The lilies had barely turned to ash before the invitation came.
A white envelope, thick and heavy, pressed through the Y's mail slot two mornings later. No stamp. No return address. The handwriting on the front — Miss Aurora Randall — was too elegant to belong to a clerk.
Mrs. Greene slit it open with the knife she used for string. Inside: cardstock, cream with gold edges.
A celebration of charity and youth, hosted at the St. Francis Hotel. Music, supper, dancing. We would be honored by your presence.
For the Little House with the Lamp. — B
Mrs. Greene's lips thinned. "You're not going."
Aurora's fingers trembled as she held the card. "It sounds—"
"—a trap," Luxe cut in. "It's a stage, and he wants you under his lights."
Aurora's shoulders sagged. She folded the card, once, twice, until the gold edge cracked. "Then we don't go."
But Luxe saw the flicker in her sister's eyes — a part of her that longed for rooms with chandeliers, not walls with cracks. Beaumont knew it too. That was the danger.
That afternoon, Daniels returned. Not with force this time, but with paperwork.
He leaned against Mrs. Greene's desk, a folder in his hand. "Audit," he said casually. "Routine. City wants to make sure its money isn't wasted on… questionable activities."
"Questionable?" Mrs. Greene's voice was iron.
Daniels flipped open the folder, revealing photographs — blurred, grainy, but recognizable. Aurora standing at the library's children's hour, reading from her notebook. Aurora laughing in the market with Grace. Aurora at the church steps with Margaret and Ruth.
"She's quite popular," Daniels said smoothly. "Almost like she's building a following. City might call that… incitement."
Mrs. Greene's jaw clenched. "She writes poems."
He shrugged. "Poems, protests… lines blur." He slid a form across the desk. "Sign here, acknowledging receipt of warning. Failure to comply could affect your funding."
Mrs. Greene didn't move. Luxe, watching from the stairwell, felt her fists ball. Aurora beside her trembled, whispering, "Pictures. He's watching us everywhere."
Daniels tapped the form. "Paperwork, ma'am. Nothing more."
But his smile said everything.
Mrs. Greene finally took the pen. But instead of signing, she scrawled one word across the page in block letters: WITNESSED.
Then she slid it back.
Daniels blinked. "That's not—"
"You bring paper, I bring eyes," Mrs. Greene said coldly. "The pastor, Miss Hart, Miss Chen. You want to file complaints, we'll file counters."
For the first time, Daniels' smile faltered. Just a flicker. Then it returned, sharp as a knife. He tipped his hat and left.
The moment the door shut, Mrs. Greene sagged, pale as chalk. Luxe and Aurora rushed down.
"You bought time," Luxe said.
Mrs. Greene closed her eyes. "Or invited fire."
That night, Ruby summoned them to the library basement again. The coalition had grown — twice as many faces crowded the table. Mothers, shopkeepers, even two dockworkers smelling of salt and rope.
Ruby laid the invitation on the table. "He's shifting tactics. Velvet instead of teeth. That means he wants them visible."
Pastor Mulligan frowned. "Visible how?"
"Paraded," Ruby said. "Made to look complicit, or foolish, or both."
Grace snorted. "Or claimed. Wolves don't just eat. Sometimes they court."
Aurora shivered. Luxe gripped her hand under the table.
Ruby raised her chin. "So we answer with light. Public, not private. He wants a ballroom? We give him a church hall. A reading. Music. Families. Witnesses too many to silence."
The dockworker cracked his knuckles. "And if he comes himself?"
"Then he's seen," Ruby said. "And men like him hate that most."
Aurora's eyes widened. "You mean… I should read? Out loud? To everyone?"
"You already have," Ruby reminded her gently. "This time, you won't be alone."
The next day, Grace took them into the market again. This time she didn't just point; she introduced.
"Mrs. Alvarez, you know my girls."
"Pastor, you'll host them next week."
"Lin, keep the ledger open."
Every name added to their circle was another brick in the roof. Luxe felt it growing, fragile but real. Aurora clutched her notebook like a talisman.
Still, whispers followed them. Not all friendly. Men spat when they passed. A boy hissed, "Commie girls." Luxe kept her blade close, her jaw tighter.
Grace leaned close. "Noise means he's worried. Wolves only howl when they lose ground."
The Y's writing circle seethed with tension. Margaret was ecstatic, scribbling slogans to chant at the church hall. Ruth muttered about safety, about girls losing placements. A new girl burst into tears, terrified of being photographed.
Aurora stood, clutching her notebook. "I never asked anyone to follow me," she said. "But if words give people hope, I can't take them back."
Half the circle cheered. Half sat in silence.
Only Helen whispered, too low for anyone but Luxe to hear: "Hope burns faster than kerosene."
Luxe's blood chilled.
That night, Luxe tested the signals again. Ribbon on the rail. Chalk on the stoop. Shade crooked. Aurora practiced too, fumbling at first, then steadier.
"We're really doing this," Aurora said.
"We've already done it," Luxe answered.
The church hall smelled of polish and candle wax. Benches overflowed with neighbors, children fidgeting, mothers shushing, dockworkers folding arms across chests.
Aurora stood at the front, notebook trembling in her hands. Luxe stood at her side, scanning the crowd, noting every face, every exit. Helen sat in the back row, eyes too calm.
Ruby introduced her. The applause was thunderous.
Aurora stepped forward. Her voice shook on the first line, steadied on the second, soared by the third.
