The Day After

Andy woke to the slow, certain press of Liesa’s weight against his shoulder, the dawn light not yet sharp enough to as real. For a long time, he didn’t move. The air in the Suite was still and cool, the silence so clean it felt curated. Her breathing was the only sound—measured and soft, a gentle up-down that synced with the rise and fall of her chest against his ribs. The way she’d folded herself into him overnight was at once total and light, as if she’d been held together by tension for a lifetime and only now, finally, allowed herself to rest.

He could smell her skin, sweat and faint perfume and something indefinably hers, the traces of yesterday lingering even now. It was a detail he might have missed once, but this morning it landed with perfect clarity. He let himself the night: the river, the walk back, the way she’d transformed from effortless charm into something raw and needful in his arms. The pleasure, yes, but also the conversation that followed—the honesty of it, the rare absence of armor.

He opened his eyes, slow, and looked down at her. Liesa’s face was buried in the crook of his arm, hair a wild fox’s nest splayed over both their shoulders. She was frowning in her sleep, not in distress but in that way of people who dreamed hard and woke tired from the effort of it. Her hand was splayed on his chest, fingers twitching every now and then as if she were drawing patterns he could not see.

Andy stayed like that until the light in the room strengthened, pink at first then resolving into the clean white of a day determined to be new. He could feel his own body waking in sections—legs first, then back, then the blood returning to his hand where she had slept on it all night. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he lay still, counting the beats of her breath until at last she shifted, groaned, and blinked awake.

She looked at him, expression blank for the half-second between sleep and morning, then smiled, slow and lopsided. “You’re here,” she said, voice barely more than a ghost of sound.

Andy nodded. “Wasn’t planning to leave.”

She propped herself up, elbow braced on his chest, eyes searching his face as if looking for evidence of something she’d misplaced. “Did you sleep?” she asked.

He considered. “Some. Mostly I just liked being here.”

She huffed a soft laugh, then let her head drop back onto his shoulder. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The day outside crept closer, the shadows shrinking and the lines of the furniture going from suggestion to certainty.

Liesa was the first to break the quiet. “Yesterday feels different now,” she said, each word spaced carefully. “I thought it would be… I don’t know. Louder. Or maybe that it would all feel unreal.” She rolled onto her back, stared at the ceiling, arms folded over her stomach. “But it just feels like a thing that happened. Mine, not anyone else’s.”

Andy watched her, saw the way her jaw worked as she chewed over the words. “You look different,” he said.

She looked at him, wary but amused. “Is that a compliment?”

He smiled. “It is. You look like you stopped bracing for life to punch you in the face, and it didn’t, and now you don’t know what to do with the extra energy.”

She snorted, genuinely delighted. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

They let the moment stretch out, both of them content to let the new shape of the world fit itself around them.

When they finally got out of bed, the floor was cold underfoot but not biting, the Suite still thick with the aftersmell of sex and sweat and sleep. Liesa padded to the bathroom, hair wild, and Andy heard the shower start a second later. He got dressed with a slow deliberateness, savoring the weight of his own clothes, the feel of fabric on skin after hours of nothing.

In the kitchen, he found both of Laura’s bodies already at the table, each holding a mug of coffee. She wore different pajamas—one in faded blue with tiny, leaping cats, the other in an old, stretched-out university T-shirt—but her face was identical on both: awake, alert, already two steps into the morning.

“Morning,” Andy said.

Both of Laura answered, “Morning,” in perfect sync. The effect was less uncanny than it used to be; if anything, it felt comforting, as if the Suite itself had decided to keep him company in stereo.

Liesa appeared a moment later, hair damp but face composed. She wore a borrowed hoodie and a pair of Andy’s sweatpants, which hung on her hips with the lazy assurance of someone who’d claimed them as her own. She poured herself coffee, sat, and for a while the three of them just shared the table in a hush made heavier by the faint sounds of the world outside: the breeze in the palms, the distant break of surf on the rocks.

