The silence of the YWCA room was unlike anything Luxe had ever known.
It wasn't the heavy, fearful silence of the dorms, where girls swallowed their words to avoid being chosen. It wasn't the silence of running, filled with panting breaths and snapping twigs. This was… domestic. Thin walls muffled giggles from down the hall, water pipes clanged softly as if sighing, and bedsprings creaked under bodies turning toward sleep.
Aurora lay on her side, still in the borrowed cardigan, fingers tracing the pearl buttons like they were rosary beads. Her eyes shone in the glow of the hallway light bleeding under the door.
"Luce," she whispered. "Do you think this is what normal girls feel like? A bed. Clean sheets. Knowing what tomorrow is."
Luxe pulled her knees up, watching her sister with that sharp blend of love and ache. "I don't know what normal girls feel. But I know what you're feeling now. That's enough."
Aurora smiled faintly, then burrowed into the pillow. "It feels like safety."
Safety. Luxe wanted to believe it, but her body didn't know how. Her ears strained for sounds beyond the pipes: footsteps too slow in the hall, voices not belonging. She kept one shoe by the door, ready to throw if anyone tried the knob.
She had learned never to let her guard down, not completely. Safety could be a story people told to themselves to make cages feel less sharp.
But when Aurora's breathing softened into sleep, Luxe allowed herself to lie back. The mattress was stiff, but the sheets were crisp, and the smell of soap clung to the pillow. For the first time since the river, her body didn't feel like it was braced to run.
A dream stole her before she could resist it.
She was back at the compound, standing under the floodlight while the Leader's voice wrapped around her throat like a leash. Aurora was beside her, small and shaking, and the chant rose from the crowd: Obedience is freedom. Submission is love. The world outside will eat you alive.
Luxe had mouthed the words because everyone did. But even in the dream, she remembered thinking: What if I want to be eaten?
The thought had been a spark in her chest, dangerous and bright.
She woke with her heart hammering, sweat slick on her palms. The room was quiet. Aurora still slept, her face softened into peace. Luxe let the sight anchor her, whispering, "We're not there. Not anymore."
The words tasted like an oath.
Morning came with bells. Not alarms or sirens, just the ringing chime of a hall clock that sent girls shuffling toward the shared bathroom. The smell of coffee drifted from the dining room below.
Aurora sat up, blinking, her hair sticking out in soft tufts. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and smiled. "We're still here."
"Of course we are," Luxe said, though relief tugged at her chest.
They dressed in Grace's clothes. The skirts pulled differently than jeans, forcing their posture into something straighter. Aurora twirled once, the hem flaring, and laughed. Luxe shook her head but felt the corner of her mouth twitch.
Downstairs, breakfast was served on trays: oatmeal, toast, eggs. Aurora's eyes went wide at the sight of so much food in one place. Luxe nudged her gently. "Act like you've done this before."
Aurora tried, but her delight was too bright to hide. She ate with quiet reverence, as though each bite was a prayer answered. Luxe kept her pace measured, scanning the room: girls chatting in clusters, a matron at the head table, the way the windows framed the morning light.
The world outside might still be dangerous. But here, inside these brick walls, it felt—for a fleeting moment—like they were allowed to breathe.
After breakfast, they stepped into the lobby. A bulletin board dominated one wall, pinned with neat cards.
The bulletin board was a tangle of handwriting. Some neat, some rushed, some half-legible, all of it promising work to anyone who knew how to show up. Luxe traced the edges of one card with her fingertip: Dishwasher wanted – Salvatore's Restaurant. It looked like a lifeline disguised as cheap stationery.
Aurora leaned in close, her breath warm on Luxe's shoulder. "Salvatore's sounds safe. Dishes can't hurt us."
"Plates break," Luxe murmured. "But they don't hit back."
Aurora laughed softly, the sound too fragile and too brave all at once.
Behind them, a voice carried from the stairs: "New girls?"
They turned. Three young women had descended together, their skirts swaying in near-unison, their hair pinned just so. One carried a typewriter case, the other two small handbags. Their shoes clicked across the polished lobby floor like punctuation marks.
