The first gift came in the morning.
Not lilies this time. Not a funeral's bouquet. A phonograph. Polished mahogany, brass horn gleaming, heavy enough that two men in caps grunted as they hauled it up the Y's stoop.
"For Miss Randall," one said, thrusting a paper at Mrs. Greene. "Delivery paid in full."
Mrs. Greene didn't touch the receipt. "Return it."
The man shrugged. "No return address." He left it on the threshold, tipped his cap, and vanished before she could argue.
Aurora hovered, wide-eyed. "It's… beautiful."
"Velvet chains," Mrs. Greene muttered. "Pretty until they tighten." She called for the dockworkers Ruby had recruited. Together, they carried the machine out back and smashed it with hammers until only brass shards and splintered wood remained.
Aurora flinched at every strike. Luxe didn't. She watched, arms crossed, memorizing the sound of velvet breaking.
By afternoon, Daniels arrived. Not alone. He brought a man in a gray suit, spectacles glinting, clipboard thick with papers.
"City audit," Daniels said smoothly. "We need to verify your residents are properly supervised. Too much time in public can lead to… misbehavior."
Mrs. Greene folded her arms. "All our residents are accounted for."
The auditor cleared his throat. "Then you won't mind if we check."
They prowled the halls, opening doors, counting girls like cattle. Aurora shrank behind Luxe when Daniels stepped into their room, eyes scanning the notebooks stacked on the desk.
"Busy little author," he drawled. "You might find publishers less friendly if they thought your words… improper."
Aurora's hands shook, but Luxe stepped forward, blocking his line of sight. "Improper's a matter of opinion."
Daniels' smile sharpened. "And opinions can be filed."
The auditor scribbled notes. Luxe memorized the scratch of the pen, the tilt of his glasses, the way Daniels' hand lingered on Aurora's notebook before he turned away.
When they left, Mrs. Greene locked the door behind them and leaned against it, pale but unbroken. "He's building a case," she whispered. "Paperwork can strangle as surely as rope."
That night, Ruby gathered them in the library basement again. The coalition was growing tighter, more disciplined. She spread the auditor's notice on the table.
"He's using the city's pen," she said. "So we use ours. Letters to the editor. Petitions signed by families. If they file complaints, we file praise."
Aurora's eyes widened. "But will people sign?"
Grace snorted. "They'll sign if you feed them." She slapped down a tray of sesame cakes. "Sugar writes faster than ink."
The dockworker grinned. "And if the city men come sniffing at the hall, we'll be waiting."
Ruby leaned toward Aurora. "Every word you print makes it harder for them to silence you. But only if neighbors echo it. That's the roof."
Aurora nodded, fire flickering behind her fear. Luxe watched the flames spread and wondered how long before they burned too bright.
The Y's circle was tense that week. Margaret was electric, scribbling slogans in the margins of her poems: Lamps Against Fog. Ruth was weary, muttering about lost placements. A new girl announced she'd quit the circle altogether.
Aurora stood at the front, voice trembling as she read a new poem:
He sent me music, brass and wood,
but music's ours already.
We sing with breath, not gilded chains.
Our songs are always steady.
Half the room clapped. Half didn't.
Helen's voice drifted afterward, soft but sharp. "Chains can steady, too. Sometimes steadier than freedom."
Aurora flinched. Luxe stepped closer, eyes locked on Helen's calm smile. "We don't sing in chains."
Helen only shrugged. "Not yet."
Two days later, another package arrived. Smaller. Wrapped in silk.
Inside: a dress. Pale blue satin, cut like something out of a magazine, far beyond anything a Y girl could afford. Pinned to the collar: a card.
Every lamp deserves its shade. — B
Aurora touched the fabric, awed and horrified. Luxe snatched it from her hands and shoved it into the stove before Mrs. Greene even spoke. The satin curled, smoke sour with perfume.
Aurora covered her mouth. "He's watching what I wear."
Mrs. Greene's face was stone. "Then wear steel."
That afternoon, Grace marched them through the market again. This time, she didn't just introduce allies. She tested them.
"You," she said, pointing to a butcher. "If you see a girl with a ribbon on the rail, what do you do?"
"Fetch Mulligan. Loudly," he answered without hesitation.
She turned to a baker's wife. "If the shade's crooked?"
"Send my boy running. And keep the stoop crowded."
Grace nodded, satisfied. She turned to Luxe. "Neighbors are walls too. Wolves hate walls."
Aurora clutched her notebook tighter. Luxe felt her heart steady.
It came at dusk. Two patrol cars screeched up, doors slamming. Officers stormed the Y, Daniels at their head.
"Inspection!" he barked. "Reports of indecency, noise complaints, possible subversive activity!"
Mrs. Greene blocked the stairs. "You have no warrant."
Daniels smirked. "Don't need one. Public safety."
The girls panicked, scattering. Luxe shoved Aurora into their room, whispering, "Stay behind me." She crooked the window shade — Signal 1.
Minutes later, neighbors arrived. Ruby, Grace, Pastor Mulligan, mothers with children on their hips, dockworkers with fists like hammers. They filled the foyer, crowding the officers until Daniels' smirk faltered.
"You'll regret this," he hissed.
Mrs. Greene's voice was iron. "We already regret you."
The officers withdrew, muttering. The neighbors stayed until the cars pulled away. Only then did Aurora uncurl from Luxe's grip, notebook clutched like a lifeline.
That night, the Y buzzed with whispers. Some girls wept. Some cheered. Aurora wrote furiously by lamplight. Luxe sat by the window, watching the fog.
No car. No ember. Just silence.
Then she saw it: another gift. A white envelope slid under the Y's door.
Inside: a single page, handwritten in Beaumont's elegant scrawl.
You've built a roof. Lovely. I'll come sit under it soon. Lamps look best when admired up close.
Luxe crushed the letter in her fist. Aurora looked at her, eyes blazing.
"He's not asking anymore," Aurora whispered.
"No," Luxe said. "He's coming."
She stood at the window until dawn, the letter ash in her hand.
Beaumont wanted to court with chains. Daniels wanted to strangle with paper. Wolves always circled.
But now the roof had walls. The roof had watchers. The roof had flame.
And Luxe was ready to meet him.