NO LOCKS AFTER MIDNIGHT

My name is Elara Quinn. I am 23. Two months ago I married Silas Vane, and I moved into a mansion that is not mine, into a room that has no lock, with a husband who does not sleep in our bed. I did not marry for love. I married for a roof. My mother died in March. Rent in Elm Row — invented street, not real place — was $800. I had $200. Landlord gave 7 days. Silas Vane was my campus boyfriend from Aureline Academy. Not perfect, but kind in campus way — he carried my books, fixed my broken laptop screen with tape. When I said my mother died, he said: "Come live with me. My uncle's mansion in Willow Row has 12 rooms. We will take one. East Wing. We will be married, so it's proper." We married at town hall. $30 fee, two friends as witnesses, no dress. I thought the mansion meant many rooms, many locks, privacy. I was wrong. The mansion in Willow Row belongs to Caelum Vane. He is not old uncle. He is 31. Young uncle — Silas's father's younger brother. His father died early, so Caelum inherited the whole estate when he was 19. 12 rooms, pine floors that creak even when you don't step, kitchen that smells like old money and lemon cleaner. He wears black shirts, reads in the kitchen at midnight, never brings woman home. He owns Vane Estate freight company that no longer runs trucks, just lives on rent from old buildings. He lets Silas and me live in East Wing because of rule. Rule that he says: "Newly married couples stay in one room for first year. To learn each other. My brother and his wife did. My parents did. So will you." One room. One bed. One window that looks at garden that no one cuts. No lock on door. I asked first day: "Where is lock?" Caelum answered, not Silas: "Locks make people hide. In this house, we don't hide." Silas laughed and said, "Uncle Caelum is old school." But Caelum is only six years older than Silas. Not old. Just... alone. The third person in the mansion: Lyra Vane. She lives in North Wing. She is Silas's cousin — daughter of Caelum's older sister who died in accident 6 years ago. Lyra is 24, beautiful in expensive way, hair always straight, perfume lily that stays in hallway 20 minutes after she passes. She calls Silas "Si" since childhood. She calls me "wifey" with smile that does not reach the eyes. "I love your marriage," she told me first breakfast. We all eat together at long table that fits 12 but only 4 sits. "So brave to marry fast. I could never." First week in East Wing, it was almost normal. Silas and I shared bed, shared bathroom, shared closet. He kissed my forehead in morning. Said "We will make this house ours." Second week, he started studying. Every night at 11 PM, exact time, he says same sentence: "Lyra helps me with agency proposal. North Wing is quiet. I will be back soon." North Wing is Lyra's wing. She works in the same agency as Silas — Northwind Agency — creative department. Proposal is for client. He comes back at 1 AM. Sometimes 1:30. Shirt untucked. Smells lily, not my vanilla. Hair messy in the way my hands didn't make it messy. He says: "Proposal tough." I don't ask. Mansion with no locks, but I have ears, and walls in Willow Row mansion are thin like dorm walls. Third week, I start noticing Caelum. He starts fixing things in our room. Light that flickers — it didn't flicker before, but now it does. Chair that wobbles — it wobbles after he looks at it. He comes when Silas is in North Wing. Always. One evening, I am cooking in kitchen — I cook because Lyra doesn't cook, Caelum doesn't cook, Silas can't cook. Caelum enters, sits at counter, watches. "You cook like my sister did," he says. "Slow. Like you taste in head first." "Your sister is Lyra's mother?" I ask. "Yes." "Lyra cooks?" "No." Silence. He says: "Silas in North Wing again?" "Studying," I say. Caelum looks at clock. 11:14 PM. "Studying," he repeats, not mocking, just... repeating to hear how word sounds fake. He stands, comes near stove. Hand touches mine when I pass spoon. He doesn't move hand fast. He holds second longer than fixing-chair touching. "Elara," he says low, voice that is not uncle voice, "My room in West Wing has lock. And key. And better garden view. If you ever need room with lock, you can come." I should say: I am married to your nephew. I should step back. I say: "Does it have window that locks too? Or just door?" "Both lock," he says. "But I can leave window open, if you want air." We don't touch more. But we both look at one bed in East Wing that is waiting, where my husband doesn't really sleep anymore. That night, midnight, I go to kitchen for water. I don't wear slippers, so floor doesn't creak — but pine floors creak anyway. Kitchen light on. Lyra is on counter, legs crossed, wearing short dress. Silas standing between her legs, close, his hands on counter on either side of her, her hands in his hair. Not studying. Not proposal papers anywhere. Just lily perfume strong and her whisper: "Si, your wifey —" I freeze. Floor creaks. Loud. They turn. Silas face white. "Elara! We were — proposal, Lyra was tired, I —" Lyra says nothing. Just looks at me, calm, then looks behind me. Behind me, Caelum entered kitchen from other side, holding book, black shirt, hair wet from shower. He sees everything. Me, seeing them. Silas, caught, hands still near Lyra. Lyra, calm, not even sliding off counter yet. Caelum doesn't shout. He says, flat: "Silas, your wife needs water. Move." Silas moves fast, like child caught. Lyra slides off counter slowly. I get water. Glass shakes in hand. I drink whole glass even though not thirsty. Caelum watches Silas. Silas watches floor. I go back to East Wing. One room. One bed. No lock. Door open. 1:47 AM. Knock. Knock is just sound, because no lock to knock for — anyone can open. I say: "Come in." Not Silas. Caelum. He didn't bring a book now. "Your light flickers again," he says. "It doesn't," I say. I'm sitting on bed edge, still in kitchen clothes. He closes the door behind him. No lock, but closed. He sits on floor, not bed. Back against wall, knees up. Respectful distance, but close enough that I can smell lemon cleaner from his shirt and something else — pine. "Why are you awake?" he asks. "Why are you?" I ask back. He looks at the bed. "In this house, everyone cheats because no door has a lock. But cheating is just people looking for a room where they are seen. Your husband looks for a room where Lyra sees him as man, not nephew. Lyra looks for a room where Silas sees her as a woman, not cousin she grew up with. You look for a room where someone sees you as more than useful wife who cooks." "And you?" I ask. Voice small. "Who sees you, Caelum?" He looks at me. Really looks, not like uncle, not like landlord. "No one. For 31 years. My brother married, had Silas. My sister married, had Lyra. I stayed to keep house. No one looked for me. Until you came and asked why door has no lock." Silas comes back at 2:03 AM. The door opens without a knock — because no lock. He sees Caelum on the floor of our room, sees me on bed edge, sees 10 inches between us that feels like nothing and everything. Silence so loud pine floors don't even creak. Silas says: "Uncle? What are you doing here?" Caelum stands, slow. "Fixing light. It flickers." He leaves. Doesn't look back. But his hand brushes door frame — leaves finger marks in dust. Silas looks at me. Lily perfume, untucked shirt, guilt in eyes but also something else — defiance. "Your study done?" I ask. He says: "Yes." We lie in one bed, back to back, 10 inches between us like wall made of stone. My vanilla, his lily, mixing into something sour. In North Wing, Lyra plays music low — same song every night, sad. In West Wing, Caelum doesn't play anything. But I know his door now. West Wing door has a lock. Has a key. He offered a key without offering a key. And tomorrow, I will need water again at midnight. And Silas will need to study again at 11 PM. And the mansion with 12 rooms will still have only three beds where anyone sleeps, and none of us will sleep in our own.