’t wait to be invited. She slid into the armchair opposite, tucking her legs up under herself and letting her hands settle, all six, in her lap.

Laura watched her. “Are you okay?” She said, in stereo.

Emi considered lying, but she wasn’t here for that. “I’m not here about me,” she said. She looked at Laura—both faces, both pairs of blue eyes—and said, “How is what you did at lunch any different from the vision Andy saw, the one with him standing alone on that bridge for decades waiting for you?”

Laura’s mouths tightened. “Myra said no first,” she said, her voices in sync but thinner than usual. “The decision was already made. It wouldn’t have mattered if I said yes or no. He’d already lost.”

Emi shook her head. “That’s not true. He stood there and heard you say no too. It hurt him the same, whether Myra got there first or not.”

Both bodies went still at that. The right one stared at the window, the left at the floor.

Emi let the words hang, then continued. “I know what saying yes might cost. I know the debt could come for your mother, or Marie, or some cousin in Harvey who’s never even heard our names. I’m not pretending that isn’t real.” She folded her upper arms tight, two hands at each elbow. “But Andy’s already flipped a vote everyone thought was locked, just to keep us from elimination, tying every result during the First Challenge so none of us would go. He tied every outcome in the Garden of Glass so nobody had to leave, both times when the ending looked finished before it started. I don’t believe this time is any different.”

Softly, Laura said, “That’s a lot of faith for a thing that’s never worked out before.”

Emi shrugged, slow. “If you don’t have faith in Andy, have faith in math. He’s never once let the story end the way the Producers wanted.”

The right Laura looked up. “What if this time, it’s different? What if this is the time he fails, and my Mom dies, or Aunt Marie does?”

Emi met the gaze, left and right, then let her own eyes fall. “I don’t know,” she said, not whispering. “But I know if you say no, it hurts him twice. And it hurts you. You think it doesn’t matter, but it does.”

Laura flinched, just barely, a ripple under the blanket. “It would have ended up the same either way,” she said. “You know it would have. That’s always been the rule here. When it’s your turn, it’s your turn.”

Emi shook her head. “It’s not the same. Even if it’s inevitable, you still get to decide who you are when it happens. You can’t let them write you out of the ending before it’s even here.”

She expected Laura to snap at that, or at least to argue, but both bodies went quiet, shoulders cinched up, hands clenched and hidden under the blanket.

Emi let the silence hang, then said, “I’ll find Myra tonight. I’ll ask her to talk with you again. If nothing changes, then you don’t have to answer. But I think she’s still listening, even if she pretends she’s not.”

For a long minute, neither Laura moved. Then the right one uncrossed her arms and pressed a hand flat against her stomach, a gesture so small it looked almost accidental. The left one bit down on the inside of her cheek.

“There’s something you don’t know,” both Lauras said, and Emi could hear how close it was to breaking. “Nobody does, except Andy and Myra and… Arabella, I guess.” She pulled the blanket up to her chin, then let it fall back. “I’m pregnant. Girl. She said it would be a girl.”

Emi’s breath caught, and her whole body went still, all six arms freezing mid-motion.

Laura’s voices overlapped, each fighting to be the first out. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Emi. I thought dying was the hard thing, and this—” She trailed off, breath thin. “It’s not easier, it just makes it mean more people get hurt if it goes bad. I don’t want to be the reason Andy ends up alone on that bridge. I don’t want Mom to have to pay for me. I don’t want to take Marie away from Myra. And if it skips all of them, I don’t even know who’s left in Harvey. My aunt, my cousin, my grandparents. One of them would pay because I was dumb enough to get myself killed, and needed to be brought back. I just—” She pressed both sets of palms to her faces, hiding them.

For a while, the only sounds were the settling dust of the library and the low, steady thrum of Emi’s own heartbeat. She could have said it would work out, or that Andy always found a way, or that some debts didn’t get called in. She didn’t. This time, she let Laura’s words stand, because they deserved to.

Laura let her hands fall, blue eyes red at the corners. “I feel like I’m already fading. The bond with Andy, it’s quieter than it used to be these last two or three weeks. Maybe that’s the price for saying no. Maybe it’s just because I’m scared. I don’t know.”

