The morning air smelled of salt and soot when they stepped out of the Y. The city was already awake: shopfronts clattering open, trolley bells clanging as they rolled along tracks, men in fedoras moving with clipped purpose.
Luxe adjusted the cardigan Grace had lent her, tugging it tighter across her shoulders. Aurora walked beside her, skirt swishing, a nervous smile flickering every time a passerby nodded a polite greeting.
"This feels like pretending," Aurora whispered.
"It is pretending," Luxe replied. "That's the point. Pretend long enough, and people stop looking for what's underneath."
Aurora nodded, though her hand brushed the hem of her skirt as if making sure it hadn't disappeared.
They found Salvatore's Restaurant tucked between a tailor's shop and a florist. Its green awning stretched proudly over the sidewalk, painted letters promising Fine Italian Cuisine. The smell of garlic and baking bread drifted into the street.
Aurora's stomach growled audibly. Luxe elbowed her gently.
"Control," she whispered.
Inside, the restaurant was a symphony of clatter and steam. Tables were stacked with linens not yet set, chairs turned upside down on their legs. In the back, the kitchen roared alive: pots banging, water hissing, a man shouting in Italian so fast the words cracked like gunfire.
A shorter, balding man in suspenders spotted them hovering at the door. "You here for the dishwasher card?" he barked, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Yes, sir," Luxe said quickly.
He squinted at them. "You work hard?"
"Yes."
"You quiet?"
"Yes."
He grunted, as if that was good enough, and waved them toward the back. "Come. Name's Mr. Salvatore. You break plates, you pay for plates. You late, you don't come back. Understand?"
"Yes," Luxe echoed.
Aurora added softly, "We understand."
Salvatore led them into the kitchen, where heat slapped their faces and steam curled around their hair. Two men worked the line, slicing and stirring. A mountain of dishes waited by the sink.
"Start," Salvatore said, pointing. "End of shift, you get supper. If you last a week, you get pay." He turned and disappeared into the din.
Aurora looked at Luxe, eyes wide. Luxe rolled up her sleeves. "We work."
The sink water was scalding, the soap thick and stinging. Plates and glasses seemed endless, multiplying every time they thought they'd made progress. Luxe attacked the stack with ruthless efficiency, while Aurora scrubbed carefully, as if afraid to break anything.
Her sister's hands reddened fast, the hot water biting. Luxe caught her wincing and murmured, "Faster, Rory. Don't let them see you struggling."
Aurora bit her lip, nodded, and kept going.
Hours blurred in steam and suds. Their arms ached, their backs screamed, but they did not stop. By the time the lunch rush hit, Luxe had slipped into rhythm: scrape, dunk, scrub, rinse, stack. Aurora hummed softly under her breath, some half-remembered tune, and for a moment the work almost felt like freedom.
They were allowed a break in the alley behind the restaurant. Luxe sank against the brick wall, wiping sweat from her brow. Aurora cradled her sore hands, blowing on them to cool the sting.
"Food," Aurora whispered, peeking through the back door at the steaming trays being carried out. "Do you think they'll really let us eat?"
"They will," Luxe said, though she wasn't certain. "Salvatore's not a liar. He's too busy for that."
Aurora smiled faintly. "Busy is good."
Luxe nodded, but her gaze drifted toward the street. That old tension prickled again—skin sensing before her eyes confirmed.
Across the road, a man leaned against a lamppost, his hat pulled low.
Luxe's breath caught. The same stance. The same too-patient stillness.
Aurora followed her gaze. "It's him," she whispered.
"Don't look," Luxe hissed, pulling her sister's attention back.
But when she dared a second glance, the man had vanished into the crowd.
They lasted the day. Barely. By closing, their arms were jelly and their fingers raw, but the dishes were clean, the floor swept, the counters wiped.
Salvatore clapped Luxe once on the shoulder, nodding approvingly. "Not useless," he said. "Come back tomorrow. Dinner's waiting."
True to his word, he handed them each a plate of pasta and bread. Aurora nearly cried into hers, eating with small, reverent bites. Luxe ate faster, her eyes scanning the door, the windows, the men at the counter.
Safety was a story. She wanted to believe it, but habit wouldn't let her.
