Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harrow grew up knowing God was angry at her.

God was angry when she lied in confession, God was angry when she forgot to do her chores, God was angry when Harrow sinned— and Harrowhark sinned a lot.

Her entire existence was a sin— born from fornication between a pastor and a parishioner to beg for forgiveness for the rest of her life.

From the first day Harrow could form words with her small lips, Harrow was quick to learn how to beg for atonement. Beg to be forgiven for the circumstances of her birth, beg to be forgiven for breathing air with lungs that hadn't been grown under the eye of God.

Her father had taught her Hail Mary’s on the very hands he told her were coated in the sins of her fathers and how to pray with the very lips he swore took air undeservingly. As if Harrow hadn't been baptized like every child of God, because she would always be marked— by the sins of her parents.

There were very few ways of penance a child of God could find the beginnings of atonement from the hand of God. They could pray; on their knees and confess to a pastor with conviction. They could do good works, focus on the Bible and drill its teachings into their brains— or, they could fast.

Repentance was never meant to be a punishment, it was meant to bring one closer to God when they strayed— but for Harrow it was more than punishment, or repentance or penance, it was the only way she could beg and feel like she was heard.

***

Gideon — Chocolate Truffles

It was sweet to suffer.

Harrow loved the way it felt to feel the body rip through itself. The spinning floaty feeling of a thirty-six hour fast, her body and brain at odds— too weak to stand and feed herself but too hungry to sleep. Stomach acid eating at her esophagus and the sound of her lungs pressing against her ribs, her heart rate slowing.

There, she found it, her spirit overtaking the flesh. Harrow was sure, this was the way of God.

Gideon was sure that the sound of Harrow's stomach was going to drive her crazy.

Three months ago, Harrowhark Nonagesimus began haunting Saint Dymphna's Group Home for Children, and Gideon was forced to go from solitary— the old wooden closet she called her bedroom— to sharing a room with Harrow.

Harrow was fussy and small, thirteen and terribly cold. Both emotionally and physically. She talked of God and sin and duty— called Gideon a heathen once or twice while she was at it.

When they weren't at each other's throats or swatting each other like flies, they went through this song and dance. Which is why the biggest pain in Nav's ass was not keeping her awake long past midnight.

“Psss. Psss.” Gideon hissed across the room, Harrow froze.

“What, Nav?” Harrow bit, her spindly back turned to face her.

“Your stomach sounds like a car alarm.”

“I'm fasting.”

Gideon paused, looking over Harrow's silhouetted form in the dark of the room.

“Why? Father Gaius didn't assign you any penance.”

“I'm not free of sin.”

Gideon went quiet, looking up towards the unfinished rafters of their bedroom and furrowing her brow.

“No one is, yet not everyone fasts until their stomachs are screaming out.”

Harrow rolled over to look at Gideon, scrunching her nose. “You stole that from Father Gaius, the first part.”

“Yep.” She said, popping the P.

“I am different.”

“Why?”

Harrow paused herself, the rickety shake of her lungs expanding stopping.

“Harrow?”

“God is angry at me, because I am the embodiment of sin.” Harrow finally replied, all in one shaky breath. “So I must always be in a state of atonement.”

“I thought the devil was the embodiment of sin.” Gideon muttered, Harrow scoffed.

“You don't read the Bible.” Harrow reminded Gideon, she shrugged.

“Just because I have to live here, doesn't mean I'm jacking off the big G.” Harrow groaned at her vocabulary.

“You are… an ingrid, Nav.” Harrow said, slowly, as if lacking the words.

“You're rusty, you usually have better comebacks than that.”

“I'm lightheaded.”

“Then eat.”

“I refuse.”

A lull of silence overtook them, Gideon noticed that Harrow's shaky death rattle breaths were coming out slowly— as if she was attempting to dampen the sound.

“Hey, Harrow.”

No reply.

“Heeeyyy, Harrow.”

Harrow turned around and curled into a fetal position.

“Come on,” Gideon groaned, sitting up. “I'm trying to be nice.”

“What?” Harrow finally responded, attempting to sit up but at the peak of raising her head having to let it fall back onto the pillow. Her vision was spinning.

“Get up— grab your slippers. We’re going down to the kitchen.”

“I am not.” Harrow hissed, watching as Gideon went to the door and found Harrow's small black slippers and tossed them at her.

“Oh yes you are. I can't sleep while your body is decomposing next to me.” Gideon slipped her house shoes on, unlocking their door and looking down the hallway.

“We'll get caught and the Sisters will be cross— We’re not even allowed to be in the kitchen.” Harrow said, taking the space over Gideons shoulder to peer down the hallway with her.

“Not if we don't get caught— come on.”

Gideon ran down the hallway, feet somehow quiet on the wooden ground as Harrow followed tentatively.

Down the hallway, down the stairs, and all the way down to the kitchens.

Harrow had never been to the kitchen. Her chores were strictly surrounding teaching the tots of the group home bible stories and dusting the bookshelves in the schoolroom— unlike Nav, who scrubbed the floors of the kitchen daily.

“What are you looking for?” Harrow asked, crossing her arms. Her nightgown was too thin for running around at night.

“Shush— I'm focusing.” Gideon brought out a milk crate full of potatoes from under the sink, digging around the root vegetables for something Harrow couldn't comprehend.

“On what?” She asked again.

“Something that's gonna blow your mind.”

Gideon kept digging, pushing the potatoes back and looking behind a large sack of rice before groaning— far too loud.

“Shut up before I choke you out— they won't show my papers to families if I get in trouble.” Harrow worried, picking at her cuticles.

“There aren't any families to show them to, don't get your panties in a twist. I'm doing something really nice right now.” Gideon nipped, standing up and digging through the crate of apples— amber eyes flashing as she pulled something from the crate.

A crumpled box of truffles sat in Gideon's outstretched hand, her smile impish as she displayed it for Harrow.

“Brother Ortus’ stash. He took the oat cakes from behind the rice but he forgot the truffles.” Gideon waved Harrow downwards, coming to kneel down next to Gideon. The box between them.

“I'm not to succumb to matters of indulgence.” Harrow noted as Gideon opened the box, the crumpled chocolates smashed against their plastic framing.

“Do you talk like the Bible got shoved down your throat on purpose?”

“I'm still fasting.” Harrow pulled her knees to her chest.

Gideon rolled her eyes, taking one of the smashed chocolates between her fingers and waved it in Harrow's face. The smell of sugar churning her stomach and stomach acid into her throat.

“Griddle, I can't.” She hissed, looking away.

Gideon plopped the chocolate onto her tongue, rolling her eyes.

“Try walking up the stairs like that, if you pass out— Father Gaius will be pissed.” Gideon gnawed on a piece of walnut. “He'll probably make you sit in his office and talk about your feelings— force you to eat your meals in there too. He'll relate it all to the Bible, pray for you— have you pray in front of him.” Gideon noted, taking another chocolate.

“You eat the chocolate, you get your energy enough to go to bed,” Gideon trailed, working a chunk of walnut from her molars. “I get to sleep, you get to sleep and you won't have Father Gaius on your ass.”

Harrow mulled it over, leaning forward onto her knees to peer over the box.

“I've never had truffles before.” Harrow finally spoke up, looking them up and down.

“These suck— I was once in a foster home where when they finally threw me out, they gave me chocolates. Those? Those were good.” Gideon laughed, pushing the box towards Harrow. “Eat up, better than sugar water.”