Emi blinked, then nodded, once. “I believe you,” she said, and meant it. “I’ll talk to Myra. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but maybe, if you’re both willing, we could sit together tomorrow. Even if it doesn’t change anything. Sometimes it’s easier when it’s not just you in your own head.”

Laura looked up, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel anymore.”

Emi smiled, small and sad. “You don’t have to know. You just have to feel it.”

She reached across the table, four hands for four, and held on tight, letting the silence wrap around them. She didn’t fill it with anything else.

---

The Banquet Hall always felt colder after hours, like a ballroom that remembered the music but forgot the dancers. The buffet was stripped down to a few urns and a scattered tray of sweet breads, nobody else in sight except a single Mildred running a mop through the far corner, eyes studiously on her work. Marissa sat at the long counter facing the garden, sleeves rolled, hair twisted up and still damp from her afternoon run. She nursed a cup of black coffee, her gaze locked on the empty centerpiece vase in front of her. She didn’t look up when Chloe came in, but the soft footfalls and faint vanilla of her perfume gave her away.

Chloe hovered, indecisive, then settled three stools down, arms wrapped around herself in the oversized sweater she’d stolen from Dawn’s room. Her hair was pulled back in a hasty ponytail, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“Hey,” Chloe said. “Do you have a minute?”

Marissa nodded, topping off her own mug and reaching for a fresh cup. She didn’t ask, just poured, set it within Chloe’s reach, and said, “You okay?”

Chloe wrapped both hands around the cup, eyes on the counter. “Not about me,” she said, echoing Emi’s line from the last scene, except softer. “I need to talk about Riley, if that’s okay.”

Marissa’s face didn’t change, but she closed her notebook with a soft, final click. “Of course. What’s going on?”

Chloe took a breath, steadying. “It’s not about what she said at lunch, I mean, not about whether she was right or wrong to say no.” She swirled the coffee, watching the surface ripple. “I know why she did it. It’s just… you know that her husband died while she was pregnant. And that she lost the baby a few months after. She didn’t say it was her fault, but…” Chloe shrugged, the motion brittle. “Riley doesn’t need a reason to want to pay a debt with her own life. If there’s a way for her to take the hit for someone else, she’ll do it without asking first.”

Marissa went still, taking that in. She looked out the window, then back at Chloe. “Have you talked to her about this? About not letting it be her call alone?”

Chloe shook her head, once. “She’d just make a joke, or change the subject, or say it’s not a big deal. She’s already decided, Marissa. She just won’t say it out loud.”

Marissa was quiet for a long second, then said, “Maybe someone should be with her, whenever she’s not with Andy. Or maybe the harem needs a rule that nobody gets to make that kind of decision alone, I don’t know.” She tapped her finger on the mug, rapid-fire. “Or maybe you just tell Andy tonight, before it goes any further.”

Chloe let her talk, waited until she was out of ideas, then said, “You’re doing it again.”

Marissa blinked. “What?”

“Turning it into a checklist,” Chloe said. “A protocol for what happens next, instead of just letting it be as bad as it is.”

Marissa looked away, the color rising in her cheeks. “Liesa caught me doing that earlier. Turned a feeling I couldn’t fix into a plan I could. I didn’t think I’d do it twice before dinner.”

Chloe’s hand hovered on the cup, the knuckles white. “I don’t need a plan. I just needed to say it out loud. To someone who’d get it.”

Marissa gave a tiny, self-deprecating laugh. “Is telling Andy still off the table?”

Chloe hesitated, then shook her head. “No. Not off the table. Just… not what this was for.”

Marissa didn’t push. She watched the Mildred finish her circuit, mopping in slow, hypnotic lines. “I don’t actually have an answer,” she said, voice low. “We can’t watch her every hour, and neither can you. If she’s set on it, no rule is going to stop her.”

“I know,” Chloe said, voice barely a whisper.