Laura was the first to break the stillness. She looked at them over the rim of her mug, then said, “Even with the Bond of Marriage set to minimum, I had a perfectly clear sense of what you were up to last night.” Her tone was dry, but not unkind. “My only complaint is that I was too tired to you, because it sounded considerably more enjoyable than sleeping.”

Andy almost choked on his coffee, but Liesa just laughed—a bright, honest sound that cleared the air. “I think we would have broken the bed if you had,” she said.

Both of Laura smiled, but neither replied. The point was made.

Andy busied himself with breakfast, more to have something to do than because anyone needed feeding. He cracked eggs, sliced fruit, set up toast. He overdid it, piling the table with more food than three people could reasonably eat, but nobody called him on it.

They ate in the shifting light, the day outside slowly unspooling from shadow to gold. At first, nobody spoke. Then, as the plates emptied and the coffee cooled, the conversation returned to the city, to the things Liesa had shown Andy and the things she hadn’t. She described the bakery, the river at night, the old mural that used to overlook her childhood park. Laura listened, and asked questions that made Liesa slow down and savor her own stories.

It was easy, easier than Andy had expected, and he let himself relax into the rhythm of it.

When the food was gone and the plates cleared, Liesa stood up, stretched, and looked at Andy. “I should go,” she said. “Sam is probably awake by now, and if I don’t show up soon, she’ll come looking.”

Andy nodded, then reached out and took her hand. He squeezed once, gentle. “Thank you,” he said. He meant for the night, for the morning, for everything.

Liesa smiled, small but real. She bent down and kissed him, slow and deep, and then did the same to Laura, one kiss on each of her foreheads. “Thank you,” she said, and left.

The Suite felt a little emptier, but not lonely. If anything, it felt full of the kind of peace that comes only after a day survived, a test ed, a fear faced and found toothless.

Andy looked at Laura. He said, “You’re really okay with this?”

Both of Laura looked up at once. “I’m getting there,” she said, simple and clean. “You should be too.”

He considered, then nodded, and meant it.

---

The two of Laura made the couch look small. One of her sat at Andy’s left, knees drawn up and feet bare on the cushion, while the other tucked close on his right, head pillowed on his thigh and hand loosely wrapped around his wrist. Sometimes her two bodies mirrored each other perfectly; sometimes they diverged in micro-gestures, as if running alternate timelines in real time. Andy wondered, not for the first time, whether this was deliberate, or if it simply reflected the way Laura’s mind needed to work now that she’d been given a second chance at being alive.

He sat with both of her, hands folded, back pressed into the couch, feeling the warmth and gravity of both bodies at once.

They went through the story slowly, careful not to miss any details. Laura did most of the talking. She started with Sarah, her mother, and how the reality of her condition—catatonic, not dead; abandoned but not unfeeling—had changed shape once Arabella had told her the story from the Hollow Garden. She explained how the entire edifice of blame she’d built for her mother had collapsed, leaving something raw and exposed underneath.

“She loved me,” Laura said, both voices softened by disbelief. “She actually loved me, all along. I thought—” She stopped. Both of her leaned in toward Andy, her hands cold on his wrist and hot on his shoulder. “It’s so much easier to be angry than to imagine someone was only trying to save you.”

He squeezed her hand. “I know,” he said, not for the first time, and not expecting it to land this time, either.

She continued, the story of Marie and Sandra’s yearning for their daughters threading out in spirals. She talked about the night in the Hollow Garden, about the way the women were like echoes of herself, each one carrying their own flavor of loss, each one shaping it into a hope that their daughters might be okay, might survive where they did not. The heartbreak in the telling was so sharp Andy could almost taste it—like biting into a fruit that looked sweet but was all acid.

When she got to the part about Riley and Myra being her half-sisters, she faltered. Both bodies at once, she hesitated—eyes unfocused, lips slightly parted. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she itted, the stereo effect making it sound more like a confession than a fact. “I mean, it’s not like we can ever go back. And it makes everything so much messier.”

