I rose from the floor with a sharpness I did not bother to disguise, annoyance warming my cheeks as Father continued his discussion with Miss Lakshmi in tones too civil to be sincere. Adults had a way of sanding down urgency until it fit neatly into conversation. I found it intolerable.
My attention drifted.
Halle stood a short distance away, attempting—unsuccessfully—to rouse the two individuals Miss Lakshmi had brought with her. They lay where they had fallen, breathing steady, expressions emptied of intent, as though sleep had been *imposed* rather than earned.
Ezra appeared beside me without announcement.
This one wore a sharp charcoal suit, short hair parted with mathematical precision—as though even disorder had been negotiated into compliance.
"Ezra," I asked quietly. "what is wrong with them?"
"They have exceeded their tolerances," Ezra replied.
The voice was an unsettling harmony—a deep baritone layered perfectly over a melodic soprano. Neither male nor female. Not a blend, but a concurrence, like two instruments tuned to the same inevitability.
"They are improperly calibrated for the forces they invited."
"Is that so?" I said. "Then what is the corrective action? Friends assist one another."
Ezra regarded me for a moment. The pale gold rings within his eyes rotated slowly—an inward motion, precise and mechanical, as if a ledger were being cross-referenced somewhere behind his gaze.
"Friends," the dual-toned voice replied mildly, already moving toward the prone figures, "do not typically render themselves nonfunctional. However, if their current state displeases you, I shall initiate a restoration."
With scarcely any effort, Ezra reached down.
He touched them both at once—a reach that should not have been possible for a body of his proportions, yet the space simply allowed it. Distance, briefly, forgot itself.
The change was immediate.
Their eyes flew open. There was no confusion, no grogginess. Their bodies softened at once, tension draining away until they lay calm, alert, and eerily composed.
It was not that they had awakened.
It was as if Ezra had toggled their status from Inactive to Operational.
"Is that to your liking, Zara?" Ezra asked.
Father's voice cut across the space, cold and resonant, carrying the weight of precedent.
"I assure you, Miss Lakshmi, there will be no trouble from us regarding your warehouse. Such disputes are beneath the standing of this House. My daughter's instruction is complete for the evening."
Ezra turned back to me.
"Miss, we should return home. Your biological requirements are behind schedule."
"I would like Halle to join us for dinner."
Miss Lakshmi stiffened. Her hand twitched toward her coat—muscle memory shaped by years of exits gone wrong.
"And her friends," I added, gesturing to the two girls still reorienting themselves.
"They require rest. I can provide it. Travel in their current condition would be inefficient, Father."
I used his language. His logic. Law always listens to itself.
Father stood. His gold watch chain caught the dim warehouse light.
"Correct," he said decisively. "Hospitality is the ultimate expression of Law. We shall offer them a superior environment for recovery. Ezra—prepare the carriage."
The ride was quiet.
Somewhere between the incline of the hill and the measured creak of the carriage frame, it struck me that this was the first time Halle would see my home.
The thought settled warmly in my chest—triumphant, settled, irreversible.
Night had fully claimed the city by then. From the hill, Stonegarden looked unreal—like a model Father had commissioned, perfected, and then forgotten to interact with.
The front doors were opened by two more Ezras.
One wore a morning suit. The other a crisp maid's uniform, hair pinned back in a flawless coil.
As we passed, they spoke in unison—that same overlapping resonance, stripped of gender and rich with function.
"Welcome home, Miss Zara. Welcome, guests of the House."
After the two girls were settled into a guest room—sleep claiming them with sudden, absolute finality the moment their heads touched silk—the rest of us dined.
Father excused himself midway through the meal.
"I have a ledger to audit," he said. "The local authorities have allowed the lower district's crime rate to rise by three percent. An inefficiency. I shall remind them of their obligations."
He left with the quiet satisfaction of a monarch correcting a clerical error.
Halle spoke little, though her eyes never stopped moving.
Miss Lakshmi, by contrast, wore her irritation like a tailored garment.
"The wine is imported," I said.
The Ezra in the suit handled the bottle. Another—female-presenting, apron immaculate—adjusted the candles behind us with soundless precision.
"That will be sufficient," Ezra said, withdrawing the bottle at exactly the correct moment. "It is late. You require rest and nourishment, Zara—not indulgence. Indulgence is a compensatory behavior."
"What a spoiled child," Miss Lakshmi muttered, bitterness leaking through her composure.
I ignored her.
Father did not spoil me.
He curated reality until deviation felt gauche.
The bath afterward was a ritual of stasis.
Water that never cooled. Steam that rose in perfect, repeating spirals.
A female Ezra dried my hair with the attentiveness reserved for sacred artifacts. Her fingers were cool and smooth, moving quickly enough to leave my scalp tingling.
When she asked if the temperature was adequate, the voice was still that same duet—brother and sister, overlapping, inseparable.
Dressed for sleep, I paused outside Halle's room.
I did not knock.
Some things improve when allowed to ripen.
I retired to my own bed.
The sheets were cool. The pillows arranged at the precise angle required for optimal spinal alignment.
"I wonder who those two girls are," I thought.
It sounded less like a storm and more like a door closing—softly, definitively—on the rest of the world.
Sleep came easily.
I did not dream.
Father says dreams are for those whose realities lack rigor.
Mine was flawless.