Harrow plucked a dark brown truffle from the box, breaking it apart and eyeing the filling. Gideon flipped open the box cover and looked at the pictures.

“Dark chocolate with a salted caramel filling.” Gideon announced as Harrow nibbled on the piece.

“This is a terrible indulgence. Worse than meat. I'm succumbing to my flesh, this will take me away from God.” Harrow said between small bites, picking up another.

“Milk chocolate, almond, and marshmallow filling.”

“What's a marshmallow?”

“Heaven.”

Harrow pressed it onto her tongue, savoring the sugar and milk melting in her mouth.

“Good?”

“Phenomenal.” Harrow purred, relishing in the dark of the kitchens.

The two sat in silence for fifteen, twenty minutes. Gideon watched Harrow pick at the truffles and lick her fingers free of chocolate.

It was after the white chocolate coconut cream truffle that the tell tale signs of someone waking up came from the hallway, and Gideon immediately stood up.

“Get up!” Gideon whisper-yelled, pulling Harrow to her feet and taking the box with her.

“Who's there?” The shrill terrible voice of Sister Glaurica yelled from upstairs.

“I can't get caught—” Harrow hissed into Gideons ear, bushy brows furrowed.

“We won't— just follow me.”

Gideon led, and Harrow followed. Running through wooden hallways on feet lighter than feathers— something in Harrow bloomed as her body made the truffles into sweet energy and allowed her to run. For her lungs to breathe in air. Her face bloomed into a grin and Harrow felt her lungs constrict, she was laughing like a madman through the hallways of the group home— and Gideon was laughing with her.

***

Palamedes — Grocery Shopping

Palamedes thought, besides himself and Camilla— Harrowhark was the most intelligent person he knew.

She was four years his junior, a bachelor's student while he was chipping away at his masters and working as an Anatomy and Physiology TA.

Palamedes was drawn to Harrow on the first day of his classes, where he watched her limp out of the women's bathroom and sit down outside of the door and wait for the class to start. Eyes bloodshot, her knuckles a bitter red, and her face contorted into a sneer.

The next week, on the first pop quiz of the semester, she aced it in fifteen minutes and ruined the curve.

Which is why it was so upsetting that she did such stupid shit.

“Sextus, Hect.” She greeted, sipping with a straw from a bottle of black cherry seltzer as she rapped her pen against her notebook— brushing her thumb along the edge of the textbook.

“Harrow, how was Sociology?” Palamedes greeted, sitting down next to her in the dining hall with her tray— Camilla stalking over mere moments after.

“I hear your back going to Students for Christ— always thought you were more private in your beliefs.” He pried, Harrow rolled her eyes.

“The local church is not my speed. Less prayer and more… potlucks.” Harrow scrunched her nose, Palamedes felt Camilla's knee hit against his thigh— locking his eyes on where her gaze was pointed; the notable lack of tray on the table.

“You know Harrow,” Palamedes stabbed through the foliage of his salad, “why do you study in the dining hall?”

Harrow looked up from her textbook, putting her pen down and resting her pointed chin into her palm.

“Can't eat in the library.” She said, swirling the seltzer with her straw.

“And yet you don't eat here.” Camilla piped up, peeling an orange. “You pay too much in meal swipes to not be using it.”

“FAFSA and grants pay for my meal swipes, it doesn't matter if I use it.”

“Be nice if you did.” Palamedes added, taking the half of the orange Camilla offered and passing it to Harrow— who looked it up and down and with a level of tension Palamedes associated with Harrow— and watched as she peeled a segment and put it in her mouth. Slow, as if proving something.

“Did… Did Griddle put you up to this?” Harrow asked, turning to Camilla and Palamedes with accusation in her gaze.

“Why? Would Nav have a reason to sic us on you?” Camilla asked, terribly calm compared to Harrow's indignation.

“She doesn't and yet she's been doing interventions daily— if I have to drink another one of those meal replacements I'll throw up more than I usually do.”

Palamedes winced and Camilla's face stayed perfectly still, simply eyeing her with that dull earth colored gaze.

“Well, you can't say that she isn't rightfully concer—”

“Sextus, I've been on an upward trajectory. Let me have my dips.”

Palamedes let his shoulders drop, and wondered how someone so intelligent could be so stupid.

Harrow hated the grocery store— for the same reasons she hated the mall and the student commons of the dorm room. Too many people. The only saving grace of the grocery store was the food.

Harrowhark loved food. She learned this at thirteen when Gideon pushed a box of truffles her way— she just hated the feeling she had after she ate. So she didn't eat, or if she did— it came out the way it came in.

Being in college meant Harrow had to plan her sins out carefully. If she ate too much before a final, ironically she'd be too nervous to throw up. If she didn't get one session in before having to finish her midterm English essay, she'd be too blocked up to think clearly. So now, she was staring at the cookie and biscuit aisle trying to figure out what would come out the easiest.

“Harrow.” Palamedes said, and Harrow jumped right as she reached up to snag a box of cookies from the shelf.

“Evening, Sextus.” She bit, tossing it into the basket on her arm and looking away.

“Planning for a party?” He asked towards Harrow's filled cart. A few bottles of flavored seltzer, candies— black licorice and cherry ropes, three pints of ice cream, boxes of mass produced cakes with sweet cartoon characters smiling on the front, and a bag of low sodium chips.

“Yes, actually.”

Palamedes’ gaze set on her cart and he gave her a pinched smile of mild disbelief.

“Nav’s twentieth.” He recalled.

“Right.” Palamedes' smile faded, he had his own arm basket— full of a mix of soft foods and protein rich yogurts and bars.

“Nona and Hect?” Harrow asked, he laughed.

“Nona ate all her apple sauces and fruit roll ups— Cam needs more yogurt for her overnight oats.”

Harrow's face went sour. “You live with my worst enemies.” She muttered.

“Too sweet? Or just not your speed?”

“Texture.”

“Right.”

The two walked down the aisle, stopping briefly at the meat to pick up chicken for Palamedes and circled back to the grain aisle to pick up brown rice.

“You can't actually prefer that to white.” He asked, scrunching his nose.

“I didn't take you one for judgement.” Harrow said, tossing the smallest bag into her basket.

“It's barely even healthier, you know that.”

“I took nutrition to become a nurse.” Harrow turned to Gideon. “Griddle prefers it.”

“What do you prefer?”

“I don't eat rice.” Harrow shrugged.

The two walked out of the aisle, wandering around letting Palamedes pick out the things on his list in a comfortable silence until Palamedes got a look on his face. The same he always got when he was too deep in thought and about to ask Harrow something obscene.

“Harrow… Why don't you eat? Or well— you do. Then you throw it up, and then you don't.” He said, intelligently.

“Jesus starved for forty days and forty nights.”

“You aren't Jesus.”

“Yet any good Catholic attempts to follow in the Lord's footsteps. He says to fast— He says to absolve? Cleanse? I do as He says.”

“Isn't that what Lent is for?”

“You are neither Catholic nor a theologist.”

Palamedes hummed, scratching at his patchy beard in thought. “You're not doing much fasting.” He noted, Harrow shrugged.

“I try and Gideon notices. So I do a different song and dance.” Harrow eyed up a box of Cheez-Itz. “I fall to my gluttony— I repent for it and fast. The Lord is happy, I have found absolution until it happens again.”