Andy nodded. “Sometimes messy is better than nothing,” he said.

Laura gave him a look—narrowing its eyes, scrunching her nose. “Don’t analyze me,” she said, teasingly. “I get enough of that from inside my own head.”

He grinned. “I can’t help it.”

She smiled, but it was brittle. “Myra always needed to be needed. Riley was always angry, even when she wasn’t. I used to think it was just competition, or maybe we were just three strong personalities. But now… it feels more like we were all fighting for a place that didn’t really exist.” She let that thought hang, both bodies chewing on it.

She didn’t bring up her father, not at first. It was Andy who raised it, gently: “And Greg?”

Both versions of Laura tensed. The one on his left curled into herself, legs wrapped tight, while the right body went still, face set and cold. “He was never my father,” she said, both voices dead flat. “He was just the man who made my life hell.”

Andy wanted to say something—anything—but he knew better. Instead, he just waited, letting her have the silence.

They sat together, not speaking for a long while. The morning light shifted, painting patterns on the coffee table and on Laura’s feet. Andy could feel her trying to process everything, the way her two bodies fidgeted in opposite directions, sometimes one reaching for him while the other retreated, sometimes both leaning in like they were looking for a single answer.

Finally, Laura spoke, one voice only: “I want to see her today.”

Andy blinked. “Sarah?”

Both heads nodded. “Yes. I want to… I don’t know. I just need to see her. Even if she doesn’t recognize me, even if she’s gone.”

He nodded. “You should.”

One of her hands found his and squeezed. The other hand, the left-body’s, fidgeted with a seam in the couch. “I know it’s dumb,” she said, “but I feel like if I don’t go now, I’ll never have another chance. What if the game ends and I can’t ever come back? What if she’s already—” She cut off.

Andy wanted to comfort her, but there was nothing to offer except the truth. “You’ll get through it,” he said. “You always do.”

She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she went quiet again, both bodies thinking in tandem, both sets of blue eyes locked on the floor.

After a while, Andy said, “What about Myra?”

Laura didn’t answer right away. Both bodies stiffened, then the right one spoke, voice low: “Today.” She met his gaze, both bodies turning to face him at once. “I’m not ready, and she’s not ready, and it’s not something you just say because you know it. I have to know how to say it before I say it. But I can’t sit on it while she doesn’t know. It’s not fair.”

Andy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Do you need help?” he asked, tentative.

She shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll try for the afternoon. If I think I can do it, I would prefer to do it alone.”

He nodded, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen a little. “We’ll do it together,” he said.

Laura squeezed his hand, both sets of fingers locking around his. “Yes,” she said. “Together.”

She let herself sag against him, both bodies at once, cheek pressed to his shoulder and thigh pressed to his. For a while, neither of them moved.

Eventually, Laura’s left voice said, “I want to talk to Sandra today, too. Not to **** anything—” she made a face “—but to let her know someone is asking, and that we’ll keep asking. So that when the time comes, when we’re ready to tell Riley the truth, the door is already open.”

Andy considered this. “Be careful with it,” he said. “She’s been holding that pain for a long time. If you open it too fast, she might break.”

Laura gave him the look she reserved for advice she considered unnecessary: a little tilt of the head, a flick of both wrists, a smile so thin it was almost a blade. “I know how not to break someone,” she said.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he stood, gently pulling both of Laura to her feet. They stood together, arms twined, and for the first time Andy noticed how perfectly their bodies lined up with his: as if they’d practiced the pose until it was muscle memory, or maybe it always had been.

“Come with me to the elevator?” Laura asked.

He nodded. They walked out together, two of her on either side, and rode the elevator down in silence. At the Main Lobby, Andy stepped out, but Laura—both bodies—remained, hands in her pockets, expression composed.

