And there, moving through the frame, is a woman.
She’s small. That’s the first thing I register. Not short, but slight, with narrow shoulders. Her frame seems like it would fold in a strong wind. She’s wearing a white blouse and a dark skirt, and her hair is loose, coming undone at the edges.
I can’t see her face. The camera angle catches her from behind and slightly above, showing her shoulders, the top of her head, and the way she moves through the room with caution.
Not trespassing, but not comfortable either. She seems lost.
My thumb hovers over Mikhail’s number.
And then she stops and turns her head slightly toward the windows. Toward the curtains.
My chest tightens.
The living room curtains are Anya’s second favorite spot to hide. She likes the weight of the velvet.
The woman takes a step toward the curtains, followed by another.
I sit forward in my seat.
She reaches out. The curtain shifts. And there, in the gap between the velvet and the window, caught in a slice of pale light, is my daughter.
“Don’t you dare touch her,” I growl, bearing my teeth.
My hand grips the phone. A stranger is near my child. An unvetted, unknown woman is standing two feet from the most important thing in my world.
I should call security. Now. Immediately. Have them in that room in thirty seconds. Remove the woman. Lock the house down.
But I don’t. And it takes me a moment to realize why.
Anya isn’t hiding or pulling back behind the curtain like shedoes when strangers approach. Instead, she’s sitting still. Mr. Whiskers is clutched against her chest, which means she’s alert, guarded, but not panicking.
She’s watching the woman.
I switch to camera eleven, the secondary angle for the living room, positioned lower and closer to the window wall. I still can’t see the woman’s face clearly.
My pulse is hammering harder than it has in years, which means it’s probably beating as fast an average person’s on an average day. But I’m not an average person. My pulse is always slow and steady… except when it comes to my daughter.
“Who are you?” I lean in closer, my voice still gravelly.
The stranger is turned toward Anya, crouched low, her back partially to the camera, but I can read her posture. She’s not leaning in or reaching to touch my daughter. She’s keeping distance and talking.
Her hands are moving, gesturing in a fluid, animated movement that suggests she’s telling a story rather than asking questions.
I can’t hear what she’s saying. The cameras are visual only; audio surveillance in the private rooms is a line even I wouldn’t cross.
I watch Anya’s face. She’s still guarded, but her head is tilted. That means she’s listening.
The blank, disconnected stare she gives the governesses when they try to engage her — the one that says,I hear you, but I’ve decided you don’t exist —is absent.
This is different. She’s tracking the woman’s hands as she follows the story.
The stranger gestures broadly in some kind of pantomime, arms spread. Performing a joke, maybe, or an impression.
And then I see it.
Anya’s mouth moves at the corner. The faintest twitch. So small that on any other child it would mean nothing.
But this is my daughter. And I know she doesn’t smile at strangers.