The one with the typewriter gave them a quick once-over. Not cruel, just curious. "Where from?"
Aurora opened her mouth. Luxe nudged her lightly. "South," Luxe said. "Visiting. Looking for work."
"Half of us are," the girl said with a shrug. She shifted her grip on the case. "If you need tips, check the laundry board. Dishwashing eats your hands." She smiled, brief and wry, then added, "But it buys soap. You'll manage."
They swept past toward the door, leaving behind a faint scent of powder and perfume. Aurora blinked after them.
"Did you hear her? Half of us are." Her voice held awe. "We're not the only strays here."
"Not strays," Luxe corrected. "Boarders." She plucked the word straight from the Y's rule sheet. "Words matter."
Aurora tucked that away like a coin in her pocket.
By mid-morning, the Y had settled into a rhythm. Girls came and went, matron heels clacked across the floor, and someone upstairs practiced scales on a piano until the notes fell apart in laughter. Luxe and Aurora lingered in the common room, pretending to read magazines left on a side table.
Aurora flipped through Ladies' Home Journal, her brow furrowed at an article on "Summer Entertaining Made Easy." She whispered, "They have recipes for iced tea. In magazines."
"They have everything in magazines," Luxe said, scanning the room more than the pages. "That's the point."
Aurora smoothed the paper as if she could absorb its wisdom by touch. "If we can learn what they know, maybe we can be what they expect."
Luxe studied her sister's profile—earnest, hungry for belonging—and swallowed the knot in her throat. "We'll be what we need to be. That's enough."
Aurora nodded, but her eyes lingered on the smiling women in the advertisements, their pearls gleaming, their postures perfect.
When the lunch bell rang downstairs, the sisters followed the line into the dining hall. The smell of soup and warm bread curled through the air, richer than anything Luxe had tasted in years. They carried their trays to an empty table, but soon found themselves joined by a tall girl with freckles and a quick grin.
"Room three-oh-two," she introduced herself. "Dorothy. Secretary." She spooned soup with efficient precision, as if eating were just another task to be handled. "You two?"
"Luce and Rory," Luxe said smoothly.
"Students?" Dorothy asked.
"Not yet," Aurora said. "Looking for work first."
Dorothy nodded, already on to her bread roll. "Start small. Work up. That's what I did."
It was nothing more than casual talk, but Luxe filed it away. Every interaction was a rehearsal: how to answer, how to deflect, how to seem ordinary.
That night, after curfew, the Y hushed into near silence. Luxe lay in bed staring at the ceiling's faint cracks while Aurora whispered across the gap between them.
"Do you think Ruby will remember us?"
"Ruby remembers everything," Luxe said.
Aurora smiled into her pillow. "And Grace?"
"She gave us food. Clothes. Work. That's not something people forget easily."
Aurora grew quiet, her breath evening. Luxe waited until she was sure her sister had drifted off before slipping out of bed and crossing to the window.
The city glowed faintly under the streetlamps. A trolley car rattled past, sparks flashing like fireflies. Luxe leaned her forehead against the cool glass. For a fleeting moment, she let herself believe in the ordinary—rooms with beds, meals at tables, futures written on bulletin boards.
Then movement caught her eye.
Across the street, half-hidden in the doorway of a shuttered shop, stood a man. Hat pulled low, hands in his pockets, posture too patient. He wasn't smoking. He wasn't moving. He was simply watching.
Luxe's stomach clenched.
She drew the curtain closed, pressing her back to the wall. Her hand found the edge of the dresser, gripping until her knuckles burned.
They've found us.
But when she dared a second glance through the gap, the doorway was empty.
She shut the curtain fully, heart hammering.
Behind her, Aurora shifted in sleep, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Luxe crossed the room, sat on the edge of her sister's bed, and stroked her hair until she stilled again.
"We're safe here," Luxe whispered, the lie tasting necessary. "We're safe tonight."
But her eyes stayed open long into the dark.