“Good luck,” Andy said, voice soft.

Both of Laura smiled, identical and real. “You too,” she said.

The elevator doors closed between them, and Andy stood in the lobby for a long moment, watching the numbers count down, wondering if the day would ever come when the world would be simple again.

---

He found Claire where he always found her when the world demanded honesty: in the narrow triangle of sunlight on the bed, notebook open, the morning’s ambitions already ground down to graphite and patience. She was cross-legged, and she looked up at him with the steady, unblinking focus of someone who knew when a conversation was going to cost something.

She put the notebook aside, marker tucked between her fingers, and waited for him to say what he needed to say.

Andy stood in the doorway longer than he should have. He tried out a few openings in his head, rejected them all, then settled on the only thing that wouldn’t ring false: “Walk with me?”

She nodded, a quick, decisive movement. Then, with a speed and efficiency that always startled him, she was off the bed, feet on the mat, notebook tucked under one arm. She wore leggings and a blue hoodie, sleeves too long so only the tips of her fingers showed. She didn’t bother with shoes, her feet silent on the thick carpet.

They left the building by the north door, and for a long minute, neither spoke. The path to the Main Beach was a knuckle of pale crushed coral, warm from the rising sun. Andy let Claire take the lead, her stride quick and certain, not bothering to look back to see if he was following. By the time the boardwalk gave way to sand, the day had gone gold at the edges, and the beach was empty as promised. The only sounds were the sigh of the surf, the muted roar of wind past the distant headlands, and the slow, methodical crunch of their own footsteps.

Claire stopped just above the tide line and sat. She opened her notebook, but didn’t write anything. She set it on her knees and looked out at the horizon, waiting.

Andy sat beside her. For a minute, he just watched the horizon with her, then, quietly, he told her everything.

He started with the masquerade, the dancer, the way the crowd had blurred away. He told her that the woman—he couldn’t call her anything else, even if she wasn’t human in any ordinary way—had danced with him not like a seduction, but like a ritual. She had told him the price for returning a life was a life, and that the Edict had been invoked and a cosmic law would be enforced. He said that the woman had been clear: she would come to collect, but not to punish, and that when the time came, he should understand that the world he’d built, and the lives inside it, were worth preserving.

He explained that afterward, Arabella had confirmed it—her voice steady, her eyes old and tired in a way he’d never seen before. She had said the timing was not in her hands, and that all Andy could do was use the time they had left.

He spoke without looking at Claire, fixing his gaze instead on the line where sea met sky. He didn’t let himself think about the end point, or what the price might mean for any of them. He just talked, careful and spare, letting the words fill the space between them.

Claire listened the whole time without interruption. When he finished, she picked up her notebook and scribbled one word in the center of a blank page: Laura?

Andy looked down, then shook his head. “No,” he said, “not yet. I needed to tell someone first. Someone who would understand why I can’t just… say it.”

Claire absorbed this, then flipped the page and wrote: What should I watch for?

Andy blinked. “You mean—danger?”

She shook her head, slow, then pointed at the word and underlined it. Then, under that, wrote: How can I help, besides worrying?

He smiled, a little. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “That’s the problem. But when I do, I’ll tell you first.”

She considered that, then filled half the next page with quick, angled print: Good. If I can help, I want to help. If I can’t, I want to be there anyway.

Andy reached for her hand, not even thinking about it. She let him take it, her grip solid, her palm dry and warm despite the wind. For a moment, they just sat, neither moving, the air smelling of salt and sunlight and the faint sweetness of distant plumeria.

After a while, Claire wrote again: Thank you for telling me. It’s better to know.

He laughed—soft, a little sad. “I wish it wasn’t,” he said, and meant it.

She tore the page from her notebook, folded it in half, and pressed it into his palm. He could see she was smiling, even if her mouth barely moved.

