The morning light through the Y's windows was softer than usual, blurred by fog. Aurora stretched in bed, hair wild, cheeks flushed with sleep. She clutched her notebook the way other girls clutched prayer books.
"They liked it," she whispered, still glowing. "They really liked it."
Luxe smiled faintly, brushing the hair from her sister's face. "Of course they did."
But her own mind was still back in the night—the car outside, Daniels's silhouette under the lamplight, the stranger pointing up at the building. She hadn't slept more than an hour, every sound from the hallway twisting sharp against her nerves.
At breakfast, Margaret plopped onto the bench beside Aurora. "Read again tonight," she urged. "You're better than you think."
Aurora ducked her head, grinning into her oatmeal. Luxe kept her eyes on the door. Every stranger who walked past made her muscles tighten.
By midmorning, Luxe insisted they head to Ellis Cleaners early. The work was punishing, but the steam-filled shop at least felt predictable. Mrs. Devine barked orders, clucked her tongue at mistakes, and measured worth by speed. Luxe understood rules like that.
Aurora sang under her breath as she worked, little more than a hum, but Luxe saw Mrs. Devine pause, her stern face softening for just a heartbeat before snapping back to steel.
The trouble came that evening.
The Y's common room buzzed with chatter when the knock came. Not the brisk rap of a girl late to curfew, not the matron's measured strike. This was slower, deliberate, too heavy for politeness.
The room fell quiet.
Mrs. Greene, the matron, frowned and went to the door. Luxe's stomach twisted before she even saw who stood on the threshold.
Daniels.
He tipped his hat, smile slow and wrong. "Evening, ma'am. Making sure all's well with the girls."
Mrs. Greene stiffened. "We don't need police oversight here, Officer. This is a respectable house."
"Oh, I know," Daniels said, leaning just enough to glance past her into the common room. His eyes swept the girls until they caught on Luxe and Aurora. "Just making sure no strays found their way in."
Aurora froze. Luxe's hand shot out under the table, gripping her sister's wrist.
Mrs. Greene blocked the doorway firmly. "You've no business here unless you've got a warrant."
Daniels chuckled, tipping his hat again. "Just being neighborly." He let the silence stretch, his gaze lingering too long on the sisters, before stepping back into the fog.
The door shut, the lock turning with a sharp click.
The room exhaled in nervous chatter. Some girls laughed shakily, brushing it off. But Aurora's hands shook under the table, her pencil rolling away unnoticed.
"He knows," she whispered.
Luxe squeezed her wrist harder, steady as stone. "Let him look. He won't find anything."
But in her chest, her heart beat like a drum warning of war.
The room didn't settle after Daniels left. Conversations started and died again, laughter forced and brittle. Even Margaret—usually quick with a wry quip—sat frowning, tapping her pencil against her knee.
Aurora hunched over her notebook, her face pale. She drew little circles on the page without writing a word. Luxe touched her shoulder. "Let's go upstairs."
Aurora obeyed, but her hand trembled in Luxe's.
Their room felt smaller than usual, the walls closer, the window heavier. Aurora sat on the bed, curling her arms around her knees.
"He saw us," she whispered. "He looked at us, Luce. Like—like he already knew."
Luxe crouched in front of her. "He doesn't know anything. He only wants us to believe he does."
"But what if he asks questions? What if he—"
Luxe gripped her sister's hands tight, cutting her off. "Then we keep working. We keep moving. We keep choosing. He's not the first man who thought he owned us."
Aurora's eyes shimmered, but she nodded. "Not the last either."
"Then we'll keep proving him wrong," Luxe said.
Later, when Aurora finally drifted into restless sleep, Luxe pulled the curtain back a sliver.
The fog outside was thick, muffling the world into shadow. But the glow of a cigarette still burned faint on the corner. Daniels hadn't gone far.
She pressed her palm to the cold glass. Her reflection stared back—wary eyes, clenched jaw, shoulders too square for someone her age.
"You don't come in here," she whispered. "Not tonight. Not ever."
Downstairs, the matron Mrs. Greene lingered in her office, fingers tight around her rosary beads. She'd seen the way Daniels had looked at those two girls. She knew trouble when it knocked on her door.
She whispered a prayer under her breath—half to God, half to the strength in her own bones.
Across town, in the smoke-filled backroom of a bar, Daniels reported to a man whose shadow stretched long against the wall.
"Two of them," Daniels said. "Hiding in plain sight. I can press the landlord, the shopkeepers. Won't take long before they've got nowhere to run."
Beaumont leaned forward, smile slow and cruel. "Good. Flowers wither quickest when the soil's pulled out from under them."
Back at the Y, Aurora murmured in her sleep, clutching her notebook tight. Luxe sat awake beside her, eyes fixed on the window.
The knock at the door still echoed in her ears. Not just a sound. A warning.
The Y did not sleep easily that night. Even after Daniels left, voices lingered in whispers along the hall, doors opened and shut, footsteps padded nervously to and from the washrooms.
Luxe heard it all. Every creak in the building sounded like a warning.
Aurora sat propped against the headboard, notebook unopened in her lap. "They saw him too," she whispered. "All the other girls. They saw the way he looked at us."