The quiet was thick and complete. Marissa reached over, picked up Chloe’s hand from the countertop, and held it between both of hers, like she was checking a patient’s pulse, like she was reminding herself Chloe was alive and present. She didn’t say anything else.

The Mildred moved on, and the only sound left was the low click of ceramic as Chloe squeezed back, not letting go.

---

The Master’s Suite felt like a vacuum after the long lunch, all sound sucked into the fine dust of the carpet, the hollow click of glassware in the empty kitchenette. Laura settled into the broad armchair by the window, one body with knees pulled up to her chest, the other splayed sideways along the matching ottoman, and balanced Sarah’s baby book in the crook between them.

She’d started at the beginning, but the old, blue cloth binding stuck on some of the pages in the middle, and her fingers traced Sarah’s handwriting, trying to distract herself from how Andy’s time with Riley might be going, and from the hurt in Andy’s eyes at the lunch. The silence in the room was so complete that Laura could almost hear the scratch of her mother’s pen from decades before, a ghost of movement, or maybe just her own nerves fizzing at the tips of her fingers.

She didn’t hear the elevator’s arrival until it was too late. The doors slid open without a ping, and Sam was halfway through the foyer before either Laura even looked up. The shock hit hard enough that both bodies jerked at once: a single simultaneous flinch, the left foot on the ottoman kicking the baby book off her lap and onto the rug, where it landed open, close enough to Sam's boots that she caught a flash of looping handwriting before Laura lunged for it.

Sam, of course, didn’t miss a beat. She paused only long enough to retrieve Thrustworthy from her Inventory and place it against the wall, the tip resting on the ground so that it leaned at a rakish angle, then she held up a hotel keycard between two fingers like she’d just won it off a croupier. “Harem Queen,” she said, and if there was any smile in her voice, it didn’t reach her face. “Turns out, we get the fancy access too. Surprise.” She walked over, quick and direct, eyes scanning the room and both of Laura for any signs of weakness.

Laura’s mouths fumbled over each other—one started, the other finished—before both managed, “How did you even—?”

Sam pointed at the keycard, unimpressed. “Please. You think Arabella only gives Andy the all-access pass?” She tossed it onto the coffee table and folded her arms across her chest. “Never thought I’d use it, but then I figured you’d just ghost me and wait until after the wedding.” The words had an edge, not the usual Sam mischief but something closer to disappointment.

Laura scrambled for the book, fumbled it closed, and set it on the table as if it might explode. She had no plan for this conversation, but it was obvious Sam did. “What do you want?” she said, and her voice was brittle, close to breaking.

“I want to know what that was at lunch,” Sam said. “What you were doing. Because if you were trying to get yourself killed, you could at least warn the rest of us so we can get the group rate on therapy.”

Laura bristled, both bodies at once. “You were at the table. You heard the reasons.” Her voice was softer, pleading. “It’s not about me.”

Sam shook her head, slow. “Let’s not do the selfless martyr act. Not with me.” She leaned against the window ledge, crossing her ankles, and for once, she didn’t try to shrink the moment with a joke. “Yesterday, in the Rec Room, you told me you were scared. That you might be pregnant. That you didn’t know what to do. And I told you—explicitly—not to sit with it alone. To talk to someone. To let us help before you let the fear decide for you.”

Laura started to speak, but Sam overrode her, the voice firm, almost parental. “I watched Andy’s face the second you said no at that table. If you think that was you being brave, or selfless, you’re wrong. That was you giving in. Exactly the way you promised you wouldn’t. Only this time, you did it in front of fourteen people instead of in a quiet room with me.”

Laura tried to steady herself, but the argument was already unraveling. “What’s the alternative? You want me to let it move to my mother? To Aunt Marie? To some kid in Harvey who doesn’t even know—” She stopped, both faces flaring at once. “You want me to risk them instead?”

Sam watched, arms still folded. “I want you to stop making decisions like you’re the only one who can carry a bad thing.” The words hit harder than any slap. “God, I can see why Andy kept saying you're two sides of the same coin: you and Andy are literally the same person sometimes. That’s what you both do every time. You find the option that only costs you, and you grab it before anyone else can get there. You don’t even check to see if there’s another way.”