They sat until the sun was high, watching the light dance on the water, and when Andy finally stood, he put his arm around Claire’s shoulders. She leaned into him just enough that he knew she wanted it, and together they walked back up the sand, the morning sharper and easier than it had been.

---

The pool was never empty at this hour. Even when the night had run long for everyone, the morning always found at least one person out there—claiming the best lounger, basking in the quiet, pretending that the rest of the world was not about to wake up and them. Erin, as always, was first. She lay flat, arms at her sides, her face tilted to the sun as if daring it to do its worst. Naked except for her sneakers—standard, at this point, as if refusing shoes would be a bridge too far—she looked like a study in contradictions: part statue, part experiment, all exposed nerve.

Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing, which was slow and even, as if she’d spent the whole night practicing how to inhale. The only indication that she knew anyone was watching was the way her right foot bounced, heel to toe, just a little too fast for rest.

Andy and Claire stopped at the edge of the pool, letting the breeze off the water do the introductions. Claire dropped to a squat and pulled her notebook onto her knee, eyes unblinking on the woman in the chair. Andy stood, hands in the pockets of his shorts, not yet sure how to start.

It was Erin who did. She didn’t move, but spoke in a tone pitched low, a little dry: “If you’re here to ask how long I plan on broiling, the answer is until I stop feeling like an undercooked egg.”

Andy took a seat in the lounger next to her, knees up, elbows on his thighs. “You look more like a succulent, honestly. Not an egg.”

Erin snorted. “Succulents don’t get sunburns, Andy.”

He grinned, but the joke landed in the background. He waited a beat, then said, “I talked with Dinah yesterday. In the Hollow Garden.”

Erin’s head rolled to the side, just enough to catch his eye. “Yeah?”

Claire, careful, lowered herself to Erin’s other side and started writing. She did not interrupt.

Andy said, “She was direct. She said she’s worried you, Claire, and Chloe haven’t had a proper checkup since you found out you are pregnant.” He gestured, a little vague, at the body sprawled before him. “She wants to know if you’d be okay with her, you know. Doing a real exam. She didn’t want to push it if it would make you uncomfortable.”

Erin didn’t reply right away. Andy watched the subtle color shift along her collarbones, the way the sunlight caught and softened the fine green grain of her skin. Her expression flickered through a series of emotions—mild suspicion, then a kind of gallows amusement, then a look of real calculation. The pause drew out, long enough for Claire to scribble something in her notebook and tap Andy on the forearm with the binding.

He glanced down at the page: She will say yes but will make 2 jokes first.

Andy had to suppress a smile. “You don’t have to,” he said, keeping his voice easy. “She just wanted me to ask.”

Erin shifted, propping herself up on one elbow, which had the effect of making her breasts even more prominent. This was probably an accident, but the way she caught Andy’s gaze and held it for just a second said otherwise. “Dinah’s fine,” she said, “but is this the part where she makes me wear a paper gown and stick my feet in the stirrups?”

Claire immediately started writing again, but Erin raised a hand. “I’m serious, Andy. I haven’t even had a normal checkup since all this,” she gestured vaguely to her body, “let alone a plant checkup. Am I supposed to water myself, or will Dinah handle that too?”

Andy, caught a little off guard, said, “I think she’ll handle whatever needs handling.”

That got a snort. Erin flopped back, arms stretched over her head, exposing every bit of herself to the sun and to Andy. “If it means we don’t end up with any surprises, I’m game. I just don’t want to be a case study for the rest of The HH.”

Claire, for her part, had finished writing and now shoved the notebook toward Erin: You are not a case study. You are the first and the best. Also: I want to know if my pregnancy is still normal. I have not felt any symptoms.

Erin looked at the note, then at Claire. “If anyone’s a case study, it’s you, Catgirl.”

Claire stuck out her tongue, but she also blushed. Andy leaned back, letting the two of them volley, then said, “Dinah did mention it might be helpful if Chloe came too.”

