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Rowan removed a cork.

Garnet, without inflection: “She’s reorganizing.”

“She’s reorganizing my wine without permission. That’s a violation.”

“Maybe she has taste.”

“Maybe she has a territorial strategy. My café isn’t her territory.” Valene sat back down. She had issued a ruling. “I’m charging rent retroactively. I’ve done the math.”

“You did the math?”

“I estimated. It’s going to be a number that makes her reconsider.”

Bexley leaned forward and checked the label on the bottle Rowan had exposed. “The 2019.”

“The 2019 is absolutely not available for creature assessment.”

Rowan set the cork down somewhere else and regarded Valene.

“She’s considering it.”

“She is not considering anything. She is running on raccoon logic, and she is —” Valene stopped. “She chose the 2019.”

“Excellent taste,” Bexley said, her eyes flicking to the wine, then to Valene. “The raccoon and I have been saying the same things about the 2019 for some time. Nice to see the data confirmed.”

Valene put down her glass. “You have been saying things about my wine?”

“I’ve been having thoughts about your wine. I am more discreet than the raccoon.” The laughter that followed was real and warm, and in the quiet after it, Garnet’s question waited, patient, taking up as much space as it needed.

“I don’t know who I am.” She hadn’t planned the timing. But the laughter ended, and the question stayed, and not saying it cost more than saying it.

“Outside of being needed. I’ve been trying to find the version of me that exists on her own. I look, and she’s not there.”

Nobody rushed in.

Fiora refilled her glass without a word. Bexley closed the notebook, capped the pen, and set both down, which, from Bexley, was the equivalent of clearing a stage. Valene reached across and squeezed her hand, brief and certain, then let go. Mirelle’s eyes dropped to the table. Garnet picked up her wine and drank it as if that were the end of it. Not dramatic.

“For the record,” Althea said, “the sitting-there-feeling-terrible part is required and survivable. You can’t go around it.” She sipped her wine. “You’re ahead of where I was. You already know someone is targeting you. I spent weeks thinking it was just me.”

“Part of it is me.”

“Sure. Give yourself a pass on that part.”

Eight months. The boardwalk. Someone pressing the right bruise, and she had gone back every week.

“I’m so angry.”

“Good.” Althea set down her glass. “Angry is better fuel.”

“Althea.” Valene. A warning.

“What? It’s true.”

“It’s ten o’clock on girls’ night, and we are not going to fix everything in one session.”

“I’m not fixing. I’m processing.”

“We are all processing, and I need you to pace the processing.” Althea held up both hands. She was still right, and everyone knew it, but she graciously declined to make that the point. Fiora, who had been quiet, said, “The scarf can be an excuse, if you want one.”