Chapter 168: What She Doesn’t Carry

Chapter 168: Chapter 168: What She Doesn’t Carry

The boat’s engine cut to a low hum as Vanya guided it toward the building’s new entrance — a jagged, wind-broken window on the sixth floor, the only reliable way in or out now that the flood had claimed everything below it. A narrow platform of scavenged wood and salvaged railing had been built out from the opening weeks ago, sturdy enough to dock against, and Vanya eased the sleek hull up alongside it with practiced precision.

"Home," Harold said, some relief audible in the single word despite the uneventful trip back.

"For now," Vanya said, already stepping onto the platform, boat rocking gently behind her.

Persephone followed, crossbow slung comfortably over one shoulder, the easy, unbothered smile she’d worn through the entire supply run still settled over her features, though something quieter moved behind her eyes now that the performance had less audience to justify itself for.

"That was a good haul, all things considered," Harold said, glancing back at the boat as Vanya folded it back down into something that could vanish into her space. "Canned goods, water, half a first aid kit nobody else had touched yet."

"And a bolt through a stranger’s shoulder," Persephone added cheerfully. "Very productive afternoon."

"You say that like it’s a good thing," Harold said, though there was no real reproach in it, just the particular dry affection that had grown between the two of them over weeks of shared danger.

"It is a good thing. Boat’s still ours. Supplies are still ours. And he’ll think twice before grabbing something that isn’t his again." Persephone shrugged, entirely unbothered. "Everyone walks away better educated. I consider that a public service."

Vanya said nothing to that, though the corner of her mouth twitched faintly as she finished securing the last of the folded boat components, the closest thing to open amusement she generally allowed herself.

They climbed the interior stairwell together, the building’s familiar dim quiet settling around them once they cleared the sixth-floor entrance, and by the time they reached the twentieth floor, Persephone hadn’t peeled off anywhere — her door sat directly across the hall from Vanya’s, close enough that they’d fallen into an easy rhythm of arriving home together more often than not.

"I’ll bring your share in," Vanya said, already turning toward Persephone’s door instead of her own.

Persephone glanced at her, brow lifting slightly. "You don’t have to. I can carry my own weight, Vanya. Literally, in this case."

"I know you can." Vanya’s expression stayed even, practical rather than doting. "It’s faster this way. No reason for you to make two trips when I can simply deliver everything directly."

Persephone considered arguing further, some old, ingrained instinct toward independence flaring briefly, before she let it go, recognizing the logic for what it was — not charity, not concern dressed up as obligation, just the same efficient, unsentimental calculation Vanya applied to everything.

"Fine," she said, unlocking her apartment door. "Though I’ll have you know, back home, people didn’t just walk into my space carrying groceries. There were staff for that."

"There are no staff here," Vanya said, stepping inside behind her. "There’s just me, and it takes considerably less effort than you’re implying."

Persephone laughed, quiet and genuine, dropping her crossbow onto the small entry table before crossing further into the apartment, some of the day’s tension finally beginning to ease now that she was somewhere that still, however faintly, resembled safety.

Harold trailed in after them, settling onto the arm of Persephone’s couch with the easy familiarity of someone who’d made himself at home there more than once already. "You really did have staff for groceries?"

"Don’t sound so scandalized." Persephone dropped into the chair across from him, kicking her boots off with a groan of relief. "It wasn’t excessive. Just efficient. My father believes everyone’s time should be spent on what they’re actually good at. Mine happened to be everything except grocery shopping."

"What was your actual thing, then?" Harold asked, genuinely curious.

Persephone’s smile flickered, something sharper and more amused passing behind it. "Looking harmless while noticing everything. It’s a very specialized skill. Not many job postings for it, unfortunately."

Vanya set the supplies down methodically while they talked — canned goods stacked along the kitchen counter, bottled water arranged near the sink, the first aid kit placed carefully on the small table where Persephone would find it easily. She worked without wasted motion, the same efficient economy she brought to everything, though she listened to the exchange with more attention than she let show.

"You could have just dumped it all in one pile," Persephone observed, noticing. "Nobody would have blamed you."

"Organization matters," Vanya said, not looking up from the task. "Especially in an emergency. If you need the first aid kit quickly, you shouldn’t have to search for it under three cans of soup."

"That’s disturbingly practical of you."

"I’ve had practice being disturbingly practical."

Persephone smiled at that, something warmer than her usual performative charm briefly slipping through. "You know, for someone who told an entire crowd today that you’re not anyone’s savior, you’re being remarkably thoughtful about my kitchen organization."

Vanya paused, glancing up at her for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind her composed expression.

"You’re not a stranger demanding something I don’t owe them," she said finally. "That’s different."

"Is it?" Persephone tilted her head, genuinely curious now rather than simply performing curiosity. "What makes the difference?"