They stepped out into the cooling evening, stomachs full, legs unsteady. The city hummed around them, lights flickering on one by one. Aurora clung to Luxe's arm, her smile dazed with exhaustion.
"We did it," she whispered. "Work. Food. Just like…like we're real."
"You are real," Luxe said.
They turned down Ellis Street toward the Y. That was when the patrol car slid to the curb beside them.
The window rolled down. A man leaned out, his uniform crisp, his smile wrong.
"Evening, girls," Officer Henry Daniels drawled. His eyes gleamed sharp beneath the brim of his hat. "You look new in town."
Luxe's stomach turned to stone.
Aurora froze, her fingers tightening around Luxe's arm.
Daniels tipped his hat. "Don't worry. City's full of wolves. You ever feel lost, you come to me. I make sure strays find their place."
His smile widened, too slow, too deliberate. He let the words hang before rolling the window back up. The patrol car pulled away, taillights bleeding red into the night.
Aurora's breath shook. "Luce—"
"I know," Luxe murmured. Her eyes burned, her jaw clenched. "I know."
They walked the rest of the way in silence, the shadows of the city pressing closer with every step.
Aurora's hand didn't leave Luxe's arm until the YWCA came into view, its brick facade glowing warm against the evening. The building looked exactly as it had that morning—ordinary, solid, indifferent to fear. But the image of Officer Daniels's smile rode with them all the way up the steps.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of furniture polish and chalk. A few girls clustered near the notice board, laughing about some posting for a modeling job that none of them believed was real. Their laughter bounced like coins off tile, harmless and bright.
Aurora tried to laugh with them, but the sound came out brittle. Luxe guided her upstairs before anyone could notice.
Their room felt smaller than it had the night before, but also safer in a way Luxe didn't want to admit. She closed the curtains tight before sitting on the edge of her bed.
Aurora sank onto hers, pulling off her borrowed heels with a groan. Her toes were red, angry lines etched where the leather had pressed. She wiggled them and let out a shaky laugh. "If dishwashing doesn't kill me, these shoes will."
Luxe allowed herself a faint smile. "Grace said they'd build arms, not ruin feet. Maybe she was wrong."
Aurora set the shoes aside and curled her legs under her, hugging a pillow. The dim lamp lit her face in soft planes, and Luxe could see the day written on her: fatigue, yes, but also something else.
"Luce," Aurora whispered. "When he stopped us… Daniels. He looked at us like he already owned us."
Luxe's jaw clenched. "That's the way men like him look at everyone. Like the world's their inventory."
Aurora shuddered. "What if he tells someone? What if he…"
"He won't." Luxe's voice came out sharper than intended. She softened it. "We don't give him the chance. We keep our heads down. We work. We save. We build something that makes us harder to touch."
Aurora studied her, then nodded slowly. "You always sound so sure."
"I have to," Luxe said. "If I don't, you'll hear the truth."
Aurora frowned. "Which is?"
"That I'm terrified, too."
The admission startled both of them. Silence stretched. Then Aurora reached across the gap and squeezed Luxe's hand. "Good," she said softly. "Then we're terrified together."
They changed into their night things, folding Grace's clothes neatly on the dresser. Luxe sat brushing the tangles from Aurora's damp hair, each stroke methodical, grounding. Aurora's eyes fluttered shut, a small smile tugging at her lips.
In the hall, footsteps passed, followed by a girl's giggle and a matron's stern hush. The sounds were ordinary, harmless, woven into the fabric of a place that had rules but not cages.
For a moment, Luxe let herself believe in it.
When Aurora drifted into sleep, Luxe stayed awake longer, staring at the ceiling. Daniels's words replayed in her head: strays find their place.
She whispered into the quiet: "Not this time."
The room answered with silence. The city outside murmured with distant trolley bells and the low hum of night traffic.
Luxe lay down at last, her hand resting across the gap to touch Aurora's arm. Only then did her eyes close.
Far across town, in a smoky precinct office, Daniels leaned back in his chair. He flicked ash from his cigarette into a tray overflowing with them.
"Two girls," he muttered, smirking. "Don't worry. City's full of wolves."
He tapped his pen against a thin file, the paper whispering under its weight. A name scrawled at the top: Report to Beaumont.
The smile widened.