“Oh I'm sure— how do you find penance?” Palamedes asked, Harrow rolled her eyes— He already knew, Palamedes’ always knew. They turned another corner.

“At the bottom of a bottle.” Harrow pulled a bottle of rosé from the shelf. “Mind?” Palamedes took it.

“You don't drink.”

“It's Griddle’s twentieth.”

“She'd prefer beer.”

“I don't.” Palamedes tilted his head, Harrow walked them up to the front.

“What's the real reason?” He mused, turning the bottle and eyeing the label.

“More romantic.”

“I asked the real reason.”

“It comes out less rancid.”

“Over the toilet?”

“With my fingers down my throat.”

The two stood in the winding line, Palamedes holding the bottle of rosé easily by the neck, silence overtook them.

“About the repenting thing.” Palamedes began, Harrow groaned.

“I've talked to three pastors and the university therapist, I'm not interested to hear how my reading of my belief is just… insanity or a mistake or—.” Harrow searched for the words, brushing her hand over her shorn hair.

“No, not that— I'm neither Catholic, nor a theologist.” Palamedes laughed. “Do you really feel like at the end, you find absolution?”

Harrow went quiet.

“Even if I'm not absolved in the eyes of God, I… It feels better after. I consume and consume and consume everyday, I eat and take and use… It feels good to cleanse myself of what I've taken. It brings me closer to Him, I think.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I have to.” Harrow said, an air of finality.

Palamedes looked at Harrow's side profile— at her sunken eyes and curved nose and said easily. “The food’s not for Gideon.”

“You already knew that.”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.”

They went up in the line.

“Why now? What are you going to repent for?”

“The amount of food I'm going to eat when I get home, and being alive.” Harrow bit her tongue.

“Does it feel good?”

“It feels like when someone forgives you, when all wrongs are righted.”

“Until it happens again?”

Harrow didn't respond, and they went up in the line.

They made it to the cashier, Palamedes flashing his ID to buy the bottle of rosé before dumping it unceremoniously into Harrows basket— they walked out together.

“I know how it looks.” She said, carefully, as if each word needed to be picked for its purpose. “I'm not… I need to suffer.”

“Isn't that the point? That Jesus suffered so you would never hav—”

“It's not about Jesus.” Harrow interrupted, turning to face Palamedes. “It's not even about religion. Not any more.”

Palamedes tilted his head and Harrow sighed.

“It's about— the feeling. The forgiveness… The pain.” Harrow looked up, it had gotten dark while they were shopping. “The suffering, it cleanses.”

Palamedes gave her that terrible, pitying look— and Harrow let him drive her home.

***

Camilla — The Dentist

Harrow's first job out of college was as a registered nurse at an abortion clinic, it was cushy— in the sense it was something her teachers in her course helped set up. Which meant it had a cushy healthcare plan to go with it, and free condoms.

The first week at the clinic, Dr. Pent sat her down in her office and insisted that Harrow take herself to a clinic after Harrow offhandedly mentioned she had not been vaccinated as a child. She may have gotten the necessary pokes to qualify for her nursing program but it seemed pressing that she got the rest.

Gideon insisted on going to the hospital with her, promising to keep her company for the afternoon to get the necessary checks and pokes to fill a medical record.

Of course, nothing about Harrow took one afternoon. The allotted hour for the hospital slowly turned to three, then six as blood tests and swabbed throats and screenings piled up.

After the test and pokes, Harrow was referred to multiple other specialists.

Someone to check her bones; she had osteoporosis. Someone to check her nutrition; she was severely underweight and needed a meal plan. Someone to check her reproductive system; she just went to the clinic she worked at and let her coworkers do it— she hadn't had her period in four months. After all of that, she had one other thing to fix before her doctor would stamp her forehead with a clean bill of health. The dentist.

Harrow was mortified at every specialist— but especially the nutritionist who asked her questions on her relationship with food— how she felt about eating— it was disgusting and nerve wracking and poked too hard at tender parts of Harrowhark. But the dentist? The dentist was hell.

Harrow had never been to the dentist, after her primary exam they had prescribed her antacids and stressed the importance of getting her teeth checked out.

Harrow didn't know what the dentist was like, but she knew what her teeth were like. Her teeth were brittle, little pieces of worn down enamel, a sickly jaundice limoncello— from eating and gagging over phalanges until she felt like God forgave her.

Her molars ached when she bit down, she couldn't handle cold or hot liquids, and worst of all— she smelt like a decomposing body. Something Gideon actively argued against but that Harrow knew was true, there was a reason she always wore a face mask.

So she needed a dentist, and Harrow was upset to high hell about it.

“What's wrong, my midnight mistress?” Gideon purred, spooning Harrow as she scrolled through her phone. Thin fingers shaking over the screen.

“Nothing.” She muttered, shimming closer to Gideon— who brushed a calloused hand across her hairline.

“The dentist? Still sorry I can't make it. I know how all this medical stuff is with you.”

“I'm a nurse, I don't get squeamish.” Harrow bit, kicking Gideon lightly in the calf.

“Didn't mean it like that. It's good to have a healthy amount of anxiety.”

“Not at the doctors.” Harrow turned in Gideon's arms to meet sweet amber eyes and furrowed rusty red brows.

“Don't fuss, it'll be fine.” Harrow reassured, brushing her cold thumb along the middle of Gideon’s eyebrows.

“Don't comfort me, it's you who has to go through it.” Gideon moved her thumb away and folded her hand into a fist to warm between her larger hands.

“Are you sure you can't come?” Harrow asked again, eyelids weighing down as she moved closer.

“Can't. Your appointment at the same time as Isaac's eagle scout troop to the natural history museum. Promised Magnus I'd take them.” She explained, Harrow sighed.

“I'll cope.”

Gideon looked up at the star stickers she had stuck to the ceiling of their bedroom, eyeing the gentle neon glow. “I know you're not completely off the eating disorder train.” She finally said.

“I'm California sober. I do the soft stuff.”

“I'll give you points for harm reduction,” Gideon flicked her forehead and Harrow began to laugh. “But It doesn't mean you're not still harming yourself.”

Harrow leaned her head on Gideons shoulder, attempting to ignore her girlfriend's gaze on her.

“I'm trying.”

“And I love you for it.”

Harrow went quiet, letting Gideon draw circles into her back.

“You really don't wanna go alone?” Gideon asked, Harrow nodded into her chest.

“I have an idea.”

Harrow sat outside of the church, watching people pass by as she waited for Camilla.

Camilla Hect had an associates in Dental Hygiene, a bachelors in Immunology, and a Palamedes Sextus that specialized in worrying about Harrow.

When Gideon rang Palamedes about Harrow's nervousness, instead of going himself— he assigned Camilla to escort her to the dentist under the idea that Camilla, who had experience at the dentist— as she worked at one— could relieve Harrow of her anxieties.

Harrow's insurance didn't cover the dental clinic that Camilla worked at, but it was close enough that Camilla was easily able to walk her through the process— something Gideon said she’d need.

Halfway through a package of unblessed communion wafers, Camilla Hect walked up to her and sat down next to her.

“Hect.” She greeted, allowing the silence to lapse into discomfort before offering the wafers to Camilla— who raised a hand to decline.

“Your appointments at four, they like you fifteen minutes early.” Camilla said easily, leaning onto her palms and letting her head roll to look at Harrow with those dark placid eyes.

