14. Keira
KEIRA
I t has been two weeks since I learned I was pregnant.
This morning finds me before the house does.
I wake to the electric hush of predawn, the glass of my window beaded with condensation, the sheets damp from the sweat that accumulates now, always.
A single breath, and the body inventory begins—the dull ache low in my belly, the sickly-sweet film at the back of my mouth, the near-imperceptible tenderness where my breasts meet the seam of my ribs.
I press a palm flat to my stomach, half in hope, half in apology.
Still nothing to feel.
I get up slowly, count the steps to the bathroom so as not to attract the attention of the guard who takes notes on my morning schedule.
He is always stationed at the corridor bend, perched on the radiator's lip with a paperback in hand, never the same book twice.
Some days, I want to ask what he's reading just to see if he'll answer, but I suspect any interest would be catalogued and filed away for later.
The pattern must remain—I do not see, I do not speak, I do not want.
In the bathroom, I brace myself on the counter and examine my reflection with the clinical detachment of a mortician—skin sallow, eyes pocketed, the lines at my mouth deepening as if to accommodate words I refuse to say.
I brush my teeth with the old, hard toothbrush and rinse twice, spit blood, spit again.
My body is an unreliable witness, but I trust it more than anyone else in this house.
At breakfast, I perform.
The kitchen is bright, metallic, buzzing with the theater of domesticity.
Two cooks, one pastry, one savory.
They pretend not to see me, but the spread is curated—always options, always an invitation to choose, so that whatever I select becomes data.
I make a show of indecision, hovering over the buffet for a count of five before I scoop a portion of scrambled eggs, three strips of bacon, two slices of brown bread, and a half-handful of dried apricots.
Iron and salt, the diet of livestock and the newly anemic.
I eat at the small table by the window, back to the room, gaze fixed on the muted geometry of the garden beyond.
I chew slowly, methodically, as if breaking each molecule might stave off the waves of nausea that come and go in irregular tides.
When the cooks are distracted, I slide an extra slice of bread and a napkin-wrapped fist of fruit into the pocket of my cardigan, casual as petty theft.
I am not above stockpiling.
After, I retreat to my room and lock the door behind me, a pretense that would fool no one if they wanted to enter.
The first thing I do is retrieve the notebook from under the mattress.
It is spiral-bound, thin, the cover disguised with the faded logo of a bank that went under five years ago.
On the first page, I've mapped the entire ground floor—kitchens, service corridors, laundry, the path to the east library, the angle of every camera lens I've counted.
I mark the spots with color-coded dots, red for direct sight, blue for guard positions, black for shadow.
I know the rotation schedule by heart.
On the second page, I plot the exit routes—the dogleg through the conservatory, the tight squeeze behind the freezer in the secondary pantry, the choke point at the north garden gate.
I've timed the patrols.
I know, down to the second, how long I could run before they'd catch me.
The knowledge is useless, but it soothes the part of my brain that still wants to believe in options.
I'm working on the blind spots—where the old wiring has left dead zones, or where the new tech doesn't quite overlap.
I sketch them with care, pencil so faint it's almost invisible, then trace over in ink when I'm sure.
Sometimes, I fantasize about burning the entire book, but the ritual of adding to it matters more than the risk of being discovered.
It's midmorning when Lena arrives.
She knocks with a coded rhythm, a tic I've learned to recognize—two quick, one slow, like a heartbeat remembering itself.
I stash the notebook, smooth the quilt, and open the door just as she lifts her hand to knock again.
She's dressed in the usual—dark jeans, fitted jacket, boots silent on the runner.
Her hair is up, face scrubbed clean of any pretense.
She surveys the room with a glance, then steps inside, positioning herself with her back to the wall, the habit of someone trained to expect trouble from the corridor, not from me.
"Morning," she says, soft, almost friendly.
I nod, resisting the urge to offer tea or some other dumb offering.
Lena doesn't drink anything she hasn't watched being poured.
Instead, I pull on my boots and a scarf, the thin gray one with moth holes at the edge, and nod again, ready.
She opens the door, and I follow.
The guard at the corridor pretends to be absorbed in his paperback, but when I pass, he shifts his eyes just enough that I catch the movement in my peripheral.
Lena notices, too.
At the end of the hallway, she slows until we are out of earshot, then says, "You have a tail today."
