The second day at Salvatore's started before the sun had cleared the fog. Luxe and Aurora stood in the kitchen doorway while steam from pots wrapped around them like hot breath. Salvatore waved them in with the same gruff impatience as before.
"You late, you useless," he barked. "Sink doesn't clean itself."
Luxe dipped her head. "Yes, sir."
Aurora echoed her, quieter, and they moved to the mountain of dishes that seemed to have grown taller overnight.
By mid-morning, their rhythm had improved. Luxe scrubbed fast, stacking plates in neat towers, while Aurora rinsed and dried with care that bordered on reverence. She even hummed softly, some tune she must have half-remembered from a jukebox the day before.
"Don't hum too loud," Luxe warned under her breath.
Aurora grinned. "Why not? It makes the work lighter."
"Work isn't supposed to be light."
"Maybe not. But maybe it can be ours."
The words lingered long after the plates were done.
When Salvatore finally barked "Break!" they slipped into the alley, their arms sore but their heads still above water. Aurora leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.
"Do you feel it?" she whispered.
"Feel what?" Luxe scanned the street again, habit gnawing at her nerves.
Aurora opened her eyes, smiling faintly. "The weight of ordinary. People working, eating, living. Like this is what it's supposed to be."
Luxe wanted to agree. She wanted to believe that soap-burned hands and aching feet could be the shape of safety. But her gaze snagged on a patrol car rolling slow down the street.
Her chest tightened.
The car passed without stopping, but Luxe saw the silhouette behind the wheel—broad shoulders, cap tilted low. Daniels.
He didn't even look their way. He didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to remind her: ordinary had limits.
That evening, after supper at Salvatore's, they returned to the Y. The common room buzzed with chatter—girls sharing stories of typing pools, sewing jobs, even one who claimed she'd been offered a chance to sing in a nightclub. Aurora slipped into it with an eagerness Luxe both admired and feared.
She sat cross-legged on the rug, laughing softly at a joke one of the other girls told, her hands fluttering as she spoke. She looked younger, lighter, as though the cult and the river and the chase belonged to someone else's memory.
Luxe stayed near the wall, arms crossed, scanning. Always scanning.
Ruby Hart appeared near the doorway, arms filled with a stack of returned books. She caught Luxe's eye and gave the smallest nod—a gesture that said I see you. I know.
It was enough.
Later, in their room, Aurora flopped onto her bed, cheeks flushed from laughing. "Luce, do you realize we told stories tonight? Just little ones, about dishwashing and the soup burning, but—they listened. Like we're girls, not…" She trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.
Luxe sat on the edge of her own bed, untying her borrowed shoes. "You are a girl," she said simply.
Aurora hugged her pillow, grinning into it. "So are you."
Luxe didn't answer. She thought of Daniels's shadow behind the patrol car window, the way he hadn't needed to stop to make his threat clear. She thought of the way Ruby had nodded, and Grace had given them food, and Eileen had slid a sandwich into a paper bag without asking questions.
Not everyone wants to own us, she reminded herself.
Still, when she drew the curtains closed, she checked the street twice.
Across town, Daniels leaned against the hood of his car, cigarette glowing in the dark. Another man in plain clothes joined him, handing over a slip of paper.
"Salvatore's," the man said. "They're working the sink."
Daniels smirked, smoke curling from his lips. "Good. Easier to keep track of girls who stay put."
He tapped ash onto the sidewalk. "Beaumont will want to know."
The Y's common room quieted as curfew neared. One by one, girls drifted upstairs, laughter trailing like ribbon. Aurora lingered by the piano, touching the keys with hesitant fingers. A scale stumbled out—soft, uneven—but when no one scolded her, she tried again.
The second attempt was smoother. The third carried a faint melody, something fragile but real.
A girl with red hair and ink-stained fingers paused on her way out. "You play?" she asked.
Aurora flushed. "Not really."
"Sounded real enough," the girl said with a shrug, then offered a small smile. "I'm Margaret. Room 210. Typist by day, bad poet by night."
Aurora laughed, startled. "I'm Rory." She glanced back at Luxe, who nodded once. "This is my sister, Luce."
Margaret's gaze flicked to Luxe, curious but not unkind. "Well, Rory, if you keep at it, maybe you'll give us something decent to listen to besides the radiator." She tipped a mock salute and disappeared upstairs.
Aurora's grin lingered long after.
"See?" she whispered to Luxe as they headed up. "We can belong."
Luxe pressed her lips together. She wanted to believe it, wanted it for Aurora—but belonging always came with a cost.
In their room, Aurora sat cross-legged on her bed, still glowing from the encounter. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "She didn't ask where we're from. She didn't care. Just… accepted us."
Luxe folded her cardigan and placed it on the chair. "Then remember her name. Margaret. Allies matter."
Aurora hugged her pillow, nodding. "Allies," she echoed.
For the first time since the diner, her eyes closed without fear. Sleep found her quickly, her breathing soft and steady.
Luxe, however, stayed awake. She sat at the desk by the window, lamp dimmed low, and pulled the compact Ruby had left in the library tin from her pocket. The mirror caught her face: tired, scratched, older than she wanted to admit.
She studied herself until her eyes blurred, then set it down and drew the curtain back just a crack.
The street below was nearly empty. A lone car rolled by, headlights slicing through the dark. A man crossed with his hands in his pockets, head bowed against the fog. Ordinary movements, ordinary lives.
Yet Luxe couldn't shake the certainty that somewhere in the dark, Daniels—or one of his—was waiting.
She whispered into the quiet, more vow than prayer: "You won't take this from us."
The city answered with silence.
Finally, she slid into bed beside Aurora, resting her hand against her sister's arm. Only then did she allow herself to close her eyes.