Chapter Text
Everything is glowing and glittering and golden for a moment. Then, of course, it all fractures apart.
—
Mira stands in the entry hall to a house that does not belong to her but now maybe sort of does.
Her palm tingles from the handshake. Her whole body does. She doesn’t know what’s going on but it’s okay because none of them do, she can tell. They’re all on equal footing here.
Rumi still stands in front of her. Her eyes are wide, vulnerable. Her last words hang in the air between the three of them.
Then Celine clears her throat gently. “Now that introductions have been made, let’s get down to the logistics, shall we? Perhaps a tour.”
Which is all well and good and expected.
But then Celine says, “Rumi.” Not like a question. Like a command.
Something in the air shifts.
Mira watches as the girl in front of her straightens. As her expression smooths over, wiping every emotion from her face, every glimpse into her own feelings about this meeting. Watches as she once again steps back to stand by Celine’s side, once again mirrors her posture down to a tee.
And Mira thinks, oh.
Something in her gut sinks as Rumi smiles the kind of cordial smile that Mira has seen a hundred times on the faces of her father’s coworkers, on the faces of those cold, distant strangers that she’d been forced to introduce herself to at all those cold, distant galas, on the faces of her own parents when someone complimented Mira’s dancing after a recital.
Mira thinks, oh.
Oh.
Something in her gut sinks as Rumi smiles that cordial smile and says, “If you would all follow me.”
(Mira has no patience for people who wear masks instead of their true faces.
She has fought and fought for the privilege of wearing her own expressions rather than the ones her parents would see her don. Has fought for the ability to express herself, truly express herself, in the faces of those who would rather see her nod and smile politely. In the faces of those who do just that.
She has sacrificed a hundred things a hundred times to be able to rebel in that way. She has no patience for those who merely comply. So she seeks out people like her to spend her time with; people who believe in authenticity over well-meaning facades.
And it is becoming increasingly apparent, as Rumi and Celine turn on their heels as one and begin to march out of the entry hall in perfect tandem, Zoey close behind, that Rumi is not like her.)
Something in her gut sinks, twists and coils heavy in her stomach, as she follows the three out.
—
Zoey is a little overwhelmed.
The house - mansion, really - is huge. Sprawling and spotless and clearly ancient. Everything here looks like it’s been ripped out of a period drama, like Bridgerton maybe, all polished floors and wooden beams and honest to freakin’ god pillars. It’s beautiful and also a little creepy, the way the whole space feels empty, hollow.
Celine and Rumi are expressionless as they stride through echoing hallways, so Zoey tries to match them. Tries to stop gawking every time they enter a new space. The two take turns pointing to certain rooms and naming their functions.
Jeez. She’s gonna live here? Do they have a map handy? Her mind spins with all the new information.
How embarrassing would it be if you got lost?
Okay. So Zoey is more than a little overwhelmed.
She quickens her pace a bit to catch up to Mira, whose eyebrows are raised in what seems like an expression of begrudgingly impressed.
“It’s huge,” Zoey whispers, and the taller girl glances over at her and nods a little with an equally hushed, “Yeah,” before returning to face front. It’s not a lot but it’s enough to give Zoey some comfort. Maybe she’s not the only one feeling very much like a fish out of water.
“And these are the bedrooms,” Celine says smoothly a moment later, gesturing to a set of three seemingly-identical rooms before them.
“Oh, they’re so close together,” Zoey says brightly. “Sleepover potential! Right guys?”
She glances at the other girls. Rumi has a professional sort of smile on her face. Mira looks unimpressed.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Celine says with a kind smile after a beat of silence, and Zoey’s face burns with mortification. “Your bags should be in the foyer - you have about an hour or so to get unpacked before dinner. Any questions?”
Mira nods along. Zoey echoes it, then hesitates. She raises a hand halfway in the air, then lets it fall. You’re not in school, Zoey. Come on. Lame.
Celine nods at her nonetheless. “Yes?”
“Um, it’s just- I’m kind of worried I’m gonna take a wrong turn on the way to the foyer, y’know. This house is kinda really big.” She laughs a little, tries to ignore the way it comes out tight, nervous.
Nobody laughs with her. The noise echoes lightly against cold marble flooring and then fades. Zoey wants to sink into said marble flooring and never reappear.