That landed differently than he expected. Erin lifted her head off the lounger for the first time, squinting at him. “Chloe,” she repeated, flat. Claire’s pen stopped. They both looked at him with the same expression—not quite confusion, more like a door swinging open—and then, almost in the same instant, something shifted behind both their eyes.

Claire’s pen started back up, fast: Oh.

“Oh,” Erin said aloud, a beat later.

Andy realized, a little too late, that he’d handed them something he probably wasn’t supposed to hand them. He opened his mouth, closed it.

Erin lay back down, but her foot had stopped bouncing. “You probably shouldn’t have said that,” she said, softly.

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know.”

Erin considered the sky for a moment. “I’ll tell her myself, if you want. Might land softer.”

Andy shook his head. “I’ll do it. But if you want to be there when I ask, maybe it’ll be less weird.”

Erin grinned, sharp. “Everything’s less weird if you’re naked when you do it. At least that’s what The HH seems to think.”

Andy managed, “For what it’s worth, I think you look good.” He meant it. He’d never seen anyone so comfortable being so exposed, even if he knew it wasn’t by choice.

Erin’s smile didn’t soften, but she didn’t reject the compliment either. She reached out and poked Andy in the thigh with her big toe. “Just to bring a towel. No offense, but if you’re in the room, I’ll probably need to wring myself out afterward.”

Claire wrote, We all do.

For a few minutes, none of them said anything. The sun was higher now, and the pool shimmered with the reflected light. Erin’s breathing slowed again, and her whole body seemed to sink deeper into the lounger, the earlier edge of embarrassment now gone. She looked almost peaceful, if that word meant anything in the current context.

Andy closed his eyes for a second, letting the warmth settle into his bones. It felt good to just exist here, no agenda, no scheduled drama. He heard Claire’s pen scratching again, and when he looked she had written: Are you scared? (For real, not just the jokes.)

Erin read it, then tapped the page with her finger. “Little bit. Mostly about fucking it up.” She hesitated, then added, “If anything happens to these kids, I don’t think I could forgive myself.”

Andy put a hand on her forearm, gentle. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. He knew it wasn’t a promise he could actually keep, but he said it anyway.

Erin looked at him, then at Claire, then up at the blue. “Yeah,” she said. “But if it does, I’ll take it on me. Nobody else.”

Claire wrote, You shouldn’t think like this.

Erin looked at her, smiled. “I know.”

They sat like that, the three of them, letting the morning pool air work its slow magic. Andy let his gaze drift from Erin’s face to the sky, then to Claire’s scribbling hands. There was a kind of rhythm in the silence—a shared awareness that whatever happened next, they were all together in this.

Eventually, Andy said, “I’ll schedule it as soon as I can.”

Erin nodded, then stretched again, arms wide. “That’s fine. My calendar is wide open.”

Claire wrote, Except for planting season.

Erin barked a laugh. “You’re the weirdest friend I’ve ever had, you know that?”

Claire made a “who, me?” face, then closed her notebook, satisfaction written all over her.

---

The Sunroom had a way of gathering light and holding it in place, as if time pooled there in little golden puddles. Chloe stepped in, her hair still damp from a swim, and stopped at the threshold, letting the warmth soak in. The room was empty but for Katherine, who stood by the far windows, hands clasped loose at her sides, chin lifted to the glow.

She looked different in daylight. Her skin, which sometimes in the painting read as marble-pale and cool, had a rosy tint now, and her long hair—black as fresh paint—hung glossy and unbraided. She faced the glass, but her eyes weren’t on the garden; they were on the glass itself, tracing the imperfections and little waves that caught the light.

Chloe hesitated before saying hello. She never knew if it would be welcome, but she’d been learning that most things were, as long as you left them room to land. “Hi, Katherine,” she said, soft as she could manage. The Sunroom made every word sound round and gentle.

Katherine turned, smiling. She raised her hand, palm out, a slow and easy wave. Chloe returned it, then moved to the windowsill beside her, keeping enough space to show she wasn’t trying to crowd.