Vanya considered the question longer than Persephone expected, some old weight settling briefly behind her eyes before she answered. "Proximity. Shared risk. The fact that if something happens to you, it happens across the hall from where I sleep, and I’ll know about it before anyone else does." She resumed organizing the supplies, voice returning to its usual flat, practical register. "That’s not the same as obligation to the entire flooded city. It’s simply logistics."

"Logistics," Persephone repeated, amused despite herself. "Is that what we’re calling it."

"That’s what it is."

Harold, watching the exchange with the particular fondness of someone who’d spent weeks learning both women’s rhythms, shook his head slightly. "You two argue like you’ve known each other years instead of weeks."

"We haven’t argued once," Vanya said.

"You’ve disagreed on everything since the boat this morning," Harold pointed out.

"Disagreement isn’t argument," Persephone said, echoing Vanya’s own flat certainty with obvious affection. "It’s conversation with better posture."

Vanya’s mouth twitched again, and this time she didn’t quite manage to smooth it away before Persephone caught it, grinning triumphantly at the small, rare victory.

"Before you go," Persephone said, once the last of the supplies had found their place, "I should probably warn you. My family’s finally coming. My father sent word — they’re making their way here now, whatever’s left of the trip."

Vanya glanced up. "How many?"

"Four, including me makes five." Persephone counted them off easily, familiar and fond. "My sister Dahlia — I called her that very first morning, actually. Right after your Harold knocked on my door telling me to stay away from the sunlight. I didn’t fully understand what was happening yet myself, but something about the way he said it scared me enough that I called her the moment he left. Told her to stay inside."

"That was the day it started," Vanya said. "You passed the warning along the same morning you received it."

"I suppose I did." Persephone continued, easy and fond. "Anyway. Dahlia’s husband Victor, though technically I think that part’s still a secret from my father, so pretend you didn’t hear it. My dad, Silver. And my cousin, Penelope."

Vanya said nothing for a moment, something quiet moving behind her composed expression, filed away without comment. Common enough name. She didn’t assume anything from it.

"That’s most of my family accounted for," Persephone continued, oblivious. "Should be an interesting reunion, whenever they actually make it here."

"Do you know when to expect them?" Harold asked.

"No idea," Persephone admitted, some of her usual lightness dimming slightly. "Could be days. Could be tonight. My father’s not exactly one for detailed timelines, especially not over a signal this unreliable. He just says they’re coming, and I trust that they are, because he’s never once told me something wasn’t going to happen and been wrong."

"That’s a good kind of trust to have," Harold said quietly.

"It’s rare," Persephone agreed. "I only extend it to about four people total. Feels efficient, keeping the list short."

"I hope they arrive safely," Vanya said, and meant it, though the sentiment stayed carefully bounded, exactly where she’d decided it belonged.

"Lock this behind me," she added, already moving toward the door. "And keep the crossbow somewhere you can reach it quickly, not just somewhere convenient to drop it."

"Yes, ma’am," Persephone said, mock-solemn, though she was already moving to retrieve the weapon from the entry table, tucking it within easy reach beside the couch exactly as instructed.

Vanya paused at the door, glancing back one final time. "You did well today. The crowd, the man who grabbed the boat. You didn’t hesitate, and you didn’t overreact either. That’s harder to manage than most people realize."

Something flickered behind Persephone’s easy smile — surprise, maybe, at the unprompted acknowledgment, or something closer to quiet pleasure at being seen clearly rather than simply tolerated.

"High praise," she said, recovering quickly, falling back into familiar teasing. "Careful, Vanya. Keep complimenting me and I might start thinking you like having me around."

"Don’t get used to it," Vanya said, though something almost like the ghost of a smile touched her mouth before she turned and let herself out, Harold trailing after her with a final wave toward Persephone before the door clicked shut behind them both.

Persephone stood alone in her apartment for a long moment afterward, the easy performance finally, fully dropping now that there was no one left to perform it for, and let out a slow, tired breath.

She thought of her father, of Dahlia, of Victor — the four people in this entire ruined world she’d extended genuine trust to, still out there somewhere, still fighting their way toward her through whatever the flood and the storm had left standing.

Soon, she told herself, crossing to check the lock on her door exactly as instructed. They’re coming soon.

Across the hall, Vanya let herself into her own quiet apartment, Harold disappearing toward his own room with a murmured goodnight, and she stood for a moment in the dark before crossing to check the security of her own windows, an old habit that hadn’t faded despite weeks of relative safety.

The name lingered a moment longer than she expected, unbidden.

Penelope.

She set it aside without further thought, the way she set aside most things that didn’t demand immediate action, and turned in for the night — though some small, watchful part of her filed the coincidence away regardless, the same careful habit that had kept her alive through more lifetimes than she let herself remember in detail anymore.