“Of course,” Celine says. “Rumi will show you the way back. I’ll leave the three of you to it.”
With that, the woman turns and walks away, quickly disappearing from sight as she rounds a bend in the hallway.
There’s a brief pause. Zoey turns to Rumi and hopes her eyes aren’t too pleading.
The girl in question nods. “Right. Just follow me.”
It’s silent on the walk back. None of the three of them speak. They’re not close enough to touch, either. It’s awkward. She hates it.
There’s a humming underneath Zoey’s skin that’s making her jittery.
Okay. Maybe she’s a lot overwhelmed.
It’s a couple minutes of brisk walking before they reach the entrance again. Zoey shoulders her backpack and grips the handles of her two suitcases like a lifeline.
Zoey turns to the other two girls just in time to hear Rumi say, “Oh, is this all you brought?”
She feels more than sees Mira bristle, her single duffel bag slung across her shoulder. “Yeah. This is it. That okay with you?”
Something in Zoey shudders at the subtle mockery in Mira’s tone. At the way Rumi’s shoulders immediately stiffen, her smile slipping off of her face. “Oh. Oh, no, I had only meant- in case you had more bags, and needed help carrying them-”
Her voice is just slightly too high, too quick. It betrays her nerves in a way that Zoey’s pretty sure Rumi doesn’t mean to happen.
“I’m fine,” Mira says shortly, the ghost of a frown on her face. “And I know the way back.” True to her word, she marches off in the direction they had come.
Oh no.
Rumi’s eyes are wide, confused, dismayed. Zoey’s sure that hers are too. She’s not really sure what triggered that - sure, it’s been awkward, but outright hostility was not on her bingo card for this interaction.
“Um,” she says hesitantly, “I… don’t. Know the way back, I mean. Sorry.”
The other girl smiles but it looks practiced, forced. Something inside Zoey hums mournfully at the sight of it. “Yes, of course. Let me show you back.”
When they arrive back at the set of rooms, the one furthest down the hall has the door closed. It’s obvious Mira has chosen that one.
Zoey winces at the look of apprehension on Rumi’s face and says, “Guess I’ll take this one, then,” injecting as much cheer as possible into her tone. It falls flat.
Rumi just nods. “Sounds good,” she says, but her eyes are far-away.
So Zoey leaves her there in the hallway to ruminate (rumi-nate?) and steps inside her own room. Takes in the space, easily three times the size of her old room at home. It feels empty.
Later, freshly unpacked and staring at a blank page in her journal, Zoey thinks again to herself, oh no.
—
It’s been thirty minutes.
It’s been thirty minutes since Rumi met the other pieces of her soul for the first time.
It’s been thirty minutes, and Rumi’s already failing.
Mira’s cutting words replay in her head over and over. I’m fine. That okay with you? I know the way back.
She buries her head in her hands and fights the urge to scream into her palms, if only because she’s certain Zoey would probably hear it from the adjoining room. How had she already messed this up?
The room she’s sitting in is empty. Rumi has yet to bring down her belongings from her old room upstairs. She’s suddenly unsure if living in such close proximity to the other girls is a good idea.
Celine’s going to be mad.
Her mentor - their mentor, now, she supposes - probably already knows. The Honmoon is trembling with barely-concealed agitation, a far cry from the peaceful contentment from their initial introductions. Rumi doesn’t know if it’s her or Mira who’s causing the ripples.
Probably Mira. She’d seemed angry.
And Rumi had known this about her, about namsaek, that she was frustrated often and easily. But…
The Honmoon had flared when she’d touched Mira’s hand. It had flared and glowed with pure joy. Rumi had seen the same awe she’d been feeling reflected in Mira’s eyes, seen the way the other girl’s face had softened.
So god, how had she already messed this up? What had she said? It must have been something she’d done, specifically, because Mira had shown no anger towards Zoey, had even interacted with her briefly on the tour. Her tone had been warm, conspiratory, when she’d responded to the other girl. And Rumi hadn’t earned that same warmth. Not yet.
(The thought of it sends a pang of something dangerously close to jealousy through Rumi, and she shakes her head at herself. Ridiculous.)
She sighs as silently as she can and stands. She has about an hour to move into this new room, per Celine’s orders, and she’d better get started now in case the other girls needed help with anything later.
