Aurora's poem lingered long after breakfast. Margaret asked to copy it down, promising to slip it between the pages of her notebook like a secret treasure. Another girl, Ruth, invited Aurora to join them in the common room later to try their hand at "writing circles."
Aurora accepted shyly, her cheeks still pink.
Luxe kept her smile small but real. She didn't want to take this from her sister. Not after so much had already been stolen.
Still, as they walked to Salvatore's, Luxe's eyes scanned every corner, every doorway. The fog seemed thicker, the city's noise sharper.
The lunch rush hit like a wave. Luxe worked fast, arms aching, while Aurora dried dishes with brisk, humming movements. The rhythm almost felt safe.
Until the kitchen door swung open.
Salvatore went stiff. Luxe followed his gaze.
Officer Henry Daniels strolled in, hat tipped low, cigarette dangling from his lips. He didn't belong here, but he acted as if the room had been built for him.
"Sal," he drawled, clapping the owner on the shoulder. "How's business?"
Salvatore's jaw tightened. "Busy. Like you see."
Daniels's eyes drifted—too slowly—toward the sink. Luxe bent over her work, scrubbing harder, but she felt the weight of his stare crawling over her skin.
"Hard-working girls," Daniels said. "Don't see many like them."
Salvatore grunted. "They wash dishes. That's all."
Daniels smirked. "That's not all, Sal. You know it. Girls like that don't blow in from nowhere without a story." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "And stories… belong to someone. If you're smart, you'll point me to the man who owns theirs."
Luxe's knuckles went white around the plate she was holding. Aurora's hand shook, almost dropping the dish she was drying.
Salvatore's nostrils flared. "They're mine while they work here. That's all you need to know."
Daniels chuckled, as if amused by his defiance. "Careful, Sal. Beaumont doesn't like when people keep secrets from him."
The name hung in the air like smoke. Aurora froze. Luxe's heart pounded.
Daniels tipped his hat and strolled out, whistling a jaunty tune that curdled the room.
The silence after was heavy.
Salvatore turned, his eyes hard on them. "You bring trouble here?"
"No," Luxe said quickly. "We work. That's all."
He studied them a long moment, then snapped, "Finish the dishes. Don't make me regret giving you a sink."
Aurora swallowed hard, blinking fast to keep back tears. Luxe touched her wrist under the table of dirty plates, grounding her with the smallest squeeze.
That night, Aurora sat in the common room with Margaret and Ruth, their heads bent over notebooks. She smiled, she laughed, she even read a new line aloud: Doors open both ways—one to keep out, one to let in.
The other girls clapped softly, and Aurora glowed like firelight.
Luxe sat nearby, book in her lap, pretending to read. But her mind replayed Daniels' voice, his smirk, and that name.
Beaumont.
The shadow was no longer just watching. It was reaching.
She closed the book without realizing it, her fingers tight around the cover.
Across the room, Aurora laughed again, light and unguarded. Luxe let the sound anchor her, even as the world pressed closer.
Aurora didn't stop writing that evening. Back in their room, she sat cross-legged on the bed, pencil flying across the page. Every so often she'd bite her lip, erase, and begin again.
Luxe brushed out her sister's hair by lamplight, each stroke slow and steady. "Don't wear your hands out. You'll need them for dishes tomorrow."
Aurora laughed, soft and unguarded. "For once, I don't mind the ache. It feels like…mine. Not theirs."
Luxe's chest tightened. She kissed the top of her sister's head before setting the brush aside.
Downstairs, the matron made her rounds, shoes clicking against the tile. Luxe heard the doors being checked, one by one, and allowed herself to breathe easier. But when she slipped to the window, pulling the curtain back a sliver, her stomach knotted all over again.
A car idled across the street. Its lights were off, its shape swallowed by fog. Luxe couldn't see the driver, but she didn't need to.
She shut the curtain.
Aurora noticed the tension in her shoulders. "He's out there, isn't he?"
"Maybe." Luxe sat on the edge of the bed. "But he won't get through this door."
Aurora nodded, but her eyes were wide. She slid her notebook under the pillow like a talisman and lay down. Luxe stretched out beside her, keeping one hand on the cool iron bedframe, the other lightly draped across her sister's arm.
