Violet at the Threshold (Arthur's POV)
By late morning the penthouse sounded like a house instead of a headquarters.
We'd fixed the squeaky wheel on Stella's workshop cart, tuned the reading lamp in her nook so it slid kindly from "read" to "sleep," and printed a silly photo of the three of us—Stella mid-tongue, me failing to look dignified, Rose caught laughing. Stella put it on the shelf above her bed with both hands like placing a ward stone. The room's hum changed half a note. Small, real things do that.
"Agenda item four," Stella said, hopping off the bench. "Test balcony wind. Scientific hair assessment."
"Shoes," Rose said, catching her by the elbow. "The tiles get hot."
"Operational footwear engaged," Stella reported, racing for her sneakers.