No matter that such a thing was highly unlikely. That at least one of the girls would apparently rather stab her own eyes out than ask for Rumi’s help.
Rumi walks out of her new room and can’t shake the feeling that this has already gone horribly, terribly wrong.
—
Celine comes to collect them exactly an hour later.
Mira’s been unpacked for a while. After all, she’d only brought one bag.
This is it. That okay with you?
She’d probably handled that whole situation poorly. Had seen the disguised shock and flicker of hurt in Rumi’s gaze before Mira had turned and walked away.
But the way Rumi had asked, formal and stiff; the look on her face when she’d taken in the single duffel on Mira’s shoulder, like she couldn’t believe that was all she’d brought, like she had no concept of what it was to want to start fresh…
(Of course she wouldn’t. She's clearly Celine’s golden girl, obedient and prompt and perfect.)
It had rubbed Mira the wrong way. Had compounded the feeling that something was wrong, wrong enough that this was not going to work the way Celine had clearly planned.
And maybe she’d been unfair, snapping like that. But the brief look of surprise that had flitted over Rumi’s face when Mira had spoken had made her feel better about the whole thing. That even little miss perfect wasn’t unflappable. Wasn’t as unshakeable as her carefully-neutral mask seems to suggest.
(There’s something else, something deep down. Something like resentment. Something like Mira, why can’t you be like the other children, in her mother’s sighing voice. Something like always a problem with you, isn’t there, in her father’s disapproving rumble. There’s something else, deep down, something that looks at Rumi, the perfect daughter, and says you couldn’t be any less like her.
She ignores all of that.)
They walk in single-file silence to what appears to be the dining room. The table is long, but all five available chairs are grouped together at one end, as is all the food.
Celine sits at the head of the table. Rumi on her right. Zoey chooses the seat on Celine’s other side, across from Rumi.
Which leaves two empty chairs - one next to Zoey, and one next to Rumi.
Mira doesn’t hesitate before sitting heavily next to Zoey. Pretends that she doesn’t see the hint of some emotion flicker across the other girl’s face before she schools her expression back into careful neutrality.
It makes Mira kind of want to break something, just to get a reaction out of her.
(She doesn’t. Something tells her Celine wouldn’t be too pleased.)
There’s food in front of them, bowls of steaming rice and platters of grilled meat and banchan. No one starts moving until Celine sighs and says a bit wryly, “The food isn’t for decoration, you know.”
Still, Mira doesn’t move until Zoey does, hauling a plate of bulgogi towards her and beginning to serve herself.
It’s mostly quiet as everyone begins to eat. The food is actually really good. Mira hasn’t eaten since her morning bowl of gyeran bap and she’s starving.
Some attempts at conversation do occur, mostly driven by Celine and continued by a clearly nervous Zoey. Little icebreaking questions.
Zoey tends to ramble, Mira notices quickly, even when the question only really requires a few words to answer. It should annoy her but doesn’t, somehow. It’s actually kind of endearing.
Rumi, though, answers everything in that too-formal, polite way of hers, glancing at Celine each time she speaks for what seems like approval, only relaxing when she gets it from the woman in the form of a short nod.
That annoys Mira. To the point where she only speaks in one-word, clipped answers, glancing up to gauge the other girl’s reactions every once in a while.
It’s petty, she knows, but there’s something about Rumi’s constant, effortless obedience, the perfection, the way she’s always seeking approval, that strikes a nerve in Mira. That hits a wound that she’d thought long-healed until someone started poking at it.
So yeah. She pokes back.
And Rumi hides it well, but Mira can see her occasional annoyance in the way her mouth tightens or eyes narrow when Mira says something particularly short. It brings Mira a twisted sort of glee, until it doesn’t. Until the irritation on Rumi’s flawless face smooths back over into unreadability and Mira feels…
Mira feels dumb. Small. Like some brat picking a fight that the other person didn’t sign up for. Like someone needling another for attention.
The noise in the room is nonexistent, besides the all clinking of cutlery against porcelain. Then Zoey asks, “So where’s everybody’s family from?”
She tries not to stiffen. Tries and fails as Rumi says, a note of something cautious creeping into her voice, “Oh, just around here. This is a family property.”
Of course it is.
