13

Camila

The pancakes have no flavor. From a distance, I watch myself lift a forkful of the tender batter into my mouth. It’s heavy on my tongue, like chewing a wet sweater, but I eat it anyway. Partly because I need my strength for what’s going to happen today. The other reason is I’m being watched.

The young woman waiting by the doorway of the breakfast nook is wearing similar garb to Layla. Hers is lighter in shade, more sienna than soil, but the dress falls to the same length on her wrists and ankles. She keeps her hair in a pair of blonde braids that reach her clavicle, and unlike Layla, she doesn’t have a trace of jewelry on that I can see.

Even if she’s got rosy cheeks, I know a sentry when I see one.

“You don’t have to stand there,” I tell her. “I’m not going to vanish.”

She stiffens like a bolt of lightning hit the top of her head. “Oh! No! I don’t think—It’s just that, um, Mr. Volkov, wanted me to make sure you had everything you needed.”

I’m not seated in the same dining room