“You didn't need to pick me up, I have a bus pass.” Harrow stood up, her back shooting out in pain. Camilla watched.

“Good?”

“Yes, let's just go.”

Harrow rolled her pack of communion wafers closed and stuffed them into her Jansport, Camilla nodding her head to the right before beginning to walk away. Harrow followed.

“They'll take your information— do you have your insurance card on you?”

“Somewhere in my bag.”

“Good. Then they'll sit you down, do x-rays, an exam, and an oral cancer screening.” Camilla unlocked the passenger door of her Toyota Camry and moved to the driver's side.

“Any needles?” Harrow asked, closing the door behind her and buckling in.

“No. If you have any cavities they'll make you appointments for each, this is mostly a diagnostic.” She started the car, Harrow felt her nose twitch.

“Afraid of needles?”

“I'm a nurse.”

Camilla kept driving.

“What will be wrong with me?”

“Plenty.”

Harrow scoffed, she almost believed she saw Camilla smile.

“I've done treatment plans for plenty of people who have never had any oral care. You'll have cavities, plaque buildup, maybe tartar.” Camilla checked the rear view. “You'll have some level of gum disease, just pray you don't need a root canal.”

Camilla’s eyes flickered over to Harrow before going back on the road.

“Don't worry— it won't be too bad.” Camilla said, stilted, as if she didn't know why she was saying it. “Just follow the directions and they'll do all the work. All you need to do is… sit tight.”

The dental office Camilla parked in front was perfectly gray and boxy, almost identical to the one Harrow knew Camilla worked at.

“I know a hygienist here. He's not too bad.” Said Camilla, offhandedly— in a way Harrow interrupted was meant to be comforting. Harrow eyed Camilla's black puffer and envied that she forgot to bring a jacket.

The waiting room was just as boxy and gray as the outside, a few tastefully strewn about magazines on the low coffee table and a turned off T.V.

Camilla let the front office know Harrow was there for her appointment and in turn they handed her a stack of papers to fill out.

Camilla did most of the filling out, mostly because Harrow either didn't know what to put or didn't have any information to put. At the end, the stack looked pretty cleanly blank.

Five minutes of polite silence went between them before the short, fresh faced assistant in pressed scrubs called Harrow in. Camilla came along without prompting.

Camilla sat in the side chair as the fresh faced dental assistant ran around the exam room, stumbling over to set up the x-ray machine.

Harrow went to nursing school, she knew how to work plenty of medical instruments— she didn't know how to work any dental ones. Which made her uncomfortable.

The assistant spent the first twenty minutes of the appointment fumbling around with the x-ray machine, the pictures too blurry and distorted to use.

It was around the fourth round of x-rays when Camila— who had been very politely scrolling on her phone feigning indifference— swatted the poor assistant's hands away and readjusted the tab in Harrow's mouth and took the x-rays herself.

“They let anyone get radiation clearance.” Camilla muttered under her breath as she readjusted the camera before leaving to hit the switch and take the final x-ray.

“I'll have to say— these are pristine.” The dentist said, brushing over his bald head as he stared up at the x-rays on the screen. “Looking for a job?”

“I have a job downtown, New Rho Dental.”

The dentist whistled, shaking his head. “Shame.”

He sat down on the rolling saddle chair, moving over to lower the dental chair so he could peer over.

“Calculus… Bit of plaque… Hm.” He poked at the top of her mouth with the mirror. “Do you have a history of acid reflux?”

“Yes— I'm on antacids.”

“This is congruent with daily acidic stress against the lingual side of your teeth. The side that faces the tongue— which is common in patients with Bulimia Nervosa.” He rolled away from her, flipping over her files. “Which is not in your medical records.”

“It's… It's being dealt with.” Harrow snipped, Camilla gave her a look that was just a little on the soft side of a glare— her stomach churned.

“I'll give you a brochure on harm reduction and prescribe you a mouthwash to rebuild your enamel. I'm already seeing cavities in the molars and premolars, I'm worried about your upper right. Seems you chipped it and it allowed rot to get in deeper and quicker than the surrounding teeth.” He said, easily, with a certain amount of detachment Harrow appreciated.

“I'll grab the hygienist and get you started on a treatment plan, Ms. Nonagesimus.”

They left the clinic shortly after Harrow's oral exam and some small talk between Camilla and the frumpy looking hygienist that left Camilla more upset than when she came in.

“Let me see.” Camilla said, stretching her palm out to take the stapled papers from Harrow's hand as she got buckled in.

“Pretty format—” Camilla complimented, something Harrow didn't think she could do. “They could space your fillings together more… Terry doesn't work Wednesdays so you're getting whoever else they got for this cleaning… Sealants… A root canal…” Camilla trailed off, flipping the paper to the next where the main header was simply Nonagesimus Harrowhark, Bulimia Nervosa Treatment Plan.

Harrow's heart skipped and she reached across the passenger's seat to snatch the papers back, scratching along Camilla's wrist as she pulled it into her chest.

“That's not—” Harrow crumpled the middle of the papers to her chest. “Sorry just—” Harrow felt her breath pick up.

Camilla kept her hands on the wheel, fingers spread as if trying to show Harrow she wouldn't reach over to take the papers away. “You're good.”

Camilla raised her right wrist and eyed it before shrugging. “Tis but a scratch.”

Camilla started the car, turning around to pull out as Harrow worked on shoving air through her lungs.

Eight minutes into the drive, where Harrow evened out her breaths and Camilla focused on the road with a furrowed brow, Camilla spoke up.

“It's not like I don't know.” Camilla finally said, Harrow nodded— leaning backwards into the seat and watching the outside pass by as Camilla drove.

“I know that everyone knows— that my hand is always shown.” Harrow spat out, folding her arms around the papers. “It's just… a visceral feeling to have my Achilles heel shown to anyone who looks at a file.”

“You don't need to explain anything to me.” Camilla warned, Harrow grit her teeth.

“You deserve to know I’m not just— lashing out.”

“I already know that.” Added Camilla, Harrow threw her head back.

“I’m sorry, it's a lot.” She tried, the feeling of ants running up her ribs at the vulnerability.

“I can imagine.” Camilla said, a very very good approximation of the certain tone Palamedes got in his voice when he was being empathetic.

Harrow appreciated Camilla’s ability to let sleeping dogs lie, and in this case— let a conversation turn to silence.

***

Ianthe — Light Headed

The thing about working at Planned Parenthood, it was calmer on the inside than the out.

Harrow liked her job for the reason that, compared to other nursing specialities, she was comparatively less stressed.

Yes, there were the protestors outside and the hot pink uniforms that washed her out, but at the end of the day— her job was more emergency contraception, giving out pamphlets, and testing for STIs than back to back abortions.

Harrow didn't like her job, because she had to work with Ianthe Tridentarius.

That day had started off bad, simply because she had to have whole milk with her coffee— Gideon had her try exposure therapy. ‘Baby steps’— as if Harrow couldn't stomach a quarter cup of milk.

Harrow was restocking the back when she heard the telltale signs of Ianthe Tridentarius entering the clinic, mostly because she came in and threw all her things onto the secretary chair and went to find Harrow.

“Harry— You should see the crowd today, it's a riot.” She said as casually as Ianthe could, which was with a large amount of glee.

“It's disgusting that's what it is.” Harrow muttered, pulling out syringes to set in the rooms.