Even when fog pressed close…
The crowd hushed, rapt.
When she finished, the applause shook the rafters. Aurora flushed, radiant. Luxe's chest ached with pride and terror both.
Then the doors at the back opened.
Two men in suits entered. One was Daniels. The other — taller, older, finer. Beaumont.
He didn't interrupt. He didn't sneer. He just smiled, clapping slow, deliberate.
Aurora froze. Luxe stepped in front of her.
The crowd, sensing the shift, hushed.
Beaumont tipped his hat. "Beautiful words, Miss Randall." His voice was silk over steel. "Perhaps next time, you'll share them at the St. Francis."
Luxe's nails dug crescents into her palms. "She shares them where she chooses."
Beaumont's smile widened. "So she does. For now."
He turned, Daniels at his side, and left. The doors shut.
The crowd erupted — some in applause, some in whispers of fear. Aurora clutched her notebook, trembling.
Luxe leaned close. "He's not clapping for you. He's marking you."
Aurora swallowed hard, eyes blazing with equal parts fear and fire. "Then let him mark. I'll write louder."
That night, Luxe sat at the window again. No car came. No ember. Only silence.
She pressed her hand to the glass. "You can send flowers, invitations, applause. But we'll build the roof higher. You'll never own this lamp."
Aurora, half-asleep behind her, murmured, "Lighthouse."
"Yes," Luxe whispered. "A lighthouse. And I'll be the foghorn."
The doors closed behind Beaumont with a hush that swallowed the applause. For a moment, the hall was silent — as if everyone feared their own breath might carry his name back inside. Then the murmur began.
Some whispered admiration for Aurora's courage. Others muttered that it was foolish to provoke powerful men. A few simply gathered their children and left, faces pale.
Ruby stepped forward, her voice carrying above the whispers. "You heard him," she said. "He wants her words under his roof. Instead, she gave them under ours. And you saw what it did — you felt it. That power doesn't belong to him. It belongs to all of us."
The hall stirred, some nodding, some clapping, others still uneasy. Grace Chen rose from her bench, voice sharp as a knife. "A man who sends flowers to a house of girls isn't giving gifts. He's leaving gravestones. Remember that the next time you see lilies on a doorstep."
A ripple of agreement moved through the crowd. But the fear remained, coiled like smoke under the rafters.
Back at the Y, Mrs. Greene met them at the door. She had been too busy with paperwork and audits to attend, but one look at their faces told her everything.
"He came," she said flatly.
Aurora's voice shook. "He clapped."
Mrs. Greene's expression hardened. "Wolves clap before they bite." She drew the bolt across the door with a sound like a closing sentence. "You'll need watchers at every outing now. No girl leaves alone. Not even for milk."
Aurora sank onto the stairwell, notebook clutched to her chest. Luxe sat beside her, silent, her fists still aching from clenching them at Beaumont's smile.
The next day, Ruby called another meeting in the library basement. This time the room was overflowing — the church hall had drawn attention. Some came curious. Some came afraid. But they came.
Ruby laid it out: "He's testing us. If he'd wanted violence, he would've struck already. Instead he applauded, because he thinks applause makes a leash."
Grace spat into a handkerchief. "Leash or no, we bite back."
The dockworker leaned forward. "Then we guard the girls. We walk them in shifts. He won't get close."
Pastor Mulligan raised a cautionary hand. "But every guard is a mark. If we look like an army, he'll treat us like one."
Ruby's eyes narrowed. "Then we look like a community. Families, workers, neighbors. Roof beams, not soldiers. That's stronger."
Aurora listened, quiet, scribbling in her notebook. Luxe noticed the way Helen's eyes flicked to the page again and again, like a crow spotting silver.
That evening, back in their room, Aurora read aloud what she'd written.
Applause is easy,
but roofs take nails.
Wolves like velvet,
but velvet tears.
Her voice trembled, then steadied. "He doesn't own clapping," she said fiercely. "If he claps, I'll make him clap until his hands bleed."
Luxe stared at her, torn between pride and terror. Aurora's fire burned brighter now, but fire always risked spreading.
Later that night, Luxe found Helen in the common room, sewing calmly by lamplight. For once, no one else lingered.
Helen didn't look up. "You think you built a shield tonight," she murmured. "But you just painted a target brighter."
Luxe crossed her arms. "Funny. You sound like him."
Helen's hands paused on the needle, just for a breath. Then she smiled faintly. "Maybe I sound like someone who's seen wolves tear roofs apart before."
Luxe leaned close, low and sharp. "Then tell me, Helen — when the roof falls, will you be under it, or lighting the match?"
Helen met her gaze at last, eyes flat, unreadable. "Sometimes both."
The needle flashed again. The conversation was over. But Luxe's suspicion was now certainty: Helen's strings led somewhere dark.
That night, Luxe kept vigil at the window as always. No car. No ember. But she caught a new sight — a single man standing at the far corner, hat brim low, cigar ember glowing. Not Daniels. Not Beaumont. Another.
He didn't move. Didn't smoke much. Just stood, watching.
When the lamplight dimmed, he lifted his hat in a slow, mocking salute — a mirror of Beaumont's gesture in the church. Then he melted back into the fog.
Luxe's skin prickled. This wasn't just Daniels now. Beaumont had more men. More eyes.
She closed the curtain, turned, and saw Aurora asleep, notebook clutched tight against her chest like a shield.
"You write the light," Luxe whispered. "I'll fight the dark."