The morning after the pier, Luxe felt the city breathing wrong. Not louder. Not quieter. Just… shifted. Like someone had lifted the sidewalk an inch while she slept and now every step sat crooked.
Aurora didn't notice. She hummed as she braided her hair, notebook balanced on her knees. "Margaret said she wants to try a duet tonight," she said cheerfully. "Two voices. Maybe I'll write something short, with echoes."
"Keep it light," Luxe murmured, buttoning her cardigan. "The house could use lighter."
Aurora smiled, eyes full of sunlight she didn't know was borrowed. Luxe carried that smile in her pocket all the way to Ellis Cleaners.
The shop was already thick with heat. Mrs. Devine barked instructions sharper than usual, her ledger snapping open and shut like a trap. Luxe didn't need Ruby's quiet hints to see it — someone had come already.
The confirmation arrived mid-morning. Daniels himself pushed through the door, hat low, cigarette smoldering in his fingers. Not in uniform this time — plain coat, workman's boots — but the authority clung to him like smoke.
"Morning, Salve Queen," he said to Mrs. Devine. "Funny thing: I spent an hour at Pier 23 waiting for some girls who never showed."
The ledger didn't even pause. "Should've brought a book."
Daniels leaned across the counter, smile wrong. "Or maybe I should've asked you which pier your strays dock at. Word is you keep them busy." His eyes slid to the back room, where Aurora hung sheets, her hands trembling faintly.
Mrs. Devine's jaw flexed, but her voice never cracked. "Girls who work for me earn their pay. That's all."
Daniels smirked. "And you think paper walls will keep the rain off when the storm hits?"
"I think soap and coin speak louder than ash," she shot back.
The air went tight. Luxe's hands stilled on the collar she was scrubbing. She pictured the little blade Grace had pressed into her palm. But Daniels only laughed — too loud, too long — and dropped his cigarette in the mop bucket. The hiss curled like a threat.
"Careful, Devine," he said, stepping out. "Storms don't care if you're clean."
The bell's jingle sounded like a warning bell this time, not a farewell.
Mrs. Devine let the ledger fall shut, hard enough to crack wood. She didn't look at Luxe, but her hand brushed Aurora's shoulder as she passed — a silent keep steady.
Aurora's breath shook, but she lifted the next sheet anyway. Luxe scrubbed harder, so hard the collar frayed under her fingers.
That afternoon, the library felt like another country. The children's corner buzzed with laughter, crayons clattering across tables. Ruby handed Aurora a slim sheaf of typed poems.
"Selections," she said. "Local paper's running a 'Youth Voices' column. I told the editor I had a girl who could make fog sound like silk."
Aurora flushed crimson. "I can't—"
"You can," Ruby cut in gently. "Today you read for children. Tomorrow for neighbors. One day soon, for strangers."
Aurora clutched the pages like scripture. "But what if they laugh?"
"They will," Ruby said. "And then they'll think about it later, and the laugh will sour into respect."
Luxe hovered near the door, eyes scanning the mothers, the children, the corners where shadows liked to pool. But when Aurora stood and began to read, Luxe couldn't help it — her guard bent just enough to let the words in.
The little house watched the city grow,
watched smoke rise where fields once lay,
and still, inside its wooden ribs,
someone lit the lamps each day.
The children clapped. One boy shouted, "More!" Aurora laughed — clear, unburdened — and read another.
Luxe's throat tightened. Her sister was fire, and fire needed air. But air drew hunters too.
Afterward, Ruby murmured at Luxe's shoulder, "You see? A roof is safest when the whole block sleeps under it. Let her voice out. Don't choke the flame."
Luxe's eyes stayed on Aurora, who bent to let a girl try on her hair ribbon. "Flames burn roofs down too," she whispered.
"Only if no one tends them," Ruby countered.
They stopped at Grace's on the way back. The bell chirped, the smell of ginger and sesame filling the shop. Grace didn't even greet them — she simply shoved two steaming buns into their hands.
"You smell like smoke," she said flatly.
"Daniels came to the cleaners," Luxe said.
Grace's mouth flattened. "He tests. Wolves always test." She slid a crate of pears forward, knife flashing quick as lightning as she sliced samples. "Next, he'll send others. Quieter. To watch who feeds you, who listens, who claps at your poems."
Aurora's face paled. "But… why poems?"
"Because people follow what they love, not just what they fear," Grace said. "Wolves know that. They hate it." She handed Aurora a pear slice, juice dripping down her wrist. "So you keep feeding love louder than fear. But you—" Her eyes cut to Luxe. "You learn which corners to salt. Salt keeps rot away."
Luxe pocketed the warning like a blade.
The common room smelled of ink and sesame cakes. Aurora read her library poem again, and this time her voice didn't shake at all. The girls clapped harder than ever, even Ruth muttering, "She's ready for print."
Helen sat quiet but watchful, her notebook closed, her smile polite. When Aurora sat down, Helen leaned close and whispered, "You've got a gift. Don't let small rooms hide it."