I say, "Nothing new."
"Not usually this close."
"Maybe they're bored."
She almost smiles, then flexes her hand inside her pocket, as if prepping for a weapon she knows she won't need.
We descend the stairs in silence, Lena half a pace behind me, the old choreography of prisoner and warden.
At the main floor, I head for the door to the terrace, ignoring the sidelong glance from the housekeeper arranging flowers in the front hall.
It's always the same—staff, security, Ruairí's men—all united in the project of observation.
If I ever slipped, even once, the story would be everywhere by lunch.
Outside, the air is sharp with the promise of rain, but the garden is immaculate.
Someone has spent hours pruning the boxwood and raking the gravel paths.
I walk the perimeter at a measured pace, Lena hovering just far enough back to let me feel alone.
I take the long route, past the hedge maze, the tennis court, the little chapel that now serves as a tool shed.
I stop at the east wall, where the stone is warm and mossy, and stand for a while, eyes closed, counting the minutes before the next patrol swings around.
In the quiet, I run the numbers. I wonder what my father would think of this—his only daughter, marooned in a fortress built for her containment, incubating the next phase of a dynasty that refuses to consider her their equal.
I picture his face, the ridge of his brow, the cruel slant of his mouth when he said, "You're not built for peace, girl. Learn to survive the aftermath. "
I open my eyes.
Lena is still there, hands in pockets, gaze flicking between me and the empty expanse of lawn.
She's better than most—less likely to report every tremor, more likely to cover for a girl who walks too long in the rain.
I give her a look, the closest I come to gratitude, and she nods once as if to say, You're not invisible. I see you.
When I tire of the pretense of freedom, I retrace my steps to the house.
Lena holds the door and follows, her expression neutral.
We climb the stairs, passing the corridor guard who pretends not to notice our return.
In my room, I peel off the boots, then kneel by the radiator, where a single floorboard is slightly warped.
I pry it up with a fingernail.
Inside—a small pouch with emergency cash, a half-used burner phone, a battered medical kit with three sealed bandages and a bottle of expired antibiotics.
I count the bills, check the phone for battery, then replace everything exactly as before.
The contingency is pathetic, but it is mine.
I spend the next hour at the desk, updating the notebook.
I mark the new patrol schedule—slightly altered, probably in response to my perimeter walk. I add a note about the change in the guard's paperback (today, a lurid true crime).
I list the breakfast menu, the weather, the shift in Lena's posture from wary to resigned.
Then I tuck the notebook under the mattress and lie down, hands folded across my stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I let myself drift for a while, not quite sleep, not quite wakefulness.
In the half-dream, I see the children—small, perfect, unbruised by history.
I see the city beyond the garden, alive with the noise and ruin of a world that refuses to die.
I wake to the sound of Lena's knock and know I have to do it all again tomorrow.
The next day, there is a new delivery, which I learn via Lena.
She does it without words, just a tilt of her head as I pass her at the base of the service stairs, the way her eyes flick to the loading bay and then away, as if she is scanning for threats on every axis.
I'm not meant to overhear, but I do—three of the kitchen staff clustered by the door, voices lowered, one of them saying, "He's not the usual," and another, "New muscle, maybe?"
The loading bay smells like diesel and old sweat, cut with the ghost of bleach from the morning mop.
I stand to the side, pretending to examine a clipboard, but really, I'm watching the man in the vendor jacket as he hoists sacks of flour from the van.
He is taller than the last, hair shaved to the scalp, neck thick enough that the collar rides high and looks like it's choking him.
He moves with the forced deliberation of someone who knows he is being watched.
Every so often, his eyes flick up, never quite meeting mine but cataloguing all the same.
When he bends for the last bag, I see the hands—thick, battered, knuckles like old stone, nails cut to the quick.
Not baker's hands.
The white dust of the flour clings in strange patterns, interrupted by the shadowed line of an old burn scar across the back of the left.
When he straightens, I see the tattoo peeking from beneath the cuff—five-pointed star, red, the ink half-bleached by sunlight and age.
I do not react.
Instead, I shift the clipboard to my left hand, offer the invoice with the right, and look him dead in the face.
He takes the paper, holds it for a second longer than needed, then slides the carbon copy back toward me, the edge of his thumb brushing my wrist.