Zoey turns to Mira expectantly. Doesn’t see how her hackles are raised. Doesn’t see the way she’s gripping her chopsticks hard enough that she’s surprised they haven’t snapped in half.
“My family is none of your business,” she says in a carefully monotonous tone, and leaves it at that.
She feels a flash of guilt for the way Zoey deflates. Then Rumi says, “Oh, Zoey, I’m sure Mira didn’t mean-”
And Mira knows this trick. The pretending, the politeness. The way Rumi’s trying to soften the blow with empty platitudes, trying to smooth things over. She knows it because she’d done it before for years. Worn that placid, courteous mask for years. And hated herself for it.
(Maybe that’s why she hates it on Rumi. Because it looks so easy. Because it looks so familiar.)
Mira says what she means and she doesn't need anyone to translate for her, to make her easier.
It pisses her off.
“I don’t need you,” she interrupts through gritted teeth, “to speak for me, Rumi. But thanks.”
Zoey freezes. Rumi tenses. Celine looks unsurprised and unamused.
Rumi opens her mouth to respond, eyebrows drawn together in displeasure, and everything in Mira’s body thrums in excitement. Finally. Let’s see the face behind the mask. Let’s hear what you’re really thinking.
Celine says calmly, “I think that’s enough.”
Rumi’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. Mira sneers. Oh, good dog.
“I’m from California,” Zoey offers weakly from Mira’s right. “But my dad’s from Busan, so that’s where I visit when I come here. I split my time usually.”
Both Mira and Rumi ignore her.
Celine sighs. “Girls,” she says. “You’ve all felt it by now. The Honmoon.”
It's an unsubtle change of subject, but it gets everyone to straighten, including Mira. She glances over at their new mentor and finds her sitting back in her chair, an expectant look on her face.
Zoey’s eyes go big. She leans forward a bit. “Is that what it is? All this… buzzing?”
Mira tries not to look too eager for Celine to answer.
“Not quite,” Celine says. “That is your soul-bond, orchestrated by the Honmoon.” She does not elaborate further.
And Mira can’t help it. She snorts into her bowl of rice.
(Because of course the universe would tie her to someone that couldn’t be more different than her. Of course the universe would see fit to force a person like Rumi, a reflection of all that Mira should have been and had failed to be, into her life, and say okay. Now play nice, you’re stuck with each other.
Of course the universe would rope her into something like this, only to laugh cruelly once she got here, once she got her hopes up, and say, see how different you are? You don’t belong here. You’re not like them.)
“Is something funny?” Rumi says from across the table, and her tone is strained.
Alright, Rumi. Gloves off. Let’s go.
“No, of course not,” Mira says, mocking. “Guess we’re all just best friends forever now, right?”
“It’s a sacred connection,” Rumi says tightly, voice steady but clipped. “It’s something bigger than any of us. It means something.”
Mira looks up at the girl. Sees the reverence in her eyes, behind her current aggravation. Sees it echoed on Zoey’s face. They’re taking this so seriously.
I don’t belong here.
She doesn’t share their awe, even as she feels it expanding in her chest. What she feels is angry.
“Yeah,” Mira says, because she is good at ruining things. “It means that my soul is now shackled to someone who can’t take a joke.”
Rumi’s eyes narrow further. “It’s not a joke.”
“No,” Mira agrees, tone sharper now. “It’s not. It’s fucking cosmic irony.”
There’s a beat. Zoey looks simultaneously like she’s going to jump in between the two of them and also like she’s going to melt into her chair. Celine is watching with an unreadable expression.
“I didn’t ask for this,” Rumi says, and it’s quieter now. More resigned. Her knuckles are white where she grips the edge of the table.
I didn’t ask for you, Mira hears. You don’t belong here.
She laughs humorlessly. “Is that right? Because you’re kneeling at Celine’s feet every time she opens her mouth. Seems like you’re pretty into the whole destiny thing.”
(You belong here and I do not. You were made for this and I was made for failure upon failure. For ruining things. See, watch me ruin this.)
Rumi’s eyes flash. “Just because I respect our mentor and the Honmoon doesn’t mean-”
“Rumi, that’s enough.”
Celine’s voice is still calm but there’s an edge to it now. Rumi freezes. Mira fights the urge to laugh at the fear now filling her gaze. Aw. Not so perfect now.
