The knock came just after noon.
Not the rap of Daniels' fist, all swagger and smoke. Not the thud of auditors, carrying folders like weapons. This was softer. Almost polite.
Mrs. Greene froze at her desk. Luxe, folding linens nearby, felt the hair on her arms lift. Aurora looked up from her notebook, pencil stilled.
The knock came again. Three measured taps.
Mrs. Greene rose, spine stiff, and opened the door.
Beaumont stood on the threshold.
He looked nothing like the shadows Luxe had glimpsed on foggy nights. In daylight, Beaumont was immaculate: gray suit pressed razor-sharp, silk tie gleaming, hat tilted just enough to suggest charm. His eyes were the worst part — pale blue, so calm they seemed to erase sound.
"Good afternoon," he said warmly. "I'm told this house keeps fine company. I thought I'd see for myself."
Mrs. Greene's grip tightened on the doorknob. "We don't take visitors."
"Not even those who bring gifts?" He lifted a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Small. Harmless-looking.
Luxe moved instinctively, stepping between him and Aurora. Beaumont's gaze flicked to her, then back, as if cataloguing the shift.
"Gifts are often debts," Mrs. Greene said sharply. "We don't trade those here."
Beaumont chuckled. "Ah, a woman who knows the cost of kindness. Refreshing." He leaned lightly on the frame. "Might I step in? Merely to congratulate Miss Randall on her lovely poems."
Aurora's breath caught. Her name on his lips felt like a stain.
"No," Mrs. Greene said flatly. "You may speak your piece here."
Beaumont unwrapped the parcel slowly. Inside lay a slim leather-bound notebook, its cover embossed with gold. He held it out, palm open.
"For the poet," he said, eyes finding Aurora. "Every lamp deserves fine paper."
Aurora shook her head, words failing. Luxe answered for her. "She already has paper."
Beaumont's smile widened, as if amused by the interruption. "Of course. But why scribble in scraps when you could write history? Words preserved in leather, ink that will not fade." His voice dropped, silken. "Imagine your poems in libraries, in parlors, in halls across the city. I could arrange that. Easily."
Aurora trembled. "Why?"
"Because I admire light," Beaumont said simply. "And lamps should not be hidden."
Mrs. Greene's voice cut like a blade. "And what do you take in return?"
Beaumont met her stare without blinking. "Merely presence. A reading here, a supper there. Nothing untoward. Surely a young lady deserves recognition."
Recognition. The word dripped like poison disguised as wine.
Silence pressed heavy. Aurora looked to Luxe, wide-eyed.
Luxe stepped forward, chin lifted. "You don't admire her light. You want to own it. Like the lilies. Like the dress. Like the phonograph. All pretty cages."
Beaumont regarded her for a long, cold moment. Then he laughed — a low, genuine laugh that sent shivers crawling over skin.
"Sharp tongue," he murmured. "I see why you guard her so fiercely." He leaned closer, voice soft enough only Luxe and Mrs. Greene heard. "Guard dogs die first."
Luxe didn't flinch. "So do wolves when the pack turns."
For the first time, his smile faltered. Briefly. Then it returned, smooth as glass.
Footsteps sounded from the hall. Grace Chen appeared, knife still tucked in her apron. Ruby Hart followed, hands ink-stained from the library. Behind them, Pastor Mulligan, two mothers, and a dockworker filled the doorway.
The coalition had arrived, summoned not by signals but by instinct.
Beaumont's gaze swept them, cataloguing, calculating. "My, my. Quite the audience." He straightened, hat tipped. "No matter. I never stay where I'm unwelcome."
He set the leather notebook on the stoop, turned, and walked back into the fog. Daniels leaned against a lamppost across the street, smirking, then fell into step beside him.
The door shut. The bolt slid. Silence swallowed the foyer.
Aurora collapsed onto the stairwell, shaking. Luxe's hands ached from clenching. Mrs. Greene stared at the notebook on the stoop as though it might bite.
Grace spat into the ash can. "Wolves don't knock for long. Next time, he won't wait for welcome."
That night, the writing circle gathered tense and restless. Margaret wanted to burn the notebook immediately. Ruth argued it should be kept — proof of his intrusion. The room split down the middle.
Aurora sat silent, the weight of eyes pressing her down. Luxe finally rose, took the notebook, and opened it. Blank pages gleamed, waiting.
She tore one out. Crumpled it. Dropped it into the stove. The girls gasped.
"Paper's only power if we give it," Luxe said. "We choose what's written. Not him."
Aurora's shoulders straightened. Slowly, she took the notebook from Luxe, flipped to a fresh page, and began to write.
The wolf brought leather, gold, and lies,
but lamps burn cloth and wood alike.
We write in scraps, in ash, in bone,
and still the flame survives the strike.
Her voice trembled, then steadied. The circle erupted in applause. Even Ruth clapped this time.
Only Helen sat silent, her needle paused mid-stitch, eyes unreadable.
The fog was thick again. Luxe sat at the window, watching.
The street was empty at first. Then, across the way, a car door opened. Beaumont himself stepped out, cigar ember glowing. He didn't approach. He didn't wave. He just stood, smoke curling upward, watching the Y's lit windows.
After a long moment, he lifted his cigar in a mock salute, then slid back into the car. The engine purred, the taillights vanished.
Luxe's stomach knotted. He had tested the roof, seen the walls, and walked away smiling. Not beaten. Not deterred. Just amused.
She pressed her hand to the glass. "We'll make you choke on that smoke," she whispered.
Behind her, Aurora whispered in her sleep, "Roof… lamp… fire…"
Luxe closed her eyes. "Lighthouse," she corrected softly.
By dawn, she had made her choice. Defense wasn't enough. Wolves didn't respect walls; they respected fire.
She gathered the signals, the lists, the names. She would build not just a roof but a fortress of neighbors, words, and witnesses. If Beaumont wanted to sit under their lamp, he would do so surrounded by flames too bright to twist.
Aurora would write. Luxe would guard. Together, they would not bend.
And if the wolf returned, velvet gloves or iron teeth, they would be ready.