?

  ?“Morning, children. Time to wake up.”

  ?The voice came from everywhere at once—behind the walls, above the ceiling, under the floorboards—and ended in every room together, as if the house had spoken with one mouth.

  ?Bunks shifted. Blankets fell in folds that remembered other bodies.

  ?A cup that had been on a table last night now sat on a windowsill.

  ?A brush lay in a drawer that hadn’t been opened.

  ?Sara stared at the moved cup as if it had walked there.

  ?Melissa pushed hair from her face and watched the door seam for a count of three, then rose.

  ?Aurora was already sitting up, book closed under her hand.

  ?The water in the washroom held its heat without steam.

  ?Towels waited on rails and kept a trace of the last hand that touched them.

  ?When the children came out, a row of outfits lay prepared on benches—soft cloth in bright colors, patterns too young for their years.

  ?A few faces lit; fingers found ribbons and buttons as if they had always belonged to them.

  ?Other faces closed.

  ??Sara and Melissa kept their own clothes.

  ?Aurora kept hers; the fabric never seemed to ask anything of her and never took anything in return.

  ?They were led to breakfast.

  ?The dining room was changed overnight.

  ?Yesterday’s long table was gone; a round one waited instead, so no place could hide at the end.

  ?Plates were set like circles inside circles.

  ?Servants stood in softer coats, the cut less strict, collars eased.

  ?They smiled the way a face smiles when it has practiced the shape.

  ?Martha stood at the bright side of the room.

  ?Today her dress was a shallow blue with white stitched along the hem.

  ?She bowed her head.

  ?“Thanks to Borg for bread and breath,” she said, “to roof and wall for keeping, and to Aunt Martha for care.”

  ?Her voice stayed even; the air around her seemed to hold a little stillness for it.

  ??They ate.

  ?Loaves tore without crumbs.

  ?Milk sat cold in the mouth but didn’t chill the teeth.

  ?Small cakes broke like air.

  ?Most of them had forgotten what it felt like to stop before full; now they remembered badly and kept going.

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  ?Voices stayed low and brief.

  ?Aurora did not touch food.

  ?The cup before her remained full; the spoon beside her never moved.

  ?A few eyes found this for the first time and didn’t know what to do with it.

  ?Martha saw and did not speak.

  ?She sat with them at the head of the table, posture perfect, hands folded above her plate.

  ?She did not eat.

  ?From time to time she leaned forward—adjusting a napkin, righting a cup, smoothing a crease in the tablecloth—as though care itself were nourishment enough.

  ?When the last cup was emptied, Martha rose.

  ?The servants moved first, clearing dishes in one silent sweep until the table was bare again, bright and waiting.

  ?“Come,” she said, her smile returning. “The day is too fine to stay indoors.”

  ?She led them through a corridor of windows, garden doors opening before her.

  ?

  ?

  ?---

  ?

  ?Grass lay combed.

  ?Paths ran in clean lines between hedges and bright beds of flowers.

  ?The light felt shaped rather than fallen.

  ?A long stone table waited at the center, ringed by benches.

  ?The children hesitated before sitting, unsure if it was allowed.

  ?Martha stayed with them a while, the sun in her hair turning it pale as lilies.

  ?She clapped her hands once.

  ?“Let’s begin the day properly,” she said, voice bright. “Names, shall we? We should all know each other.”

  ?No one answered.

  ?The silence pressed long enough to make even the birds hesitate.

  ?Sara looked down at her lap.

  ?Melissa folded her arms.

  ?Aurora sat with her book closed, eyes steady.

  ?Martha’s smile didn’t change.

  ?When she spoke again, her tone softened, almost confiding.

  ?“Shy little things. That’s all right.”

  ?She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Aunt Martha knows how not to be pushy—” she paused, letting the warmth turn playful, “—especially with little boys.”

  ?She gave a small wink as she said it.

  ?A few of them shifted on the benches, caught between confusion and embarrassment.

  ?She brushed her palms together, as if dusting off an invisible weight.

  ?“Explore then. The house is yours for now. If you need anything, call my name.”

  ?Her perfume lingered after her steps.

  ?She walked toward the far hedge, hips swaying in slow rhythm until the curve of the path swallowed her from sight.

  ?

  ?

  ?---

  ?

  ?They did not scatter.

  ?They sat together—not a line, not a circle—just a knot that didn’t know how to loosen.

  ?The round table had left its shape in them.

  ?“She’s going to eat us,” Sara said. She didn’t raise her voice.

  ?Melissa let out a breath through her nose and said nothing.

  ??“I don’t think so,” a boy answered after a moment.

  ?He sounded surprised to hear himself.

  ?“After all that training, eating us now… seems a waste.”

  ?Another boy shrugged. “Aunt Martha seems nice.”

  ?A girl nearby looked at him sidelong. “You stared at her when she left,” she said.

  ?His ears colored; a few children let out short, tired laughs.

  ??“I’m just tired,” someone said. “I want to rest. Just a little.”

  ?A few heads nodded, slow, as if the thought itself weighed them down.

  ?No one laughed. No one disagreed.

  ?The silence after felt like agreement—too soft to notice, too heavy to break.

  ?A different boy—older by posture if not years—pushed his hands into his pockets, rocked on his heels, and found words he hadn’t planned.

  ?“What about your friend?” he asked, not looking at anyone in particular.

  ?Faces shifted toward him, then toward Sara, then away again.

  ?“Not the one who screams,” he said, and Melissa’s shoulders stiffened. “The weird one.”

  ?No one looked at Aurora.

  ?They looked past her, around her, beside her—but not at her.

  ?He chuckled. “So we’re going to pretend she didn’t freeze a room, didn’t swallow a relic, didn’t calm a beast, didn’t pull the air out of our lungs, and hasn’t eaten for weeks?”

  ?Silence held.

  ?Aurora’s eyes were on the grass. “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  ?He huffed something like a laugh. “Lucky us.”

  ?He straightened. “You’re right about one thing,” he said to Sara, who had not moved.

  ?“We might get eaten. But not by who you think.”

  ?His gaze lingered on Aurora, steady and unreadable.

  ?“And if I have to choose how it ends,” he said, eyes moving toward the bright door, “I’ll take the way I’m comfortable with.”

  ?He looked back at Sara.

  ?“And Martha is a fine woman.”

  ?No one argued.

  ?They began to drift—not fast, not as if seized by joy—just walking because standing was work.

  ?Two boys wandered toward a row of trimmed trees where the shade held like a hand.

  ?A girl sat at the lip of a shallow fountain and watched the water go and go without ever seeming to lose itself.

  ?Melissa stayed until Sara moved; then she moved with her.

  ?Aurora remained by the path, book under her arm.

  ?The light along the path bent and straightened as clouds passed and did not pass.

  ?A boy stopped short.

  ?Something flickered across his face—a realization too quick for words.

  ?He looked down, then up. “Wait,” he said. “Where are our relics?”

  ?Everyone froze.

  ?

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