“Both of you,” Celine continues. Mira doesn’t allow her shoulders to slump as their mentor turns disapproving eyes to her, keeps her chin up and her head held high. This is who I am. This is what you chose. Do you understand that you picked wrong yet?
“You don’t have to like each other yet,” Celine says after a beat, and there is something heavy in her voice, something sharp and cool like a knife against skin. “But you will have to learn to trust each other. And soon.”
She looks around the table - at Zoey, slumped in her seat, looking for all the world like she’s wishing she could just evaporate; at Rumi, frozen and unreadable; at Mira, whose chest is aching with pain and hurt that is not just her own.
“More than just your pride relies on it,” Celine finishes, and sets down her chopsticks before standing and leaving the room without another word.
And Mira suddenly just feels… empty. Empty and ashamed, as someone else’s discomfort and distress blooms in her chest. Zoey, she knows. She doesn’t feel anything from Rumi.
She almost never feels anything from Rumi.
Mira stands abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Stands and walks away.
—
Zoey’s heart hurts. Her entire chest is aching and she’s pretty sure it’s not her own pain that she’s feeling.
She’d felt the tension rising the entire time they’d been sitting at this table, felt as Rumi set her teeth against Mira’s irreverent, low-effort replies; she’d prayed that it wouldn’t boil over.
Obviously, that prayer had gone entirely unanswered.
Mira says, “But thanks,” and Zoey recognizes the way she says it, all sugar and teeth. It’s the kind of thanks that means just about anything but.
(It’s the kind of thanks her dad would shout at her mom in the middle of one of their catastrophic fights, the ones that would only serve to add more fuel to the fire. The kind of thanks that makes the other person see red.)
And Zoey is so confused. She’s so confused, because can’t Mira see the bewilderment in Rumi’s eyes, can’t she see the way her face drops with disappointment when Mira snaps at her? Can’t Rumi see the way Mira’s shaking, shaking with more fear than anger, the way she’s using all this prickliness as self-defense?
Zoey’s seen this before. Seen this sort of fire. Seen the match drop and everything go up in flames and leave nothing but ashes and people pretending not to have been burned.
She feels helpless, utterly useless, stuck in place, as Mira and Rumi hiss venom at each other from across the dinner table. She wants to help. She wishes for Rumi’s assuredness, for Mira’s boldness. She wants to do or say something, anything.
But she can’t. She cannot for the life of her seem to get her mouth to move. Which is not a problem she usually has.
So she sits and watches and listens as Mira tenses next to her and laughs without any joy in her voice, as Rumi’s shoulders stiffen and she bites out snippy retorts. Sits and watches and listens, and stares at her dinner plate and curls her shoulders inwards as if that would keep her out of it.
(She’d long since mastered the art of quiet, of making herself silent and unseen. Maybe if they didn’t pay attention to her, she’d vanish. Maybe if she vanished, it wouldn’t end up being her fault.
It hadn’t worked with her parents; she’d gotten dragged into every fight one way or another. But maybe it will work now.)
Eventually Celine interjects, shuts it down. Then she leaves. Mira does too, practically shaking with the force of unspoken words, her fists balled up at her sides.
Zoey and Rumi sit across from each other and pointedly do not look at each other.
Her chest is aching and she’s pretty sure it’s with Rumi’s confusion, Mira’s anger, and both their hurt. She doesn’t know how she feels about all of this except for that she hates it, this feeling of being torn. It’s too painful. It’s too familiar.
She wonders if this is what the Honmoon does, makes you feel so much of everyone else’s emotions that they drown out your own. She wants to ask Celine, but she’s gone. She wants to ask Mira if she’s okay, but Mira’s gone too, already halfway down the hall. She wants to ask Rumi, but she’s not sure such a question would be welcome.
(She wants to be welcome so badly. Wants to belong here, not just live here, not just exist.)
Eventually, Rumi, too, stands and leaves. Not to their rooms, but down the hallway that Celine had exited through. Zoey is left alone.
Zoey is left alone, and she hates that this is the most familiar anything has felt since she got on that plane.
—
Rumi is so stupid.
Her wrapped fists collide with the punching bag in front of her again, and again, and again. The bag rocks backwards with the force but Rumi doesn’t wait for it to swing back towards her, just keeps hitting it with jab after jab, her arms trembling with the effort.
