We spend the afternoon on the couch watchingFinding Nemo. At some point, her head tips sideways and comes to rest against my arm.
I don’t move, letting her head stay where it is as I watch the movie without really seeing it. As I feel the warmth of this small, sick, trusting child against my arm, a piece of me clicks into place and locks.
By five, she’s asleep. I carry her upstairs in a bundle of blanket and rabbit and tuck her into her bed. She opens her eyes when I pull the duvet over her.
“I’m right down the hall,” I whisper. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything.”
“Okay,” she whispers back.
I go to my room but can’t manage to sleep. I listen through the wall for coughing or whimpering, wishing I could do more for her. Wishing to take her pain away.
Wednesday morning, the fever has dropped, and Anya eats half a piece of toast, which I count as a victory. She’s still sniffly, still wan, but the glassy look is gone.
I’m checking her temperature for the third time when a knock comes at the door. Mikhail.
“Miss Calloway. A word.”
I step into the hallway.
“Mr. Belov has an important dinner meeting this evening in the main dining room,” he says, although I have no idea where the main dining room is. “It’s essential that you and Anya remain on this floor for the duration. Your rooms, the hallway, the west wing sitting room — all fine. But no going downstairs. Not for any reason.”
I nod slowly. “Can I ask why?”
“The meeting involves sensitive business matters. Mr. Belov prefers that household staff not be present during these occasions.”
It’s a reasonable explanation. Wealthy people have private meetings. CEOs have dinners where the help disappears.
But Mikhail didn’t saypreferable.He saidessential.And his tone, despite being calm, suggests a precision that has stopped being preference and become protocol. It makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Of course,” I say. “We’ll stay upstairs.”
He nods. Pauses.
“If you need anything during the evening, use the call button in your room. Someone will come.”
“Thank you, Mikhail.”
I stand in the hallway, watching him leave while the wordessentialechoes through my head.
In the evening,Anya and I are in my room. It’s warmer than hers, less white, and now equipped with the TV that I requested. She’s lying on my bed, propped against pillows with Mr. Whiskers under her arm. We’re watchingFinding Nemofor the second time — her choice, and I’m not about to argue with a sick child who’s found comfort in a clownfish.
At 7:30 p.m., she shifts and winces.
“Ellie, my head hurts.”
I mute the TV and press the back of my hand to her forehead.
She’s burning up. Not the low-grade warmth from yesterday, but a heat I feel before my hand fully makes contact. Her cheeks are bright red, and her eyes are watery. Sweat pricks at her temples.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “You’re running a little hot. Let me find some medicine.”
I call Maren, and she picks up instantly. I give her the info and wait for a miracle.
“How high?”
“I don’t have a thermometer. She’s hot. Visibly flushed.”
“Give her a weight-appropriate dose of children’s ibuprofen. If it doesn’t come down in an hour, or if she hits 103, take her to the ER.”