Aurora's eyes shone. Luxe's narrowed.
Later, Luxe walked Aurora upstairs. "Don't trust too easy," she warned.
Aurora hugged her notebook to her chest. "Not everyone's a wolf."
"No," Luxe said. "But wolves wear wool."
Curfew fell. Luxe sat by the window, curtain cracked.
The patrol car slid into place beneath the lamppost. Daniels leaned against the hood, cigarette glowing bright. This time, another car idled farther down the street, its headlights off. Luxe couldn't see the faces, but she knew — Beaumont's eyes had widened.
Daniels tipped his hat, exhaling smoke that curled upward, a lazy signal. The ember glowed and died, glowed and died, like a code Luxe couldn't yet read.
Behind her, Aurora dreamed aloud: roof, lamp, flame.
Luxe pressed her palm to the glass. "You'll choke on that ember before you light this house," she whispered.
But even as she spoke, she felt the circle tightening. Wolves weren't circling anymore. Wolves were closing in.
Luxe's Resolve
When Aurora stirred, Luxe climbed into bed beside her, pulling the blanket tight. Aurora murmured in her sleep and clutched her notebook close.
Luxe lay awake, staring at the ceiling until the cracks looked like maps.
We can't just wait for knocks, she thought. We build the roof higher. We salt the corners. We name the spies.
Her jaw set.
If Daniels thought smoke and ash would scare them out of hiding, he hadn't yet learned: embers could spark fires, too.
And Luxe was done letting wolves choose the ground.
Aurora woke before Luxe the next morning, cheeks pink, hair falling loose around her shoulders. She sat at the desk with her notebook open, sunlight catching on the ink as she wrote quickly, almost feverishly.
When Luxe stirred, Aurora turned, eyes glowing. "Ruby thinks the newspaper might print one of my poems."
Luxe rubbed her eyes, sitting up. "You're sure it's safe?"
"Safe?" Aurora tilted her head. "What's safer than words?"
Luxe thought of Daniels leaning against his car, the ember of his cigarette pulsing in the fog like a warning. She didn't answer.
At breakfast, Margaret teased Aurora mercilessly about being a "published author" already. Ruth adjusted her glasses and declared that if Aurora's poems made it into the paper, the Y would "finally have something worth posting on the bulletin board besides pie socials."
Aurora blushed crimson, clutching her notebook. Luxe sat silent, half-listening, scanning the tables. Helen wasn't there — a fact that both soothed and sharpened her.
Aurora caught Luxe's eye across the table. For once, she didn't look small or fragile. She looked steady. "See?" she whispered. "We're building something."
Luxe squeezed her hand under the table, unwilling to steal the moment with her doubt.
By afternoon, the Y had quieted. Most of the girls were at work placements or the library. Luxe returned from Ellis Cleaners with sore hands, Aurora trailing behind her with ink smudges from cataloging at the library.
Mrs. Greene stood in the common room with her arms folded tight, her face carved sharper than usual. Luxe froze at the doorway. Aurora bumped into her shoulder.
Daniels was there.
Not outside. Not in the fog. Inside the Y.
He leaned casually against the fireplace, hat tipped, cigarette burning despite the sign above the mantel: NO SMOKING. A smear of ash already marred the hearth.
Mrs. Greene's jaw flexed like a vice. "I told you — you don't come in here without a warrant."
Daniels smiled slow, his teeth catching the light. "And I told you, ma'am — I'm just ensuring safety. For the girls." His gaze slid, deliberate and slow, until it caught Luxe and Aurora in the doorway.
Aurora stiffened, clutching her notebook to her chest. Luxe moved subtly in front of her, every muscle taut.
Mrs. Greene stepped forward, shoulders squared. "You've made your point, Officer. Now leave."
Daniels didn't move. He exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Funny thing about points. They don't stick unless you drive them in."
The silence in the room pressed heavy, each second taut as thread stretched to snapping. Aurora's breathing hitched behind Luxe, too loud in the hush.
Daniels smirked, flicked his cigarette into the fireplace, and finally straightened. "Enjoy your poems, ladies."
He tipped his hat at Aurora before strolling past them, out the door.
The lock clicked sharp behind him.
Aurora sagged against Luxe, trembling. Mrs. Greene muttered something under her breath — a prayer, a curse, maybe both. She crossed herself, then looked at the sisters.
"He's not knocking anymore," she said grimly. "He's stepping over the threshold."
Luxe nodded once, throat tight. "Then we bar it from the inside."
But even as she said it, she knew the door was no longer the only entrance. Wolves had ways of finding windows, cracks, spies already perched at the table.
Aurora's notebook trembled in her hands. She opened it anyway, forcing her pencil to move.
The wolf stepped in, she wrote,
but the fire still burned.
Ash on the hearth,
but the roof still held.
Her voice shook as she read the words aloud, but she read them all the same.
Mrs. Greene's eyes softened. Luxe's fists clenched.
And outside, in the fog, the ember waited to flare again.