"Then they'll remember," Luxe said. "That matters."
Aurora frowned. "Do you think they'll want us here if he keeps coming back?"
Luxe didn't answer right away. She thought of Mrs. Greene's firm hand on the door, Ruby's watchful eyes in the library, Grace's steady kindness at the shop. Allies mattered. Allies were the difference between a cage and a refuge.
"They'll want us," Luxe said finally. "Because we'll prove we're worth it."
Aurora exhaled, her shoulders loosening just enough. She set the notebook aside and leaned against her sister.
The next morning, the Y girls gathered over breakfast, their chatter edged with unease. Margaret leaned across the table toward Aurora. "That officer—he shouldn't be here. Mrs. Greene was right to shut the door on him."
Aurora glanced nervously at Luxe, then nodded. "He's… persistent."
Ruth, adjusting her glasses, muttered, "Persistent's a polite word."
The girls nodded grimly, then shifted the conversation toward safer things—jobs, wages, the latest magazine articles. But the shadow of last night never fully left the table.
Aurora held Luxe's hand under the bench, squeezing hard.
At Ellis Cleaners, Mrs. Devine worked them harder than before, barking orders until sweat stung their eyes. But for Luxe, the rhythm of pressing collars and scrubbing linen was a kind of armor. So long as her hands were busy, she could keep the fear from spilling over.
Aurora whispered while folding a stack of tablecloths: "She doesn't like us, but she respects us."
"That's enough," Luxe said. Respect was safer than affection. Respect didn't waver.
That evening, back at the Y, Aurora joined Margaret and Ruth in the common room again. She read a new poem, her voice unsteady but determined:
The city has walls, but we have doors.
The city has wolves, but we have names.
The circle clapped softly, the sound echoing gentle in the high-ceilinged room. Aurora flushed, smiling at Luxe as if to say see, we can belong.
Luxe gave the smallest nod.
But later, after curfew, when the lights dimmed and the halls went quiet, Luxe's vigilance sharpened again. She pulled the curtain back just an inch.
There it was: a car parked under the lamppost, windows dark, silhouette unmistakable. Daniels hadn't left them alone.
Aurora stirred in her sleep, murmuring a half-line from her poem. Luxe closed the curtain, sat back against the wall, and kept her eyes open.
She whispered into the dark: "You won't come through this door."
And she meant it with every piece of herself.
The night dragged like a stone tied to their ankles. Every creak of floorboards in the hall made Luxe's muscles tense; every passing car outside jolted her heart. She sat awake while Aurora dozed fitfully, notebook hugged to her chest, words slipping from her lips in half-dreamed fragments.
Doors… light… river…
Each word cut Luxe like a knife, because Aurora still dreamed of freedom while danger stood just outside.
By dawn, Luxe's eyes ached with exhaustion. She splashed cold water on her face in the washroom, the cracked mirror throwing back the image of someone older than she felt. Shadows bruised her eyes, but her spine stayed straight.
When she returned, Aurora was already dressed, notebook in her lap. She looked at Luxe with quiet determination. "I won't let him take this from me."
Luxe crouched in front of her, cupping her sister's chin. "He won't. Not while I'm here."
Aurora blinked back tears, then whispered, "Then we'll guard each other."
The words landed like a vow.
At breakfast, whispers still stirred. The other Y girls avoided speaking Daniels' name, but they didn't have to—his presence still pressed at the edges of their voices.
Margaret leaned across the table, eyes sharp. "Mrs. Greene won't let him through the door again. She told us so this morning."
Aurora exhaled, relief softening her shoulders. Luxe, however, caught the flicker of doubt in Margaret's tone. Rules could only keep wolves out for so long.
The day at Ellis Cleaners blurred with steam and starch. Luxe threw herself into the work, pressing shirts until her arms trembled. Aurora worked slower but steadier, humming under her breath as if music could keep fear at bay.
Mrs. Devine gave no praise, but neither did she scold. At closing, she handed Luxe their wages—small coins wrapped in brown paper. "Earned," she said simply.
Aurora smiled as if they'd been handed gold. Luxe tucked the packet deep into her pocket, already weighing how far it could stretch.
That evening, Aurora read her newest lines at the writing circle:
The wolves wait outside, but the fire is ours.
The door holds, the light stays.
The girls clapped softly, Margaret's grin wide with approval. Aurora flushed, pride glowing in her cheeks. For one fragile moment, Luxe let herself believe in that fire, too.
But later, when the building quieted and curfew pressed its hush over the halls, Luxe rose from bed again. She pulled the curtain back, heart already bracing.
The patrol car was there. Not idling this time—parked. Daniels leaned against the hood, cigarette ember bright in the fog. Another man sat in the passenger seat, shadowed but watching.
Luxe's breath caught.
She let the curtain fall slowly, her body taut with fury.
Across the room, Aurora murmured in her sleep, clutching her notebook like a shield.
Luxe sat down on the edge of her bed, fists tight on her knees, whispering:
"You knock all you want. The door doesn't open."
But in her bones, she knew: sooner or later, Daniels would try more than knocking.