“I…” She shuts her eyes, shaking her head as if she’s actually capable of human emotions. “It’ll get better,” she says softly. “They’ll come around. We all started off like this.”
I don’t know whether to believe her. The words feel hollow, a comfort that doesn’t quite reach the depths of my despair. But I nod anyway, because it’s easier than arguing.
She disappears, muttering about not wanting to be discovered.
As I soak in the tub, I can’t help but wonder what Antonio’s motives are. Why did he stop Mistress? Why did he bring me here, wherever the fuck here is? And how on earth can I continue to survive all this? Can I continue to fight this?
Iwatch the screen as Grace moves with that infuriating, quiet diligence. She scrubs at the smears of mud Felice so artfully applied to the glass panels just an hour ago. Julie’s contribution, a generous sprinkling of potting soil and shredded leaves of the parlour palm across the freshly mopped marble is a dark, chaotic bloom around her. Grace’s shoulders are slumped, the line of her neck taut with a fatigue that goes deeper than muscle.
Good.
It’s working. The isolation, the constant, inexplicable sabotage. It is sanding her down, grain by grain.
A small, satisfied smile touches my lips. Her spirit will fracture, leaving her pliable, entirely dependent on the environment I’ve crafted for her. Onme.
Then, the door to the conservatory whispers open and a figure slips inside.
This is an unexpected bonus because Anya, with her sharp tongue and impatient eyes, is the perfect instrument for a different kind of erosion. I expect a cutting remark, a disdainful look at the mess, a complaint that will make Grace feel smaller, more incompetent.
I lean forward slightly, anticipating another delicious moment of fracture.
But Anya doesn’t speak. She just looks at Grace, at the mess and her expression, it’s not scorn. It’s something else. She moves to the supply closet and emerges not with a reprimand, but with a second bucket and a clean mop.
My spine stiffens.
I watch, utterly still as she says something to Grace. Grace flinches, expecting a blow, verbal or otherwise. But Anya’s next gesture is one of pure, practicalsolidarity. She sets the bucket down, rolls up her metaphorical sleeves, and gets to work.
The air leaves my lungs in a slow, controlled hiss.
This is not part of the script.
I watch in disbelief as they work in tandem. Anya attacks the mud on the glass with a fierce efficiency while Grace follows behind, polishing the panes to a sparkling clarity that seems to mock me. Anya doesn’t just help; she directs, she organizes. She shows Grace a more effective way to wring the mop, her hands guiding Grace’s for a brief moment. It’s not a gesture of domination. It’s a gesture of teaching. Of alliance.
A low heat begins to burn in my gut. This isn’t a minor deviation.
This is a fundamental flaw in the entire fucking experiment.
Anya is not bullying her; she is shielding her. She is becoming a fortress where I need there to be open, vulnerable plain.
I see Grace look at Anya, just a fleeting glance, but it’s enough. The weary slope of her shoulders has eased. She is not alone. The very thing I have worked so meticulously to ensure, her absolute, crushing isolation is being dismantled before my eyes by a woman I nurtured and pampered. What treachery is this?
I lean back in my chair, the fine leather groaning in protest. The movement is slow, deliberate. A counterpoint to the sudden, frantic racing of my mind. I let out a deep, ragged sigh that seems to come from the very foundations of this house.
This complicates everything. A broken spirit is a fragile thing; it requires constant pressure, a vacuum with no hope of reprieve. A single source of comfort, however small is a leak in that vacuum. It gives the spirit something to cling to, a reason to resist the breaking. It fosters resilience where I require complete and utter surrender.
My gaze flicks between the monitors. There they are, the two of them, now almost finished. The conservatory is returning to its pristine state but it feels like a defeat, not a victory. Their shared labour has created a bond, a tiny thread of solidarity that I must sever before it strengthens into a rope Grace can use to climb out of the abyss I’m digging for her.
I mull over my next steps, the options clicking through my mind like cold, polished stones.
I could remove Anya, sell her on, but it’s too blunt. It would make me the obvious villain.
I could turn them against each other but it’s a gamble. If it fails, if they see through it, their bond would only strengthen in the face of a common enemy.Me.
No. I need something more subtle. Something that poisons the well without revealing the hand that pours the venom.
I lean forward again, my eyes locked on Anya’s pretty face on the screen.
The seed of an idea takes root, cold and perfect. A small, cruel smile returns to my lips. Let them have their moment of camaraderie. Let them think they’ve won a small victory against the unseen forces arrayed against them.