She is so, so stupid, and Celine is right, she does ruin everything. She destroys everything she touches.
Her mentor hadn’t been pleased when Rumi had found her after dinner. Not pleased at all. Her final, sharp fix this still plays in Rumi’s ears over the sound of her own panting.
One day - less - with these girls who are supposed to be hers forever, and she’s already broken something. There’s already something to fix.
She’s never felt the weight of her patterns on her skin as acutely as she does now.
There is anger roiling around in that space behind her ribcage and she knows it is not hers. Knows it is Mira’s, and knows she is the reason for it.
Rumi’s angry too, but not with Mira, and not with anyone else. She’s furious with herself, with the fact that the Honmoon had given her this great, treasured thing, and she’d messed up within hours. She’s furious that Mira had known exactly how to press her buttons, exactly what to say to get her to react. She’s furious that she’d played right along, spat retorts right back, even when she’d seen the flashes of self-flagellation in Mira’s eyes.
She’s so stupid.
And Mira’s so right. Rumi does kneel to every one of Celine’s demands. Mira doesn’t know why, of course she doesn’t, and she never can know, but Rumi sees why it might bother the other girl so much.
(She thinks about how Mira had held her head high even as Celine had turned that look of disappointment on her. Of how she hadn’t deferred, hadn’t so much as blinked in the face of it. She thinks about how Mira hadn’t flinched and feels foolish for being so jealous.
How do you carry yourself so unapologetically without shaking and shuddering apart?)
Rumi lands one last hit to the punching bag and lets her stance drop. Boxing is usually cathartic for her. Helps her clear her mind when the voices telling her nope, not good enough (they usually sound suspiciously like Celine) get too loud. But even after thirty minutes of hitting the bag hard enough that she’s afraid she’ll rip it, all she can hear is I don’t need you to speak for me, Rumi. Guess we’re all just best friends forever. My soul is now shackled.
I don’t need you. I don’t need you. I don’t need you.
She groans in frustration, wipes sweat from her forehead. She needs to fix this, and that’s going to require a clear head for thinking. So she lifts her fists into a ready stance once again.
—
Mira may be a total bitch, but she had been listening to everything said today.
Which is why, as soon as she hears Zoey’s door snick shut behind her, she puts her plan in motion.
She’s already changed into more comfortable clothing and grabbed the supplies she needs. Now, she turns the volume on her speaker all the way up, lets the rumbling bass cover up the sounds of her footsteps and the soaring melodies mask the sound of her slipping out of her room and into the hallway.
Mira had been listening to everything said today, and so she’s memorized the layout of the house - or, at least, the parts of the house that Celine and Rumi had shown them.
So after a couple minutes of stealthy movement, she makes it to the room she’s been looking for.
Mira pushes open the door and smiles.
The studio is well-kept and new-looking, even as the floorboards are worn from years of use. It’s spacious and empty, and that’s really all Mira needs.
She pulls out her iPod (yes, she still has an iPod. She’d bought it when she was younger, when her parents used to take her phone for every little thing she did wrong and the oppressive silence in her room was too much. It was a lot more manageable with music filling her mind, even if it was a bit tinny in quality) and scrolls through her playlist until she finds a song.
And then she puts the song on repeat, sets her iPod aside, and just lets herself go.
She’s still angry. Still guilty. But all that fades to the background, replaced by the choreo and the burning in her muscles and the way the music seems to sizzle around her.
Mira doesn’t know how long she stays there, just her and the music. Her whole body is humming the way it always does when she’s in motion like this. It feels good. It feels right. Feels like she belongs.
Probably the Honmoon’s work, she reasons.
She studies herself in the wall of mirrors. Notes the way that her jaw is still tight, her back still rigid. The way her eyes are still guarded, untrusting, disbelieving.
Eventually, the combination of sweat and powerful air conditioning makes her cold enough that she gathers her things and leaves. She’s accomplished her goal, anyway: gotten rid of most of that frenetic energy.
But she still feels wrong. Her head isn’t clear. And now she’s exhausted on top of it.
She sighs and sneaks back into her room. Zoey’s talking to someone in the next room - Mira can hear her voice slightly through the walls. Probably her family.
Mira ignores the pang of envy in her chest and leaves her music blasting as she enters her bathroom.
