Aurora woke with her pencil still behind her ear, her notebook open on the bed. Luxe plucked it gently away, setting it on the dresser before her sister stirred.
"Don't touch my poem," Aurora mumbled, still half-asleep.
Luxe smirked faintly. "I'm protecting it, not stealing it."
Aurora peeked one eye open, then smiled. "Good. Because tonight Margaret's expecting more."
"Tonight you'll rest," Luxe countered.
Aurora shook her head, sitting up with stubborn brightness. "Resting is what we did in the dorms. Here we make things."
The words sank into Luxe like a stone dropped in water—rippling, undeniable.
After breakfast, Luxe pinned the laundry slip tighter into her pocket. Salvatore's silence yesterday had been enough. If Daniels pressed him harder, their "sink job" would vanish entirely. They needed options before someone else decided for them.
She stopped by the desk in the Y lobby, asking the matron—Mrs. Greene—for directions.
"Ellis Cleaners is three blocks down. Mrs. Devine runs it," the older woman said, peering over her glasses. "She's sharp, but fair. Don't be late. And keep your collars pressed."
Aurora grinned. "We can do pressed collars."
Luxe only nodded.
The shop was small, windows fogged from steam. Inside, the air smelled of starch and soap. Mrs. Devine was tall, with iron-gray hair coiled into a bun so severe it seemed carved from stone. She eyed the sisters up and down.
"You punctual?" she asked.
"Yes," Luxe answered.
"You work quiet?"
"Yes."
"You know how to treat stains?"
Aurora hesitated. Luxe answered quickly: "We'll learn."
Mrs. Devine grunted, then waved at a row of baskets. "Start with those. Customers expect their linens by Friday. Don't ruin them."
Aurora smiled nervously. Luxe rolled her sleeves. Work was work.
By the end of the shift, their hands smelled of starch, their skirts damp with steam. Mrs. Devine nodded once in approval. "Not hopeless. Come back tomorrow."
Aurora beamed. Luxe felt only the ache in her arms—and the weight of unseen eyes prickling her neck as they stepped out onto the street.
She turned her head sharply.
Across the road, a patrol car rolled slow, windows down. Daniels.
He tipped his hat lazily as they passed, his grin sharp as glass.
Aurora stiffened beside her. Luxe grabbed her sister's hand, pulling her forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of slowing.
That night, Aurora sat in the common room, notebook open, reading new lines aloud:
The city has teeth, but we have tongues.
The city has wolves, but we have fire.
The girls clapped again, Margaret cheering the loudest. Aurora blushed, ducking her head but smiling wide.
From her corner, Luxe watched the glow on her sister's face, the way the other girls leaned in as if Aurora's words could warm them all.
But when she glanced at the window, she thought she saw the faint ember of a cigarette across the street.
Watching. Waiting.
Later, as Aurora drifted to sleep, Luxe sat at the desk, the laundry slip and her sister's notebook side by side. Two scraps of paper—one promising survival, the other promising hope.
She touched them both, whispering, "I'll guard them both. Even if it kills me."
Her reflection in the glass gave no answer, only the pale outline of a girl already carrying more than her years.
Aurora woke with her pencil still behind her ear, her notebook open on the bed. Luxe plucked it gently away, setting it on the dresser before her sister stirred.
"Don't touch my poem," Aurora mumbled, still half-asleep.
Luxe smirked faintly. "I'm protecting it, not stealing it."
Aurora peeked one eye open, then smiled. "Good. Because tonight Margaret's expecting more."
"Tonight you'll rest," Luxe countered.
Aurora shook her head, sitting up with stubborn brightness. "Resting is what we did in the dorms. Here we make things."
The words sank into Luxe like a stone dropped in water—rippling, undeniable.
After breakfast, Luxe pinned the laundry slip tighter into her pocket. Salvatore's silence yesterday had been enough. If Daniels pressed him harder, their "sink job" would vanish entirely. They needed options before someone else decided for them.
She stopped by the desk in the Y lobby, asking the matron—Mrs. Greene—for directions.
"Ellis Cleaners is three blocks down. Mrs. Devine runs it," the older woman said, peering over her glasses. "She's sharp, but fair. Don't be late. And keep your collars pressed."
Aurora grinned. "We can do pressed collars."
