The timer’s jingling melody jerked Rozie from her dream. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep so deeply, and she could still feel the water rushing down her throat, the weight of the stones. As she sucked in a shuddering breath, her arms wrapped around her abdomen at the memory of the baby’s absence. Sulfur wafted past her face. Rozie sniffed the air, then her hair and under her arms, trying to pinpoint the source of the acrid smell. Though at this point it could have been leaking from her pores or even the bedding. Everything that had happened convinced her that something was wrong with the Weaver Springs Resort. The sleep helped, however. The nap had rid her of the ragged, static sensation in her mind, like the constant tearing of Velcro.

  Dom was still asleep on the bed, sprawled unabashed in his boxer-briefs with the covers kicked off to the side. He breathed heavily through his open mouth, head thrown back over the pillow.

  She still had an hour until dinner and only one dress she dared to call ‘formal’. Rozie grimaced as she studied her suitcase, remembering that she had kicked it to the floor before lying down next to him.

  Rozie sat on the bed, and gingerly reached for the bag, only to dump its contents onto the floor. A corner of purple fabric stuck out from the bottom of the pile. She felt clever, stupid, and ridiculous as she dove her bare foot into the mound of fabric, hooked the garment between her toes, and pulled it up to her hand.

  Her one splurge for the weekend. She took a lunch break to visit a high-end maternity clothing store. Something she had no business doing, but did it anyway. Rozie bought a dress knowing that it might only ever get worn once. With an effort, she lurched off the bed, stood in the mirror, and held it up to her body. Creases in the fabric testified to its neglect in the suitcase. Rozie snatched a hanger from the closet and hung her dress on the curtail rail opposite the showerhead.

  The hot-water knob felt warm in her hand. Water gushed from the faucet, and she turned the middle knob for the shower. Thankful that she had grown inured to the spring water’s scent, she felt steam fill the room. As the mirror fogged over, she tugged fabric, coaxing out the wrinkles. She grabbed her shower gel and face wash. , she lamented. Her skin itched under a sheath of dried sweat, a lingering reminder of her fitful nap. She grimaced as she peeled off her tank top, sticking to massage oil on her back. Rozie stepped into the shower, careful not to splash her dress.

  Dom must have awoken. The old wooden beams shifted and thumped with his footsteps. The bathroom door opened, and as Rozie rinsed the soap from her face, she felt the temperature cool from the open door.

  “Can you close the door? I’m trying to steam out my dress.”

  Silence. Through the flimsy material of the shower curtain, she could make out Dom’s form in the middle of the bathroom. Unmoving. His stillness unnerved her.

  “Dom?”

  At the sound of her voice, he startled and stepped forward. Rozie opened the curtain. He stood at the sink, shoulders hunched up by his ears, one hand clasping the edge of the fixture. The other lowered, and she saw streaks in the mirror where Dom had wiped the condensation away. His skin was pale. He met her gaze through the mirror. She couldn’t read his expression before it shifted to a lackluster smile.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Can you close the door? I’m trying to trap the steam for my dress.”

  Dom nodded and reached for the door. Rozie heard him use the toilet and step back out into the bedroom. The door shut with distinct intention. He came back in a moment later, unfolded his suit jacket, and shook it out in the steam. Again the door opened. Rozie rolled her eyes to the ceiling——and peeked out the curtain as Dom threw his jacket on. The man had mastered folding and packing his clothes. The shirt beneath the coat was wrinkle-free, and if there were any unseen creases, they’d be gone long before he ever took the jacket off. He had this trick for his jackets, some fancy fabric origami—folding it in half and stuffing one arm, inside out, into the other, rolling it up… She reached for the towel to dry her hands. After one more attempt at smoothing the wrinkles, she had had enough of the heat and shut off the water.

  Rozie stood on the bathmat and dragged the towel over her body. She swore under her breath as sweat prickled over her skin in the humidity. After one more fitful tug at the garment, she opened the door. Dom sat hunched on the bed studying his phone. The intensity of his focus caught her attention. Rozie sat next to him. She had one towel wrapped around her hair, while she struggled to keep the other in place around her pregnant body.

  The hot shower felt amazing, but she needed to cool down before she could finish getting ready. Rozie pulled on her underwear, piled some pillows on the bed, and sat. When she reached for her novel on the bedstand, Dom shifted his body. He curled over his phone in just such a way that it seemed he was trying to hide the screen from her.

  She sat up, pretending to adjust the pillows behind her, catching a fleeting glimpse of his screen—black and white text mixed with the angular shapes of… some other language?

  Rozie thumbed open her book and leaned back. She struggled to remember what was happening in the story—a boy in some far-off world trying to rescue his sister. Her eyes drifted to her husband’s back. She closed the book and climbed back off the bed. Her undergarments strained against her growing frame, elastic stretched to the point of failure. Dominic didn’t move a muscle as she dressed.

  The moisture in the air lit on her skin as she entered the bathroom. She took the towel off her hair and pulled the dress from the hanger. The garment went on easily, though getting the fabric to sit correctly took some work. Her makeup bag sat open on the small table between the sink and shower. As she fished the contents out, she saw that a new sheen of moisture covered the mirror. Just as she raised the towel to wipe it down, she stopped.

  Shapes, writing, drawn in the fog on the mirror. She could see where Dom had wiped down the mirror—broad stripes cutting through the condensation. But the steam had fogged the mirror again, revealing the marks. Had Dom tried to wipe them away?

  Rozie could just discern other symbols in the fog, obscured by the sweeping mark of her husband’s hand. She stood there studying the faint lines and marks. Her thoughts returned to Dominic’s intense studying in the next room. Their uniformity was uncanny. Neat lines across the glass. The regularity of the shapes…

  Rozemarijn stepped back and peered out the door. He caught the movement in the corner of his eye, head jerking up.

  “How’s it going?” he said as his head swiveled back to the screen in his palms.

  “Good.” The word came out automatically. She wasn’t well. Things hadn’t been good since before they arrived, and she was worse with every passing hour. She faced the mirror. The condensation evaporated, revealing her reflection as the humidity vanished through the open door. Rozie opened her makeup bag.