Sleep came late. Luxe dreamed of water again—of rivers and doors, of a city rising out of fog with eyes instead of windows. Aurora walked ahead of her, carrying a notebook that glowed like a lantern. Behind them, footsteps echoed, steady and deliberate.
When she woke, the first gray light of dawn was sliding across the floorboards. Aurora still slept, her lips curved faintly as if she were whispering poems even in her dreams.
Luxe sat up, spine stiff, and whispered into the quiet: "You'll never take this from her."
Her own voice sounded like steel.
Across the city, Daniels stubbed out a cigarette in the overflowing tray on his desk. A thin folder sat open in front of him—notes scribbled from Salvatore's, from the diner, from the men who'd first spotted the girls by the river.
He tapped his pen against the paper and smirked. "Not bad," he muttered to himself. "Not bad at all."
Then, almost casually, he wrote one word at the bottom of the page.
Beaumont.
Aurora's laughter still echoed in Luxe's head long after lights-out. She hadn't heard it ring so freely in years—untouched by fear, uncurled from the tight shell the cult had forced her into.
But beneath that memory, another sound pulsed louder: the scrape of Daniels' voice against her bones. Girls like that don't blow in from nowhere without a story. And stories belong to someone.
The next morning brought fog heavy enough to swallow the streetlamps whole. Luxe buttoned her cardigan with brisk fingers, trying to quiet the unease gnawing her stomach. Aurora, by contrast, was radiant—eyes glowing with the excitement of her writing circle. She clutched her notebook like a lifeline, a pencil tucked neatly behind her ear.
"You'll come with me tonight, won't you?" she asked as they walked to breakfast.
"I'll be nearby," Luxe said.
Aurora pouted faintly but didn't argue.
At the breakfast table, Margaret nudged Aurora's shoulder. "Read for us again tonight. You've got more in you, I can tell."
Aurora blushed but smiled. "Maybe."
Luxe caught the exchange from the corner of her eye. Every new friendship was a rope tying Aurora tighter to this world. A good thing, Luxe told herself. And yet, ropes could strangle as easily as they anchored.
That afternoon, they walked the fog-wrapped streets toward Salvatore's. Luxe's senses prickled with every echo of footsteps behind them. More than once, she glanced back—only to find nothing but the shifting veil of mist.
Still, she couldn't shake the certainty: they were not alone.
Inside the kitchen, Salvatore barely looked at them. He muttered in Italian, barking sharper than usual at his line cooks. Luxe caught the way his gaze kept flicking to the door, his jaw grinding tight.
When Daniels entered, the tension snapped taut.
He didn't bother with pleasantries this time. His eyes found Luxe and Aurora at the sink, lingered there, then slid back to Salvatore. "Careful, Sal. Flowers can brighten a room… but they wither fast without a strong hand."
Aurora's hand slipped on the plate she was drying; it clattered back into the sink. Luxe caught her wrist, steadying her, forcing her back into rhythm.
Salvatore growled low, like a man cornered but unwilling to bare his throat. "They work. That's it."
Daniels smirked and tapped ash onto the tiled floor. "That's never it."
Then he left, humming as he went.
Aurora's breath came fast, her hands trembling. Luxe pressed her palm over her sister's briefly. "Keep working."
That night, back at the Y, Aurora clung to her notebook. She read her newest lines for Margaret and Ruth, her voice steadier than Luxe expected:
Doors open both ways—one to keep out, one to let in.
The girls clapped softly. Aurora glowed. Luxe sat in the corner chair, pretending to read a magazine but keeping her eyes on the door.
Later, after curfew, Luxe pulled the curtain back.
A car idled across the street. Its lights off. Fog wrapped it in gray, but the faint orange tip of a cigarette burned steady in the driver's hand.
Her throat went dry.
She let the curtain fall, whispered into the dark: "Not here. Not her."
Aurora murmured in her sleep, fingers twitching against the pillow. Luxe crossed to her bed, sliding her hand into her sister's. Aurora sighed and stilled, the corners of her mouth lifting faintly as if she were still writing poems in her dreams.
Elsewhere, in a dim office lit by one bare bulb, Beaumont flipped open the file Daniels had delivered. He read slowly, savoring each line.
Two girls. No past. No tether. Gathering strays like moths to flame.
He smiled, sharp and hungry. "Flowers," he murmured. "We'll see how long they bloom."