The solitude is pretty much as bad as the anxiety. When the housekeeper brings my meals, I’m almost glad to see her.
Well, almost.
Anya is somewhere between sixty and immortal, and she hasn’t exactly warmed up to me in the time I’ve been away. She’selevated judgmental silence to an art form, and she’s the Picasso of it. Pursed lips if I ask too much, a grunt if she’s feeling generous. The scowl is everpresent.
I’ve tried every angle to break through the ice queen facade. Begging. Bargaining. Nothing cracks her. The woman’s a stone-faced vault that smells faintly of bleach and cabbage.
“Good morning, Anya!” I say when she enters with breakfast. “Or is it afternoon? Hard to tell when your jailer doesn’t believe in clocks.”
She sets the tray down without comment.
“Say, is Mr. Rochester still here?” I ask. “Or did he haul his ass to the penthouse so he wouldn’t hear his Bertha scream?”
My literary references fall on deaf ears, but I’m used to an audience of none by now.
“Come on. One word. Blink twice if he’s dead, once if he’s still stomping around being terrifying.”
Anya stares at me until I sigh.
“You’re no fun,” I mutter with a stab at the lump of porridge she’s left me. “I hope you at least spit in this.”
Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
God, it’s hard being the funniest person on Planet Gubarev.
She waits for me to finish pretending to eat. Once I’m done, she walks to the door, tray balanced on one hand, and disappears.
That’s the routine. Food in, food out. No conversation, no updates. As for Petyr? I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t just dream him up.
I haven’t seen him since the first night, when he shoved me in here and locked the door. Every time I ask Anya to send for him, she just stares until I give up.
My phone is gone, too. Confiscated before I could even text anyone. Which I suppose was the point. Can’t even doomscroll on TikTok until my brain turns to mush now.
I tried to convince Anya to sneak it back to me on the first day. No dice. I would have had better luck asking for a teaspoon of cyanide with breakfast.
But she did give in to something. Just one thing.
“Who does a girl have to kill to get a book around here?” I asked.
To my shock and awe, she came back that very afternoon with a stack so dry I almost choked on the dust. Histories of shipping routes. Trade ledgers. There was even a memoir by some long-dead Soviet bureaucrat who thought he was important enough to write about his life pushing papers for Stalin.
Joke’s on her: I skimmed the lot in half a day. I am now way more knowledgeable than I ever thought I’d get aboutperestroikaandglasnost.
When Anya came to pick up the trays later, I tried again. “Next time, maybe something with actual dialogue? A romance would be nice. I’ll even take a bodice-ripper. I’m not picky.”
Anya’s reply: a single grunt.
“I’ll take that as ayes.”
She didn’t return with a romance—she returned with a two-volume biography of a czar who spent most of his reign sick inbed. I almost hurled it at the wall but decided I might need it later to brain a guard.
So, with nothing but bad literature and worse company, I spend my hours plotting. Escape, obviously. Bet Petyr will regret not splurging on a Barnes & Noble haul once I’m in the wind with his stupid sick czar book.
He thinks he can lock me up through my pregnancy like we’re in some Victorian novel? Please. If I ever get out of this room, he’ll learn exactly how dangerous boredom makes me.
In the meantime, Anya gets the joy of my sparkling company, whether she wants it or not.
I watch her day after day. She’s remarkably consistent. Same time, same scowl. She doesn’t linger, never slips up.
