They sent a servant to tend her, but not one to trust. Miss Sabine, a caramel-skinned Creole woman, moved like poetry, but her hands were shaped by work. Her beauty was undeniable, a soft face, high cheekbones, lashes thick enough to fan shadows across her cheeks. Her red hair stayed hidden beneath a tightly wrapped scarf, too deliberately concealed, Ayoka thought. There were stories under that cloth. Sabine spoke quietly, dressed neatly, and observed more than she said. The first time Ayoka saw her, she carried a silver tray with folded linens, two combs, and a jar of lye.

“You will bathe,” Sabine said, “and you will be presentable when he passes by.” Her tone was even, but Ayoka caught the flicker of something beneath it, urgency or warning, maybe both. Ayoka lowered her gaze and nodded once, her arms tightening instinctively around Malik. It was just another step in the quiet theater they were expected to perform, but every motion felt like a test of how much she could keep hidden and how long she could protect what was hers.

Ayoka did not ask who the playwright was, because she already knew it was Viktor. While Sabine worked, she stole a look at Malik and froze. Her eyes widened. “My Lord,” she murmured, her voice tinged with awe. “That child, he’s got a light in him. A color that’ll make folks talk.” She cleared her throat and folded a sheet, but her eyes kept drifting back. “He won’t hurt the child. Not his way. He’s not from here, not really. You can hear it when he talks. Been here long enough to pretend he belongs, but not long enough to forget he doesn’t.”

Ayoka gave a soft, dazed smile and brushed Malik’s cheek. “That might be a kind of blessing,” she whispered. The baby sighed and wiggled, his lips curling in what looked almost like a smile. He reached for her hair and tugged. She laughed softly. “You already know how to charm people, little one.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a boy standing just outside the door, barefoot, barely past childhood, with eyes too still. Her smile faltered slightly. “Who’s that?” she asked quietly.

Sabine glanced over her shoulder. The boy remained just outside the door, barefoot, dull-eyed, and silent. “Don’t mind him,” Sabine said. “That’s just extra help. Extra eyes, but pay him no mind.” Ayoka nodded slowly, though unease pooled in her stomach. Even with chains still on her ankles, she began to wonder if Viktor’s need for control ran deeper than she first thought.

Sabine gave a short, bitter laugh. “Some masters give freedom with one hand and take your time with the other. You’re free, but still folding their linens. That’s not freedom, just a quieter kind of chain.” She glanced toward the door again, then leaned closer. She started to fix Ayoka’s hair, her tone softening. “I will have your hair looking new again. Such a pretty mother.”