“It's an opportunity— means Dr. Pent will let me punch another annoying protester.”

“You went to court for that.”

“And I got acquitted.”

Harrow let Ianthe follow her to the exam room as she stocked the drawers, her eyebrow twitched as Ianthe crowded on.

“Work on getting the patients through the door before you get trigger happy with your fist.” Harrow shut the drawers, turning to look at Ianthe. “We have five abortions on the schedule plus walk-ins. Get your shit together and tell me who Dr. Pent’s eight thirty appointment is.”

It was fifteen minutes after Issac Tettares’ first T-shot that Harrow noticed something was very wrong.

The boy and his friend had requested Harrow under the description of The Goth One with the Piercings to do their shots— under the guise of ‘takes one to know one’— whatever that meant.

“You're gonna feel a pinch, then I'll inject.” Harrow attempted to mimic the way she saw Dr. Pent coo to Issac, but felt it was a little degrading.

“Okay, okay,” Issac made a noise in fear that hurt Harrow's ears. “Hold my hand.”

“Issac! You're being a weenie!”

“Hold my hand!” He whispered into Jeannemary's ear as Harrow prepped his thigh with an alcohol pad.

“Don't count down.” He begged, an iron grip on Jeannemary’s hand— Harrow shrugged.

“I won't.” Harrow pinched his thigh away from the injection site before she pressed the syringe into the muscle of his thigh.

“You're done.” She pressed a small bandage onto the injection site and disposed of the syringe.

Issac let out a long suffering sigh as he leaned into Jeannemary’s side, who looked thoroughly embarrassed.

Harrow made it a third of the way through the instructional pamphlet on how and where Issac was to inject himself before her head began to ache and her vision began to fuzz around the edges. She shoved the pamphlet into his hands and dismissed him to go talk to Ianthe as she cradled her skull in the exam room.

Ianthe came in soon after.

“Harry? Are you alive?” Ianthe cooed, clicking her tongue against her soft palate and moving to Harrow hunched over the exam bed.

“Fuck off Tridentarius.” Harrow choked out, Ianthe rolling her eyes and taking the stethoscope from her shoulder. “Don't play doctor with me:”

“I'm being nice.” Ianthe said simply, pushing the back of Harrow pink scrubs upwards to rest the cold stethoscope onto her back.

“You know what to do.”

“You're not even a nurse.” Harrow spat, Ianthe shrugged.

“I'm a medical assistant, close enough. Breathe in.”

Harrow obeyed.

“Breathe out.”

Harrow let out a pained breath.

“Your breathing’s short.” Ianthe removed the stethoscope and slung it over her shoulder. “Go to the hospital.”

“We’re at a clinic.”

“Don't be dense, you're not pregnant.” Ianthe moved across the room, stretching. “Your lungs are shit and your airways are damaged.”

“I still have things to do.” Harrow shook her head, standing up on uneven feet.

“If you faint while giving someone a STI test, Dr. Pent will skin you and wear it as a coat.”

“No she wouldn't.”

“Yeah… She’d probably just give you a very stern talking to.” Ianthe scoffed, flipping her hair. “At least take your lunch. I'll even take it with you!”

“Now I don't want to take it— I have to do an intake for birth control in five.”

“Let Judith handle it, she has had it comfy all day— doing prenatal and checking cervixes.”

Harrow, coming to the realization that for some godforsaken reason Ianthe wasn't going to let this go, reluctantly agreed.

Harrow made it three feet into the break room before her feet gave out and she was sent tumbling down— gripping onto the edge of the breakroom table before slowly falling to the floor.

Ianthe crouched next to her, her thin knees popping as she went down. A spinning kaleidoscope of piss yellow hair and white flashing lights engulfing Harrow’s vision.

“Oh Harry, you're really in it now.” Ianthe purred, Harrow groaned.

Ianthe stood up, leaving Harrow on the floor of the break room moaning and groaning trying to stand up.

“Don’t, you'll break your neck next time.” Ianthe coaxed her back down, a glass of water in her bony hands— those limpid purple eyes boring into Harrows unfocused ones. “Can't take falls like that, you have shitty bones.”

Ianthe watched as Harrow chugged the glass of water, her eyes low as she gazed holes into Harrow.

“Hm… You’re fucked Harry— so fucked Harry.” Ianthe spoke, mostly to herself as Harrow let herself back onto the floor and rolled the glass away.

“This is a teenage girl problem,” Ianthe sneered, Harrow threw her arm across her eyes— it was so bright in the break room. “I know you're the same height as a fourteen year old, but this is going too far.”

“Get out of my face, Tridentarius. I'd rather have a heart attack than listen to you admonish my eating habits.”

“When I was sixteen I did all of this— the food and the vomiting.” Ianthe pressed her thumb into the most prominent knuckle on her right hand, into the open wound on it from scraping against her teeth. “Made me a bitch.”

“You are a bitch, Tridentarius.”

“I'm a bitch with a full stomach,” Ianthe bit back, Harrow had no response. “You think it's helping when it's not— you think you're coy and doing something no one else can, but you're not. Coronabeth did the vomiting thing more when we were young, I think it's why she's so dumb, threw up all her brain cells.” The blonde woman flicked Harrow between her brows with her yellowing nails.

“You're not the face of health. I'm not taking a pep talk from you.”

“Maybe that just makes my point stand more. You wanna look like me when you're twenty-seven?” Harrow opened her eyes and moved her arm, taking in Ianthe's thin hair and stretched skin over her pointed skull. Ianthe had the build of someone who was born thin, born suffering— who got too little nutrition in the places when it mattered while she grew— but as a person, her gaunt face had life and her bitten lips were plump. She may not be the picture of health, but she was living far more than Harrow was.

“Fuck no.”

“Glad we’ve come to an agreement.” Ianthe gave her that terrible pulled up lip expression that in any other case would be a smile, but looked more like the scowl of a predator. “So, how about we steal Judith’s electrolyte packets and we have a nice good girl talk.”

Harrow, who was on the floor, did not see any other way she could get out of this conversation.

“You’re smart, Harry.”

“Don't patronize me.”

“I am being nice!” Ianthe sighed, filling up the rolled away glass and pouring a bright red electrolyte packet from the cabinet— each individually labeled JUDITH. “You have to know this will not end well.”

“Why do you care?”

“Can I not give some wisdom to my younger coworker? It's not like I don't get it.”

“Why are you actually doing this? Fodder to make fun of me with? Something to hold over my head?”

“Maybe I just want you to stop buying out all the cakes in the vending machines after a bad day.” Ianthe shrugged, dumping a straw into the glass and pushing it across the table to her. “I can smell the vomit in the girls bathroom, I think the stall you always use is growing mold.”

“Oh shove it.” Harrow stood up, pushing the glass of electrolytes away and attempting to stagger off.

“Oh Harry, I'm just so sorry. Don't run away now.” Ianthe purred, Harrowhark felt her stomach twist.

“Come on, sit down— let's talk. Your break isn't over.”

“You should be working.” Harrow sat down, purely because it extended less effort than standing.

“If Dr. Pent even notices I'm gone, I'll eat my shoe.”

The two sat together, Harrow tapping the metal straw against the glass— looking at Ianthe with suspicion.

Harrow cracked first.

“For you, how bad was it?”