Luxe only nodded.
The shop was small, windows fogged from steam. Inside, the air smelled of starch and soap. Mrs. Devine was tall, with iron-gray hair coiled into a bun so severe it seemed carved from stone. She eyed the sisters up and down.
"You punctual?" she asked.
"Yes," Luxe answered.
"You work quiet?"
"Yes."
"You know how to treat stains?"
Aurora hesitated. Luxe answered quickly: "We'll learn."
Mrs. Devine grunted, then waved at a row of baskets. "Start with those. Customers expect their linens by Friday. Don't ruin them."
Aurora smiled nervously. Luxe rolled her sleeves. Work was work.
By the end of the shift, their hands smelled of starch, their skirts damp with steam. Mrs. Devine nodded once in approval. "Not hopeless. Come back tomorrow."
Aurora beamed. Luxe felt only the ache in her arms—and the weight of unseen eyes prickling her neck as they stepped out onto the street.
She turned her head sharply.
Across the road, a patrol car rolled slow, windows down. Daniels.
He tipped his hat lazily as they passed, his grin sharp as glass.
Aurora stiffened beside her. Luxe grabbed her sister's hand, pulling her forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of slowing.
That night, Aurora sat in the common room, notebook open, reading new lines aloud:
The city has teeth, but we have tongues.
The city has wolves, but we have fire.
The girls clapped again, Margaret cheering the loudest. Aurora blushed, ducking her head but smiling wide.
From her corner, Luxe watched the glow on her sister's face, the way the other girls leaned in as if Aurora's words could warm them all.
But when she glanced at the window, she thought she saw the faint ember of a cigarette across the street.
Watching. Waiting.
Later, as Aurora drifted to sleep, Luxe sat at the desk, the laundry slip and her sister's notebook side by side. Two scraps of paper—one promising survival, the other promising hope.
She touched them both, whispering, "I'll guard them both. Even if it kills me."
Her reflection in the glass gave no answer, only the pale outline of a girl already carrying more than her years.
Steam clung to them all afternoon. By the time Mrs. Devine dismissed them, Aurora's hair curled damp around her cheeks, her blouse clinging uncomfortably. Luxe felt starch stiff in her sleeves, her fingers raw from scrubbing at collars.
"Better than dishes," Aurora whispered as they stepped out into the street.
"Different than dishes," Luxe corrected. She glanced back once at the fogged windows, at Mrs. Devine's sharp figure already bent over a ledger. Fair, yes—but not forgiving.
Aurora looped her arm through Luxe's. "At least it doesn't smell like garlic."
Despite herself, Luxe let out the smallest laugh.
Back at the Y, the common room buzzed with energy. Margaret waved them over, Ruth already setting up a circle of chairs. A few new girls joined too—seamstresses, typists, one nursing student with ink-stained hands.
Aurora opened her notebook, palms trembling. Luxe took a seat along the wall, arms folded, watchful.
Aurora read her newest lines:
The river carried us, but the city tests us.
Hands red from water, from soap, from holding on.
Silence followed. Then applause, light but genuine. Margaret clapped the hardest, grinning. "See? You're a natural."
Aurora ducked her head, cheeks warm, but Luxe could see it—the pride sparking in her sister's eyes, fragile but real.
After curfew, their room was still warm from steam. Aurora curled under her blanket with her notebook close, whispering fragments of lines even as sleep pulled her down.
Luxe sat at the desk, arms resting on the cool wood. She should have felt relief—food, work, shelter. Aurora's smile should have been enough to carry her.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Daniels's hat tilt, his smirk flashing like a knife.
Near midnight, a sound pulled her upright.
A car door shutting.
She moved silently to the curtain, lifting it an inch.
Across the street, the patrol car sat idling again. Daniels leaned against the hood, cigarette glowing in his hand. Another man stood beside him, plainclothes, face shadowed. They spoke briefly—too far for Luxe to hear—but when the man pointed up at the Y, Luxe's stomach dropped.
Her hand clenched the curtain so hard the fabric strained.
Aurora stirred in her sleep, murmuring something soft, clutching her pillow.
Luxe let the curtain fall. She sat on the edge of her bed, fists pressed to her knees, whispering: "You don't get in. Not here. Not to her."
But outside, the car lingered until the cigarette burned down to its end.