Laura pressed her hands flat against her thighs, trying to keep them from shaking. She looked down at the baby book, then away. “There is no other option, Sam! If I ascend, I’m safe,” she said, voices in perfect sync. “So is Andy. But someone else gets the hit.” She tried to make her face a mask, but Sam saw right through it.

“That’s a choice,” Sam said. “But it’s not the one you said you’d make. And it’s not what you promised yesterday.”

Laura had nothing for that. She stared at the pattern in the carpet, the rug’s tangled shapes, and tried to figure out if she wanted to be angry, or just disappear.

Sam watched her for a few more breaths, then uncrossed her arms and came closer, dropping into the chair opposite. “I’m going to have this talk with Myra next, but you’re the one who made me a promise, so you get first dibs.”

Laura said nothing, so Sam reached out and picked up the baby book. She flipped it open to the page it had landed on. It was from the last days before Laura’s birth—a letter written in a wavering, careful script, the words full of dread and hope, the margins filled with crossed-out sentences. Sam read for a few seconds, lips moving, then closed the book gently and set it back down, quiet for a beat longer than the moment called for. “If you’re so sure this is the only way, tell me why.”

Laura stared at her hands. She could feel the left ones trembling and willed the right ones to stay still. “If I say yes, the Law hunts for someone else. My mother’s had her life taken apart for decades. She doesn’t even have her own mind anymore. I can’t give her this, too. And Aunt Marie has just found Myra again. I can’t separate them.” The logic made sense in her head, but it came out soft, almost desperate.

Sam shook her head. “That’s not a reason to go it alone. That’s just a reason to hurt yourself so nobody else has to feel bad. You didn’t even ask if anyone else had another plan, or wanted to help, or maybe had a way you hadn’t thought of.” Sam’s voice was sharper now, but underneath it was something almost like hurt. “You just decided it was a done deal. You always do that. You did it when you died the first time. You did it when you thought you were poison. And you’re doing it now.”

Laura wanted to argue, but there was nothing left to say.

Sam didn’t press further. Instead, she said, “Is it true? Are you really pregnant?”

Laura stared at the carpet, aware that Sam’s question was waiting and would not be allowed to slip past, no matter how much she wanted to lie, or joke, or run. Both bodies shifted at the same time. The left answered first, almost in a whisper, “Yeah. I’m pregnant.” The right one tried to smile, failed, and echoed, “It’s not a secret. I told Andy. I asked Arabella, just to be sure.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change, not even a flicker of softening. “How far along?” she asked.

Laura shrugged, the twin gesture weirdly helpless. “Three weeks or so, I think. Arabella wouldn’t tell me anything else, only that it’s a girl, and that she’ll be okay.” She paused, looking down. “When she said I was, I asked her if it meant I was safe from… from Ereshkigal. But she said Ereshkigal can still take me, just… I don’t know, put the baby somewhere else.”

Sam tilted her head, as if reading Laura’s whole body for the lie she always expected. When none came, Sam’s shoulders dropped, just a little. “And you believe her?”

“Do I have a choice?” Laura said. “She’s the Host. She knows everything. And even if she lied, what am I supposed to do? Pretend I can change it by wanting it more?” She heard the bitterness in her own voice, but couldn’t stop.

“Sometimes wanting it more is the whole job,” Sam said. “Not always, but sometimes.”

The line struck Laura in a way nothing else had, but she tried to keep her composure, staring at Sam. “What are you even doing here, Sam? To what? Talk me into changing my answer?” She hated how small she sounded, how much it sounded like a plea.

Sam’s voice went flat. “No. I came here because you’re my friend, and because my best friend loves you, and because you made me a promise, and because—” She stopped, then went on, “—because it’s not just your life on the table, and you’re pretending it is.” She let the words land. “Do you really think Myra and Riley won’t throw themselves in front of this thing for you, when the time comes?”

“Of course they would,” Laura said, the words barely out before both mouths wanted to take them back. “But I’m not asking them to. I’m not asking anyone to. I don’t want them to.”