They looked out, not at each other but at the Inner Gardens, where the breeze was flattening the tops of the grass and flicking the fountain’s spray into little rainbows. For a while, neither spoke. Chloe watched the moving colors; Katherine’s eyes, caught in reflection, seemed to be chasing something in the distance. She raised a hand and danced her fingers on the glass, then on the lintel. Chloe wondered what she was chasing. Maybe it was memory. Maybe just sunlight.

A minute ed, maybe five, before Norah appeared in the doorframe. She wore a loose jacket, hands in the pockets, and a skirt that brushed the back of her knees. Her hair was up, every strand in place, as if she had just come from a meeting. She paused, sizing up the room, then gave a curt nod to Chloe, a smaller one to Katherine, and crossed to the couch that ran under the west-facing windows.

Norah sat. She didn’t speak, didn’t even sigh, just let her shoulders drop, the smallest possible sign that she was glad to be out of sight.

The three of them shared the room in silence, the light and the glass and the hush of the garden crowding out any need for talk. Chloe was content; she’d always liked this kind of quiet. Katherine seemed to breathe easier the longer the silence stretched.

After a while, Chloe noticed Katherine’s hand on the window frame. She was touching the wood, fingers sliding along the old grain, pausing here and there to press on a knot or imperfection. It was different from the way a person touched something they’d only seen. It was like she’d put it together herself, and was checking to see if it was holding up.

Chloe watched, curiosity blooming. “Did you ever come here before?” she asked, quiet so as not to disturb the feel of the place.

Katherine turned her head, considered, then nodded. She tapped the frame, then spread her hand in a gesture that said, maybe: More than once.

Norah, not looking up, said, “You seem familiar with it. You know this room?” There was no challenge in her voice, only the precision of someone who didn’t like mysteries going unsolved.

Katherine looked at both of them, then walked to the corner where the glass met the wall. She pressed her fingertips to a spot just above eye level. The popped open—silent, smooth, a hidden latch that had never creaked. Inside was a narrow cavity, lined with dust, and within it, a stack of canvases bound together with faded muslin ribbon.

She drew one out, setting it upright in the rectangle of light. It was a still life: lemons, a knife, the curved lip of a chipped bowl. The brushwork was loose but deliberate, and the colors were richer than the air itself. She set the painting on the windowsill, dusted her hands, pointed to the painting, then to herself, and waited.

Chloe stared, not sure what to say. Norah, eyes sharper than before, leaned forward. “Did you make these?”

Katherine smiled, slow, a little sad. She touched her own chest, then the painting, then swept her hand across the wall. It was clear: she had made the room, or at least given it a reason to exist.

Chloe felt her heart catch. She looked at the still life, then at Katherine. “They’re beautiful,” she said, because it was true, and because she didn’t know any other way to say what the moment felt like.

Norah nodded, eyes tracking from the painting to the hidden space, then to Katherine. There was a pause while she weighed something invisible, then she said, “It’s a strange joke. You build a place for art, and they turn you into art.”

Katherine didn’t flinch. She met Norah’s gaze, holding it, then tilted her head.

Chloe, not wanting the moment to freeze there, said, “Have you painted anything since you got out?” She asked it softly, so Katherine could ignore it if she wanted.

Katherine shook her head, just once. Then she looked at the garden, the light, the canvas, and her own hands, fingers splayed. She made a gesture as if painting in air, then stopped, uncertain.

“I hope you do,” Chloe said, and she meant it with every scrap of her being. “Whenever you’re ready.”

For a long moment, no one said anything. The world was just sun and color and the possibility that something new could happen, even now.

Norah sat back, arms folded. She studied Katherine, then Chloe, then the paintings. “Great,” she said, “another artist. That makes four of you in this harem now. Andy and I are going to have carry you all, aren’t we?” But the grin in her face shared an entirely different story.