—
Zoey smiles at her mom and pretends she can’t hear Mira’s music blasting in the next room.
(It’s good music, at least. And hopefully the sheer volume is cathartic enough that tomorrow won’t be quite so hostile.)
Her mom smiles back, the quality rendering her face a little fuzzy. She never got the Wifi password from Rumi or Celine (do they even have Wifi? She’s yet to see a screen in the house) and her data doesn’t work too well here. The estate is kinda remote.
“How is it so far? You have to tell me everything. Are you settled in? Are you excited? Is everyone being nice?”
Zoey thinks of I know my way back and It’s cosmic irony and I didn’t ask for this.
She thinks of the humming under her skin and the disappointment and distress in her chest. Not all of it is hers. She thinks of the awe in Mira’s eyes when they’d first pulled into the driveway. She thinks of the way Rumi’s eyes had widened with genuine joy when she’d first seen the other two girls.
“Everyone’s nice,” she tells her mom, and it doesn’t feel like a lie. It’s not entirely true at the moment, sure, but she’s not lying. She knows these girls, knows their souls. Knows their kindness, their comfort. Has known all their good for a lot longer than she’s known any of their bad.
It’s an adjustment for everyone, she thinks. It’ll get better.
She hopes.
“And yeah, I’m settled in. Check out the size of this room.”
Her mom gasps as Zoey flips the camera and Zoey says, “I know, right? The whole freaking house is massive.”
“David, come here, it’s Zoey!” her mom calls, and Zoey’s stepdad’s face leans into view. “Hey, hippo, how’s it going?”
She smiles at the nickname, switches to English for his benefit. “Good. It’s so cool here.”
(Zoey loves animals. She knows so many fun facts about so many different animals that her mother had always said she should have named her Doolittle.
When her mom and David had started dating, two years after the divorce had been finalized, Zoey had been… guarded. Reluctant. There had been one way to her heart and one alone.
The zoo.
Her mom had tapped out after a couple of visits - she had hated the smell, the crowds, the noise. But Zoey had thrived there. And so David had kept taking her, whenever she asked, for months.
Her favorite animal fluctuates. Sometimes it changes within hours. Because come on, she can’t pick just one, that’s unfair. But at the time, she’d been obsessed with hippos.
And thirteen year old Zoey had wanted to feed the hippos.
It was against zoo policy. She knew that. She also didn’t care. She had very calmly explained herself to the nice zookeeper lady, adding in as many facts about hippos as she could to impress her, and had watched in satisfaction as the lady’s eyes had widened.
In the end, David had signed a waiver stating that the park was not responsible for any loss of limbs and Zoey had gotten to drop a few canteloupes into the mouths of several hungry hippos.
David says it was the first time he can remember Zoey actually smiling at him.
So, hippo it was.)
She spends another twenty minutes on the phone with her parents, until the conversation lulls and her mom watches her stifle one-too-many yawns. “Alright, Zoey, off to bed with you. It’s getting late over there.”
Zoey isn’t tired, but she nods along anyways. “Okay. Good night guys. Love you.”
“Love you too. Be safe!”
“Duh. Bye David! Bye mom!”
They smile at her and she hangs up.
Mira’s music still echoes faintly through her room but she doesn’t mind it. The other side of the bond feels calmer, anyway, so clearly something was working.
Zoey sighs and sits up. She may as well go shower. Not like she had anything else to do.
It’s an adjustment, she reminds herself again. It’ll get better.
She hopes and hopes until she starts to believe it.
—
It’s two in the morning.
The Honmoon jolts.
Three girls startle upright in bed. Two blink sleep from their eyes. One merely pushes violet hair from her forehead - she hadn’t yet fallen asleep.
There’s a unique sort of pressure in the air around them. It’s not stifling - just feels like awareness, like something is watching.
One of the girls - the youngest it had chosen - whispers, “What’s going on?”
No one answers her. No one is there to hear her.
The Honmoon calls its song. Three sets of shoulders relax to varying degrees.
The Honmoon calls its song, and the girls it has chosen sit upright in their separate rooms and share silence. They do not know it, but they breathe together in the same rhythm. Their hearts beat together in perfect unison.
The Honmoon calls its song. It is pleased.
Eventually they fall back asleep, even the third, the most troubled. The Honmoon lets them rest. It is satisfied. It has seen enough.