Ayoka wasn't truly alone. The boy, Benoît, never spoke unless spoken to, but Ayoka noticed his presence like a weight in the room. Sabine might glance his way or occasionally attempt to soften the silence with light chatter, but Ayoka didn't indulge much. Her replies were measured, careful, her attention always half on Malik. She didn't trust the quiet, didn't trust the eyes that lingered. Benoît said nothing, offered no warmth—only the occasional nod or distant stare that made her skin prickle. He wasn't there to help. He was there to monitor. To report. And no matter how still the house felt, Viktor's shadows never really left.
Ayoka rose slowly and walked toward the basin, her hands trembling as she gently rocked Malik in her arms. After placing him down for a moment, she moved to the window, picking him back up and cradling him against her chest. She swayed lightly, staring through the warped glass at the dimming sky, the colors outside deepening into something solemn and still. The estate hummed faintly beneath it all, as if exhaling. Something had changed—something quiet, invisible. She felt it in the way the air thickened, in the silence that pressed too long, too deliberately. This was no longer survival—it was staging, performance, a new layer of rules she hadn't agreed to but couldn't ignore. Benoît still lingered outside the doorway, still as the shadows, and even with the curtains drawn, Ayoka knew eyes were always on her.
Not long after, Sabine reentered the room with a spark in her step, arms full of fresh linens, a little gown for Malik, and a jar of sweet-smelling balm. "Look at this," she beamed, laying everything out with uncharacteristic warmth. "Almost like a proper nursery, hm?"
Ayoka blinked, watching the scene unfold like a strange dream. It had to be a better gig for Sabine—working indoors, bringing soft things into quiet rooms, tending to someone who could still smile. Earlier that day, as Ayoka rocked Malik by the window, she caught a muffled conversation outside. Sabine was passing a few field hands near the back shed when one of them asked if she'd be coming out to help with the wash or the picking. Sabine's voice answered back—too loud, too fast, too rehearsed. "Not today. I'm taking care of Master Viktor's new doll."
There was laughter—not the kind that came from humor, but the kind that carried teeth. Ayoka didn't need to see Sabine to know the shape of her reaction. The way her voice rose just a little too brightly, the tone too polished when she called back, "Not today. I'm taking care of Master Viktor's new doll." A pause. More laughter. Rough, cutting. Ayoka kept rocking Malik as if nothing outside the window existed, but her ears absorbed everything.
She noted the chain Sabine wore—thin and elegant, yes, but still a chain. The clasp glinted when she moved just right, something custom, something claimed. It wasn't gone. Just gilded. Magical, too—Ayoka was sure of it. A charm that granted Sabine freedom to walk through doors, to carry linens across thresholds, to smile in passing and speak without bracing.
Ayoka envied her. She wouldn't have admitted it aloud, but she did. Sabine could step into the sun without dread, talk to others in ways Ayoka couldn't—not yet. Maybe never. She had the right tone, the right place, the right chain. Even if it still bound her, it let her move.
Then Ayoka caught her own reflection in the warped window glass—dim, uncertain—and noticed something no one else ever seemed to. Her shadow was wrong. It shimmered faintly, a gleam of restraint stretching from her wrist to ankle. Not on her body—on her silhouette. A line of magic. Faint but deliberate.
She turned, heart stuttering, but there was nothing on her skin. Only her shadow wore it. No one else noticed. Or maybe they did—and didn't care. But Ayoka saw it. A mark, a binding, a secret vow Viktor had etched without a word. Even her silhouette wasn't her own.
Ayoka would play her part in this quiet house—but only so long as her son remained safe.