“Harry, you have no idea.” Ianthe got a dreamy look in her eyes. “I may look like shit now, but imagine a walking corpse. Bloated to high hell with bloodshot eyes and dry lips and god the acne.” She shuddered. “You know a thing or two about that.”

Harrow brushed her hand along her hairline, the small bumps of her breakout apparent.

“Well, I must have it easy then.” Harrow looked away, half self deprecating, half annoyed at Ianthe's flaunting of her old sickness.

“Oh far from, you just weren't raised by my mummy dearest. I was popping laxatives and diet pills at age eight— Coronabeth got it worse.”

“I don't care how I look.”

“That is obvious, but you don't have to care to hate it. You know that.” Ianthe nudged her elbow, Harrow began sipping on the electrolyte drink.

“It ruins you. You may think you're far gone, but there's always another rock bottom.” Ianthe said, with gravity, as if it was an omen. “You're lucky. You have that mindless dog, Sextus, Sextus’ dog— but you have to be the one to pull your pants up”

Ianthe's terrible purple eyes dug down into Harrow, as if trying to lock with her soul instead of her gaze. “‘Cause one day, you'll be getting watched while your taking a shit in the inpatient and you'll just be wishing you ate the fucking meal and kept it down.” Ianthe picked under her nails, if Harrow didn't know better— she would say Ianthe was anxious.

“That's very profound.”

“I was born to be a poet.”

Harrow looked at Ianthe, looked at her and found herself feeling bad for her coworker.

Ianthe, who was overly familiar and touchy and insensitive— who gave terrible nicknames and mocked and harassed Harrow at any given moment, looked more human in that moment than she ever had.

“Why are you being so nice?”

Ianthe put her cheek in her hand, looked Harrow dead in the eyes and with a dull expression simply said— “I have no idea.”

***

Dulcinea — Hospitalization

The first thing Harrow did when she got home from the clinic was take a shower, the first thing Gideon did when she got home from work was knock on the door to see if Harrow was showering. They had a system.

Harrow could hear when Gideon kicked off her shoes, thumped down the hallway, and rapped on the bathroom wall.

“You showering?”

“Yes.” Harrow yelled out, turning the water up. “Did something happen with the water heater?” She asked, Gideon gave a noncommittal noise for an answer.

“I'll ask the landlord.”

Harrow went back to her shower, bringing her leg up to the rim and scrubbing down with the loofah.

The water was slowly rising in temperature, and Harrow felt her body relax— then her eyes.

She shook her hand to force feeling back into it, rolling her shoulders. It was too hot.

Harrow knew something was wrong far too late, barely able to push her arms out in front of her before she collapsed onto the ceramic of the bathtub.

Only able to choke out three syllables before it all went dark.

Whatever was going on outside of her body, Harrow couldn't be visually privy to it.

She could hear Gideon, fussing over her— she was moving fast on something that rolled while people talked over her head.

She tried to pry her eyes open but the stubborn bastards kept their hold— she was freezing.

“Arrow— …. Harrow! Come on sugar lips— stay with us.”

“Ma’am— you need to leave, your girlfriend will be fine.” A male voice to her left yelled, they turned a corner.

“She fell— hard— in the bathtub. I heard a crack—”

“Ma’am, we’ll take care of her.” The same voice said, Harrow could feel fingers on her throat

“Get her a bed upstairs—” The sounds of doors cracking open.

“Wait—”

“Ma’am, wait downstairs—”

“Gideon come on—” Another voice, Protesilaus?

“Wait— No— No— Harrow.”

When she woke up; Harrow’s hair was damp, in a hospital gown, with an IV in her arm.

Her vision was blurred and her mouth was dry— she felt like death.

“You're awake.” The woman next to her said in a hushed intonation, Harrow struggled to focus her eyes before finally realizing who it was.

“Morning, darling.” Dulcinea sat down at the chair next to her bed, Harrow felt the corners of her mouth twitch.

“Hello, Septimus.”

“Crazy luck you have, I had a round of tests today— and you come through the E.R.” Dulcinea smiled down at her, full teeth— all pointed.

“Are you supposed to be here?” Harrow croaked, Dulcinea took pity on her— balancing on her cane and taking a mini cup from next to the sink and filling it with tap water.

Harrow downed the water and breathed in.

“What happened?” She whispered, the lights were too bright.

“I wasn't in the E.R when they brought you in, Protesilaus actually was the one to notice it was you. Gideon was running along with the nurses till they locked her out.” Dulcinea bit her cheek, taking a clipboard from the second chair next to her and began reading.

“Electrolyte imbalance, low blood glucose and pressure, and heart rate issues… Real toolbox you got there— coming for my medals?” She joked, Harrow sat up more before groaning in pain. Dulcinea dropped the clipboard to rest a hand on her shoulder.

“Fuck— I think I broke my hip.”

“I think you did a lot more than that.” She poked at Harrow's leg.

“I got diagnosed with osteoporosis seven months ago, they'll up my meds and I'll be out of here.”

“Wish you could stay. We can be twins, you know.” Dulcinea moved the chair backwards and motioned to her outfit— the hospital gown. “We have matching dresses!”

Harrow stifled a laugh behind a cough, Dulcinea scooted closer.

“How are you even here?”

“Eh, your nurses are too busy culling our Gideon to pay attention to one lowly cancer ridden woman wandering into your room.”

“You shouldn't have my chart.”

“Ah, the nurse in you.” Dulcinea’s smile twitched, bringing a thin veiny hand to rest over Harrows.

Harrow knit her brows together, a pulsing pain behind her eyes coming and going with a vengeance.

“How do you do it?” Harrow asked, leaning her cheek against the pillow of the raised hospital bed.

“Do what?” Asked Dulcinea, fishing her crochet hook and yarn from her bag.

“Be sick and not— miserable.”

Dulcinea began to crochet, weaving the sea foam colored yarn between the hook. Her face in mock pensiveness before quirking into a smile.

“I dunno, how do you do it?”

“Those are two different things. You have blood cancer, I have weak bones.”

“You have more than that.” Dulcinea pointed out, gesturing at Harrow's entire body with her crochet hook before going back to her work.

“I hate talking about it.” Said Harrow, turning her head away.

“I hate talking about cancer.”

“Sorry.” Harrow leaned back into the bed, fidgeting with the IV.

“You want something to eat? They got you full of saline and nutrients on the tube— it's no substitute for chewing.” Harrow shrugged and Dulcinea pulled her phone from her dress pocket.

“You're getting plain cheerios then.”

The two fell into silence, the comfortable one that Harrow associated with Dulcinea.

“To answer your question, it's knowing people care.”

“What?”

“How do I do it, that's how.” Dulcinea lowered the side railing of Harrow's bed, scooting her thin knobby body next to Harrow's pointy one to lay with her. “It keeps me strong, makes me want to fight even when in and out of remission.”

Harrow let Dulcinea go unanswered as the woman situated herself into Harrow's side, careful to run the IV tubes over herself to not crush them.

“Your girl has been out there for a while, defending your honor.” Dulcinea explained, pointing a manicured finger across the room to the glass doors of the room— where Harrow could see Gideon’s russet hair at the nurses station clutching a folder as she discussed something with an apricot colored doctor and a placid white haired nurse with twitching fingers. “Make a fine patient advocate, put my Protesilaus to shame.”

“What for? I'm fine— just low electrolytes.” Harrow asked in a low voice, Dulcinea gave her a look.