Sam sat back, the force of her presence filling the room anyway. “That’s the problem. You don’t ask. You never ask. You just decide, and then hope nobody loves you enough to ruin the plan. But they will, Laura. You know them both.” Sam rapped her knuckles on the baby book, then softened, for the first time. “Can I show you something?”

Laura nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Sam flipped the book open again, turning carefully until she found a page near the back—a letter Sarah had written the night before Laura was born. It was jagged, the pen pressing so hard the words left shadows on the next sheet. The letter Sam had seen when she had picked up the baby book. Sam set it down between them, and read aloud.

My Laura,

Tomorrow, I will finally meet you. I have waited so long, but now I am terrified I won’t be enough. The world is too much, too sharp. I am afraid it will get you before I can show you what love feels like. But I made a promise—I made it to your father, and to the Host, and to myself—that I will do everything I can to keep you safe. Even if it means I break in the process.

I know you’re not really here yet, but I feel you moving. It’s like the whole world is waiting for you, and I am afraid every second. I hope you never learn what that feels like. I hope you get to have a life that is yours, not just a reaction to someone else’s pain. If I could wish anything for you, it would be that you know love, and that it makes you strong, not weak.

Sam slid the book closer, then looked at Laura. “You’re not the only one who ever tried to break herself to keep someone else alive.”

The words didn’t just hurt; they echoed, vibrating down the line of Laura’s whole body. “It’s not the same,” Laura said. “She tried. I’m the one who left.”

“She didn’t want you to be safe,” Sam said, her voice steady but not harsh. “She wanted you to know what love feels like. That’s what’s in all of these letters. She didn’t even care about the wish, or the game, or the rest of it, not when it came down to you.”

“I do know,” Laura whispered, but it didn’t feel true. “I do.”

“Then believe Andy when he says he’ll find a way,” Sam said. “Believe the rest of us. But don’t you dare call it love if you’re not even willing to let us try.”

Laura looked at her hands, at the way the left ones had gone white-knuckled, nails leaving little moons in the flesh of her thighs. The other hands twitched, wanting to break something, or maybe to reach for Sam, or maybe to punch herself for being so goddamn scared.

After a long minute, she spoke, voice raw and quieter than before. “I don’t want the baby to grow up without a mother. But I also can’t be the reason someone else loses theirs.”

Sam nodded, but didn’t retreat. “Nobody said it was supposed to make sense, or that you had to get it right at this moment.”

Both of her looked up, and for a moment, the faces were in sync—not just in shape, but in the exhaustion and the impossible want underneath.

Sam stood, walked to the window, and looked out. “Andy’s not going to let you disappear. And neither am I. If you can’t find a way to want it for yourself, then do it for her.” She nodded at the baby book. “That’s what she’d have done.”

Laura watched the back of Sam’s head, the set of her shoulders, the way the fading sunlight tried to make her look smaller than she was, and failed. “You’re really mad at me, aren’t you?”

Sam didn’t turn. “I’m not mad,” she said. “I’m scared. And I’m tired of watching you hurt yourself for other people’s mistakes. You get to want things too, Laura. Even if it’s just to survive.”

The words sat there for a long time. Laura didn’t answer. She listened to the faint whir of the ceiling fan, the slow click of the elevator as it reset, and the thrum of her own pulse pounding in her ears.

Sam turned back, picked up Thrustworthy, and slung it over her shoulder. She paused by the door, as if waiting for a last word.

“Will you think about it?” she asked.

Laura swallowed, then managed, “Yeah. I’ll think about it.” It was all she could promise.

Sam nodded. “Good. Because I’m meeting with Myra next, and if she says yes before you do, I’m putting you in a chokehold until you get your head out of your ass.”

Laura tried to smile, and almost managed.

Sam left, the elevator door closing behind her so soft it was almost a mercy.

Laura sat, both bodies unmoving, for what felt like an hour. She ran her hands over the cover of the baby book, over the words her mother had written decades ago. She wondered if the future was already set, or if there really was some path out of this that didn’t require someone else to pay the cost.