The Genius's Nanny

Chapter 5

The car ride back to the estate was suffocating.

The windows of the black SUV were tinted so dark that the world outside looked like it was underwater. I sat pressed against the leather door, watching the city blur past. We turned a corner, and suddenly, the sterile grey of the financial district gave way to a burst of color.

A street food market.

Even through the glass, I could see the steam rising from metal carts. I saw skewers of grilled meat glistening with glaze, golden balls of fried dough, and cups of brightly colored shaved ice. There were kids running around, laughing, their faces sticky with sauce. People were shouting, haggling, living.

My stomach let out a treacherous, longing growl.

"Silas?" I turned to him, pointing out the window. "Look at that! Do you see those cart things? It smells amazing. Like... charcoal and happiness."

I leaned in a little closer, trying to inject some life into the air-conditioned tomb we were riding in. "Have you ever tried it? We could ask the driver to stop. Just for five minutes? I bet you've never had a corndog. It's life-changing. It's a hotdog, but it's wearing a donut as a coat."

Silas didn't even look up.

He had a thick magazine spread open on his lap—The Economist. He was reading an article titled Fiscal Responsibility in Emerging Markets. His finger traced the lines of text, rhythmic and unstopping.

"No junk food," he said.

His voice was quiet, devoid of any desire. He turned the page. Flip.

I slumped back in my seat. "Right. No junk food. Only green foam and sadness."

I watched the market disappear behind us, the colorful lights fading into the distance as the car sped back toward the silent, grey mansion.

★

When we arrived, I barely had time to take off my coat before I was scrambling for the manual again.

"Okay, okay," I muttered, flipping pages as I jogged after Silas, who was already marching up the stairs. "1:00 PM to 2:00 PM... Physical Education. Sub-category: Aquatics."

Aquatics?

"Swimming!" I announced. "Okay, grab your trunks, Boss. We're going for a dip."

Silas went into his room and emerged three minutes later wearing a navy blue warm-up suit and holding a neatly folded towel. We headed down. And down. And down.

I expected a basement. Maybe a dusty room with some old exercise bikes and a pool table.

The elevator doors opened, and I was hit with the heavy, chemical smell of chlorine and humidity.

"You have got to be kidding me," I whispered.

It wasn't a basement.

It was a natatorium.

The room was cavernous, echoing with the hum of filtration systems. In the center lay a pool that looked Olympic-sized, the water a brilliant, stillness-shattering turquoise. Lane markers bobbed gently on the surface.

A man in a tracksuit stood by the edge, holding a stopwatch. He looked like he ate rocks for breakfast.

"Late," the coach barked, his voice booming off the tiled walls.

Silas didn't flinch. He walked to the bench, shed his warm-up suit to reveal plain black swim trunks, put on his cap and goggles, and dove in.

Splash.

For the next hour, I sat on a hard wooden bench, hugging my knees to my chest, watching a child train like a Navy SEAL. "Butterfly!" the coach yelled. "Keep your hips up! Faster! Again!"

Silas obeyed. He thrashed through the water, his small arms cutting the surface with violent precision. He swam lap after lap after lap. He didn't stop to breathe. He didn't stop to play. There were no pool noodles. No Marco Polo. Just the relentless chop, chop, chop of his strokes and the coach's whistle.

I watched his face when he turned at the wall. Under the goggles, he looked exhausted. His chest was heaving. But he pushed off the wall and kept going.

He wasn't swimming for fun. He was swimming because it was on the schedule.

When the whistle finally blew for the end of the session, Silas dragged himself out of the pool. He stood shivering on the wet tiles, his skin pale and goosebumped.

I jumped up, grabbing the oversized fluffy towel I had been holding.

"Okay, good job! You were like a torpedo out there!" I said, rushing over to wrap him up.

I rubbed his arms briskly, trying to get some warmth back into him. I grabbed a smaller towel and gently dried his hair, ruffling the damp black strands.

"You're freezing," I murmured, my nanny instincts screaming. "Let's get you upstairs."

He stood still, letting me dry him. For a second, he leaned ever so slightly into the towel, into the warmth. But as soon as the coach approached to give his report, Silas straightened up, his face returning to that stony mask.

★

"Schedule check," I sighed, looking at the waterproof watch I wore. "It's 2:15 PM. That means... Cognitive Strategy."

Cognitive Strategy?

"Chess," Silas said.

It was the first word he had spoken to me voluntarily all day.

We walked—well, he marched, and I speed-walked—to the West Wing of the mansion. I hadn't even been to this part of the house yet. It was dustier, older, filled with dark wood paneling and portraits of men with muttonchops who looked like they judged poor people for a living.

In a library that smelled of old paper and lemon wax, an old man was waiting.

He was ancient. He had a white beard that reached his chest and eyes that looked like they could see through lead.

"Grandmaster Petrov," Silas acknowledged with a curt nod.

"Mr. Vane," the old man rasped.

They sat at a small table. Between them lay a chessboard made of marble and obsidian.

For the next two hours and forty-five minutes, nobody spoke.

Click. A pawn moved. Click. A knight took a bishop. Click. Silence.

I sat in a velvet armchair in the corner, feeling my brain slowly liquefy from boredom. I watched them. It was intense. The air felt heavy, like a storm was brewing over the board.

I pulled out my sketchbook.

