The room was quiet.
Outside, a car arrived — the first of the morning staff. The sound of the front entry, the specific footstep pattern of Marguerite, who had managed this household for eleven years and who navigated its owner with the earned ease of someone who understood which silences were approachable and which were not.
This one was not.
Marguerite entered, assessed the room, placed a folder of correspondence on the table, and left without speaking.
Avriana picked up the folder.
Read.
Below the hem of her gown, the mechanical leg made no sound at all.
She had learned to read people's eyes before their faces.
The eyes moved first — the involuntary flick downward, toward where the prosthetic would be visible if the clothing didn't cover it. Then back up, quickly, with the specific over-correction of someone managing their own reaction and hoping it went unnoticed.
It never went unnoticed.