“Yeah, then there's osteoporosis, a history of chronically low weight, blood pressure and glucose and electrolytes, and now it's heart problems.” Dulcinea rested her chin on Harrow's shoulder, she was freezing.

“They were discussing putting you in inpatient.” She noted, brushing a finger along her cheek. “They weren't very quiet about it.”

“For the—” “For the eating disorders.”

The two fell into a much less comfortable silence, Dulcinea finding the remote and tapping it with her nails— a lovely echo.

“Your girl’s working hard to keep you out of it.” She pointed to the placid white haired nurse. “He's only gonna let you leave this hospital if you promise to go to an outpatient— up to five days a week.”

Dulcinea pointed to the apricot colored doctor. “She, however, thinks Gideon will be too biased. Will let you skimp out on your outpatient when it starts stressing you out. Your girl’s been lawyering for you for maybe an hour— it's up to you though. What are you gonna say to them?”

“It's not that bad.” Harrow sat up, her back aching as she looked Dulcinea straight in the eye.

“You can believe that, but you're a nurse. You know how this goes.” Dulcinea sat up with her. “Bright side! We’ll be in this together— I mean, not on the same floors, but you get it.”

Harrow paused, looking the woman up and down.

“Recurrence?”

“Most likely. Protesilaus has been hounding my oncologist for the past thirty minutes instead of getting us snacks.” She smiled, Harrow let her brow furrow.

“How does… How do people make it all easier? All of this caring is just making it worse.”

“If we didn't care that other people cared, we would all jump off cliffs the second things got hard.” Dulcinea explained, resting her crochet project on her lap. “But we don't. Because we know losing us, for some people, is the worst thing we could do to them.”

Dulcinea ran her hand across Harrow's forehead, tapping her fingers up and down with a tight expression on her face.

“And you have a person out there, right now, who cares enough not to let you get stuck away from home doing inpatient. When you're perfectly capable of getting well on your own— with her.” Dulcinea locked eyes with Harrow, and Harrow instinctively looked away. “Are you capable of that?” Dulcinea asked, and Harrow turned towards her and her blue eyes— and nodded with a tight neck.

Dulcinea passed the remote to her and laid down onto the bed.

“Then tell them that.”

***

+1 — Outpatient

Five months into outpatient care, Harrow was aware she was being watched like a hawk.

She was being watched by her psychiatrist and her doe-eyed therapist who wrote down every word she said in her terrible black book— by Gideon on every date and every event that happened to have food— by Sextus and Hect every time the offered to buy her food when they had an intellectual discussion (that Palamedes would always afterward refer to as a hang out)— and now she was being watched here. In her own kitchen as she stared down a bowl of pasta.

“You don't have to do this.”

“Shut up, Nav.”

“Maybe we’re going too fast.”

“It's a bowl of pasta— I've eaten pasta before.”

Harrow turned her gaze from the bowl to meet Gideons eyes, softening from upset to fond as she found the worry in Gideon's expression.

“I'll be fine. We've been building up to this.”

“I know— I trust you, you know that.” Said Gideon, while Harrow was acutely aware that the bathroom door knobs had been changed— so they had a key to unlock on the outside— but she kept that to herself as she poked at the noodles in the bowl.

“Then trust me to do this on my own time, I'll get it done.”

“I know you will.” Gideon smiled, which made Harrow smile until they were both smiling at each other.

It was a quarter the way through the bowl when Harrow's phone rang and Gideon picked it up.

“It's Palamedes.”

“What for? It's Nona’s birthday, he should be preparing.” Gideon mused, Harrow shrugged— moving her meal around.

“Hullo?” Gideon answered before resting the phone on speaker on the table.

“Gideon! Harrow— I hate to ask this of you.”

“And yet?” Harrow added, rolling a noodle around her mouth.

“I don't know how this happened— Camilla's been planning for months.”

“Sextus.”

“Really, it's inane.”

“Sextus.”

“I'm a failure of a caretaker—”

“Sextus!” “Palamedes!”

Harrow and Giden both yelled, finally shutting him. Harrow raised the speaker of her phone to her mouth.

“What is it?”

“I need you to make Nona a birthday cake— I forgot.”

“What? Why?” Asked Gideon, who moved to the cabinet to search for ingredients.

“I know, I know but Camilla's busy hunting down all the dogs Nona wants for her birthday party, I'm distracting Nona, and Pyhrra’s decorating.”

“Buy one?” Harrow asked, Palamedes most likely shook his head over the phone.

“Nona can't have gluten and all the rest of the small bakeries can't make it in time for the party.” Palamedes explained.

“I don't know—” “We’ll do it!” Gideon yelled out, bringing down the rice flour from the back of the upper cabinets.

“Thank you thank you— Gideon, Harrow— you are my Godgiven saints.”

“I dunno how edible it will be, but I think I have a recipe lying around from when Coronabeth went gluten free that one summer.”

“Thank you— thank you. I'll make it up to you.”

“Sure, Palamedes— Hey, if you're with Nona, where is she?”

Palamedes went silent over the line.

“Nona?! Nona?! Where did you go?”

He hung up.

Harrow watched as Gideon fished through the junk drawer for her recipe cards, pulling one out.

“Corona’s caramel cardamom cake.” She read out loud. “With a jam filling of your choice.”

“We have the persimmon jam from last August.” Harrow noted, her expression souring at the rest of the pasta. Gideon leaned over her shoulder and hummed. “That's half the bowl. More than last time— nice.” Harrow began to stand. “I need to urinate.”

“Nope.” Gideon pushed her shoulders back down into the chair, taking the bowl and snacking on the remaining bowl of pasta.

“Plus, you gotta help me with Nona’s cake.”

“You're the one who knows how to cook.”

“Cooking is an inexact science, baking— is a lot more like chemistry. I failed chemistry sophomore year:” Gideon laughed, dimples showing. “I read an article that helping people make the food they eat makes them more willing to eat it.”

“That article was about picky children.”

“Oh.” Gideon brought the bag of sugar from the pantry, putting it on the kitchen island. “Still don't wanna help?”

“I can't rely on you for everything, Griddle. Might as well take a crash course— how hard can it be?”

It was very hard.

Harrow, who on a good day was allowed to watch Gideon cook and on a bad day was completely barred from the kitchen, agreed with Gideons assessment that baking was an exact science. Like chemistry.

They were thirty minutes into the second round of attempting the cake before Harrow began to throw in the towel.

“Why can't Dr. Pent do this? She baked Camilla’s birthday cake.” Harrow asked, washing her hands free of globs of flour.

“She’s working today.” Gideon explained, trashing the second attempt at the cake.

“This isn't going to work. Nona will be upset and it'll be all our fault.”

Gideon laughed. “Nona’s just happy it's her birthday, cake or no. Let's try again, third times the charm?”

“It has to be.” Harrow picked up the bag of rice flour, it was getting light.

“Then let's get this right.”

They did get it right— kinda.

The final twin cake layers were strange in their differences. One tall, one deflated, one a buttery brown, the other darker. Harrow wondered if that was how it was supposed to be, or if they had fucked up. Still, it was better than the two first rounds— where one exploded in the oven and the other didn't rise.

“It looks… like cake.” Gideon tried, Harrow nodded.

“It looks like the cake Dr. Pent made for Coronabeth.”

“...Yope.”