Usually, I drew cartoons. Big heads, silly eyes, spaghetti limbs. But looking at Silas now, cartoons didn't feel right.

He was leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand. His brow was furrowed in deep concentration. The afternoon light filtered through the heavy drapes, illuminating the sharp angle of his jaw and the dark sweep of his lashes. He looked lonely. He looked brilliant. And he looked incredibly sad.

I turned to a fresh page. I picked up my charcoal.

I didn't draw a caricature. I drew him for real.

I shaded the hollow of his cheek. I captured the way his fingers hovered over the rook, hesitant but calculating. I drew the Grandmaster as a looming shadow opposite him. I tried to capture the silence of the room—the heavy, crushing weight of expectation on a boy who was too small for the chair he sat in.

I worked for hours, smudging the charcoal with my thumb, getting lost in the shapes.

"Checkmate," Silas said softly.

I looked up. The Grandmaster was staring at the board, looking defeated. Silas didn't smile. He just began resetting the pieces.

★

The rest of the day was a blur of misery.

3:00 PM: Mandarin Tutor. (I learned that Nǐ hǎo means hello, and that Silas speaks better Chinese than I speak English.) 4:00 PM: Violin. (He plays perfectly, but it sounds like he’s angry at the instrument.) 5:00 PM: Etiquette. (A woman taught him how to fold a napkin seven different ways.)

By the time 6:00 PM rolled around, I was exhausted, and I hadn't even done anything.

Dinner was the same as the night before. Silence. Clinking silverware. Me trying to make jokes about the mashed potatoes; Silas eating like a robot.

Then came the bath. The pajamas. The routine.

It was 8:45 PM. We were in his bedroom. The day was finally over.

Silas climbed into his massive bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin. He looked smaller at night. The armor of the suits and the schedules fell away, leaving just a boy with tired eyes.

I stood by the bed, my sketchbook tucked under my arm.

"Hey," I said softly.

He looked at me.

"I... I drew something today," I said, feeling suddenly shy. "During your chess match. I wanted to show you."

I opened the book. I flipped past the dragons and the penguins to the drawing I had made that afternoon.

It was a realistic sketch. It showed Silas at the chess board, bathed in shadow and light. It showed his intensity, but it also showed his isolation.

I held it out to him.

Silas reached out and took the book. He stared at it.

He looked at the drawing for a long time. His finger traced the charcoal lines of his own face.

Then, I saw it. A tiny flicker.

His eyes widened just a fraction. His lips parted, then pressed together. It wasn't a smile, but it was... recognition. He saw himself. Not the heir, not the student, but him.

He looked up at me. The gaze wasn't dismissive anymore. It was searching.

He handed the book back to me without a word, but he didn't turn away. He kept watching me, waiting.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. This was progress.

"So," I whispered, trying to keep the momentum going. "I know you don't talk much. That's cool. But I feel like I don't know anything about you. I know you're good at math, and swimming, and chess. But what do you like?"

Silas blinked slowly.

"Do you like candy?" I asked. "I love gummy bears. The red ones are the best."

Silas stared at the duvet. Bored.

"What about colors?" I tried. "My favorite is yellow. But blue is nice. Like the ocean?"

Nothing. He picked at a loose thread on the blanket.

"TV shows?" I persisted. "Cartoons? Spongebob? Adventure Time? No?"

He looked like he was about to fall asleep from boredom. I was losing him.

I looked around the room, desperate for a clue. My eyes landed on the window. The heavy velvet curtains were pulled back, revealing the night sky. It was a clear night. The moon was a sharp crescent, and out here in the countryside, away from the city lights, the stars were incredible. They looked like diamond dust spilled on black velvet.

"It's a nice night," I murmured, following his gaze to the window. "Look at the stars."

Silas froze.

His hand, which had been picking at the thread, stopped. He slowly turned his head toward the window.

"The moon looks sharp tonight," I said, watching him closely. "Like a fingernail."

Silas didn't blink. He was staring at the moon with an intensity I hadn't seen all day. It wasn't the forced focus of the chess match. It was hunger.

"Do you like... astronomy?" I asked softly.

Silas turned his head back to me. Snap.

His eyes were blazing.

There was a light in them—a genuine, frantic flicker of interest. It was the first time I had seen life behind the mask.

"Astronomy," he whispered. It was barely a breath.

I smiled. A real, genuine smile.

"Yeah," I said, leaning in. "The stars. The planets. Big Dipper. Orion's Belt. Black holes."

He was listening. He was listening to every word, his small chest rising and falling a little faster.

"My dad used to have a telescope," I lied. (My dad owned a pair of broken binoculars, but whatever). "We used to look for Mars. The red planet."

Silas nodded. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

He didn't say anything else. He didn't have to. The door had been cracked open.

"Okay," I whispered. "I get it."

I stood up and walked to the lamp.

"We can talk about the stars tomorrow," I promised. "I'll read up on it. I'll learn all the constellations."

I clicked the light off.

"Goodnight, Silas."

I walked to the door. Just as I was about to close it, I heard a sound from the bed. A rustle of sheets.

He had turned over. He was facing the window. Watching the sky.

I smiled to myself and closed the door.

He wasn't a robot.

He was just a boy who was looking for something that was millions of miles away, because everything right in front of him was too cold to touch.