Harrow checked the cakes with a toothpick, rolling it around her fingers before nodding.

“It's cooled.”

“Okay— How do we make whipped cream?”

Harrow turned.

“I'd assume… whipping the cream?”

It was, actually, as easy as whipping cream with an electric mixer. Easy enough that Harrow was able to do it on her own with minimal casualties. Although she did feel she had beat it for far too long.

“This tastes weird.” Gideon said, a spoon of cream in her mouth.

“Like what?” Harrow asked, scraping down the sides of the bowl.

“Like butter.”

“Is that not how it should be?” Harrow looked down at the bowl with suspension. “They’re both made of cream.”

“It doesn't taste good.”

“It's whipped cream, it tastes good.” Harrow dismissed, putting a spatula of cream down onto the flat layer of cake. “Jam?”

“Does Nona even like persimmons?” Asked Gideon, sparing Harrow the embarrassment by opening the jar before handing it to her.

Harrow spread a layer onto the whipped cream, her hands were getting sticky. “I think I saw her eat one when we went to pick these with Dr. Pent and Magnus.”

Gideon worried her lower lip and crossed her arms, she sighed.

“Like you said, cake or no, Nona will be happy to have a birthday.” Harrow eyed Gideons upper lip, standing on her tiptoes and wiping a stray bit of cream from her mouth.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” Harrow let her heels fall.

“Now, how do we move the cake?”

Nona’s birthday was the picture of a perfect birthday. Streamers, cone hats, pin the tail on the donkey, a piñata in the backyard— and a two layer cake.

Nona looked absolutely thrilled when she saw Giden and Harrow enter the shared Sextus-Hect-Dve house, going from rolling around with a pack of dogs on the living room floor to bouncing on her heels to look at the cake in the tupperware.

“Happy birthday.” Gideon said, Nona’s smile faltered before looking at Harrow.

“...Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, I love you both. Can I see the cake?” Nona asked, peering into the container Harrow held.

“We have to put it in the fridge before you can.” Gideon explained, and Nona pouted.

“Hey Nona, how about you show Harrow what you showed me? About how it tastes when you pour all the sodas you have into one?”

Nona’s face brightened and she barely let Harrow pass the container off to Giden before taking her by the hand to the backyard where the people of the party were congregating.

A sea of dogs were roaming around the backyard, a few of Nona’s friends were sulking with Jeannemary and a newly stubble-faced Issac away from the heat. A crowd was formed around Coronabeth near the pool while Judith and Marta were dipping their feet. Dr. Zeta, Palamedes, Dr. Pent and Magnus were all laughing over something while— horrifically— Ianthe worked the grill.

Harrow, who was not planning to eat at the party, vowed to not touch anything made by Ianthe’s hands for the rest of the afternoon.

Nona dragged her to the folded out tables where Pyrrha and Cam were sitting— sipping on craft beers and keeping an eye on one of Nona’s friends. Assumably the one with sticky fingers— metaphorically.

“Harrow.” Camilla raised her bottle to her in mock greeting, Pyrrha did the same.

“Nice party.” Harrow said, watching as Nona opened the caps of multiple of the soda liters and begs to pour equal amounts into a red solo.

“Trying Nona’s newest elixir?” Pyrrha asked, Harrow gave a tentative nod.

Camilla sat up, a stern look on her face that she reserved for chastising Nona and Palamedes. “Nona, Harrow can’t have your—”

“No, it's fine,” Harrow interrupted.

Pyrrha and Camilla turned to look at her and all Harrow could say was— “It's her birthday.”

Nona’s birthday festivities were a lot more fun to watch than to be a part of.

She started with a game of chase, where she drew a big red X on Noodles fur with non-toxic marker and let him go wild throughout the backyard. Ending with Jeannemary soaked from the pool, a gaggle of young people tracking mud around, and Palamedes’ poor front yard flower garden being trampled over until the game finally ended when a girl named Hot Sauce snagged Noodle by the scruff and presented him to Nona.

They played a game of pin the tail on the donkey, which ended prematurely when Ianthe declared Naberius the donkey and sicced a dozen or so preteens, teenagers, and dogs with needles and teeth on him.

Then, Pyrrha lowered the piñata— tied a bandana around Nona’s eyes and let her go wild. Which was obviously a bad idea when Nona lost the idea where the piñata was and began hitting at the people around her.

In the end, Pyrrha gave the go ahead for the party guests to take their hands to a piñata and start destroying it that way. Which was a little too reminiscent of a pack of wolves for Harrow's tastes.

“Nona knows what she likes.” Her girlfriend said, pulling up a chair as Nona, the dogs, and a collection of children began disemboweling a piñata of a dog.

“I can't go five steps without getting glitter in my eye.”

“I'm not envious of Palamedes.”

“I know Camilla will be sweeping till next birthday.” Harrow snorted, Gideon’s eyebrow twitched. “What?”

Gideon laughed, taking a sip of her beer as she moved closer to Harrow and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Nothing.”

“Once they're done with that. It's cake and presents.”

“Good.” Harrow nodded to herself, while she tolerated Nona, she wasn't one for long affairs that went into the night.

It took staggeringly long for the children and dogs of the party to thoroughly gut the poor piñata— about twenty minutes into it Harrow found everyone had fallen silent to gaze with the same intensity one would use for a car crash at the viscera of wrappers and sugar until they had finally reached the end of their terror and cheered for cake.

Palamedes was balancing the cake on a platter as he stumbled out to the backyard and deposited it onto the tables. In the time between when they had packaged the cake, driven it to the house, and set it in the fridge— it had somehow majorly deflated. Tilted slightly to the right in a sad way, as if it had fallen to a depressive episode.

Globs of whipped cream were barely sticking to the cake, the persimmon jam was visible between the layers and it —all in all— looked unappetizing.

Nona, however, looked delighted.

Palamedes began sticking an amount of candles which couldn't possibly be correct and accurate to Nona’s actual age— only stopping when the box of candles ran out.

Camilla did the honors of swiping Pyrrha’s lighter and brushing the flame across the candle wicks as people gathered around the table, dogs weaving in and out of ankles as Nona took her position behind her cake.

They sang, clapped, and Nona— with far too much enthusiasm— blew out the candles in a rush of flapped hands and squeals.

Pyrrha struggled to move the cake in a way that would let the slices have both layers, giving up midway through and jamming the knife in and pulling out whatever the slice got and putting it on Nona’s plate.

Once the slices were passed around the party guests, Harrow found herself eyeing the expressions of the people who had gotten a slice.

Coronabeth seemed to recognize the recipe and was quick to dig a fork into the cake— all enthusiasm removed the second it reached her tongue. When she noticed Harrow was looking her way, she quickly adjusted her expression to one of enjoyment.

Camilla, however, looked less pleased with the cake. Not bothering to even bring some to her lips before a slight frown appeared as she poked at a glob of whipped cream— which suspiciously looked like butter.

Nona, at the very least, seemed perfectly content to lick the ‘whipped cream’ and jam off the cake. Which Harrow counted as a win for her nonexistent baking skills.

Harrow looked down at her own slice, the ruddy brown bread of the cake looking back at her as she used the thin side of her fork to cut a sliver. Bringing it to her mouth and letting it rest in her tongue.

Gideon looked over her way, and with a softening of the eyebrows watched as Harrow swallowed.

“How does it taste?” Gideon asked, voice tender.

“Bad.”