The Genius's Nanny

Chapter 6

The next day began with the same crushing routine.

7:00 AM: Wake up. 8:00 AM: Breakfast (Silence and Toast). 9:00 AM: Latin Tutoring. (I learned that Veni, Vidi, Vici means "I came,

I saw, I conquered," and also that I would rather conquer a mountain of dirty laundry than decline verbs for an hour).

By 11:00 AM, my brain felt like it had been put through a blender. Silas, however, looked fresh. He sat perfectly still, his posture impeccable, absorbing information like a terrifying little sponge.

Finally, the glorious hour of "Independent Study" arrived. This was essentially a break, though Mrs. Sable refused to call it that. We were in the East Wing Library—a room that smelled of old leather, dust, and money. It was two stories high, with rolling ladders and shelves that reached the ceiling.

Silas sat in a wingback chair that swallowed him whole. He was staring at the wall. Just staring.

I sat on the floor nearby, cross-legged on the Persian rug. I had been planning this moment since last night. I reached into my tote bag.

"Hey, Boss," I whispered, scooting a little closer. "I found something in the library stacks I thought you might like. Since we talked about the stars and everything."

I pulled out the book. It was thin, colorful, and had a picture of a smiling cartoon star on the cover.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star: A Journey Through the Night Sky.

It was definitely meant for a five-year-old. Maybe a four-year-old. But it had pictures! And colors! And it wasn't a textbook about stock market fluctuations.

"Look," I said, opening it to a page with a pop-up moon. "It explains the phases of the moon. See? Crescent. Gibbous. Full. It's cute, right?"

Silas slowly turned his head. He looked at the pop-up moon. He looked at the smiling star.

He didn't sneer. He didn't roll his eyes. He just looked at it with a profound, crushing indifference. It was the look you give a piece of lint on your jacket.

"No," he said simply.

He reached down beside his chair and hauled up a book that was thick enough to be a murder weapon. The cover was black, with complex diagrams of orbital mechanics. Advanced Astrophysics and Stellar Dynamics: Volume IV.

He opened it, completely ignoring my pop-up book.

"Okay," I said, my voice rising in a nervous squeak. "So, we're skipping the cartoons. Going straight for the heavy stuff. Got it."

I watched him read. It was fascinating and slightly disturbing. He didn't skim. His eyes moved rapidly, scanning line after line, page after page. He turned the pages with a rhythmic swish-snap.

"Is that... interesting?" I asked after a few minutes of silence. "It looks like math homework."

Silas stopped. He held the book open with one hand. He looked at me.

"Page 412," he said. His voice was monotone. "Stellar Nucleosynthesis."

"Bless you," I said automatically.

He ignored me. "The process by which the natural abundances of the chemical elements within stars change due to nuclear fusion reactions in the cores and their overlying mantles. The primary process is the proton-proton chain reaction, which dominates in stars the size of the Sun or smaller."

I blinked. "I... what?"

"At higher temperatures," he continued, not looking at the book anymore, but staring right into my eyes, "the CNO cycle becomes dominant. Carbon-12 acts as a catalyst for the fusion of four protons into a helium nucleus, releasing two positrons and two electron neutrinos."

He recited the entire paragraph. Every word. He didn't stutter. He didn't pause to think. It flowed out of him like a pre-recorded message.

"Did you..." I gaped at him. "Did you just memorize that?"

"I don't need to memorize it," he said, closing the book with a heavy thud. "I just read it. Once I read it, it stays."

He tapped his temple with a pale finger.

"It stays," he repeated.

I sat there, clutching my Twinkle Twinkle book to my chest. I felt incredibly stupid. Here I was, trying to teach him about the moon with a pop-up book, and he was a human hard drive who knew about... electron neutrinos?

"Right," I laughed nervously. "So, you're a genius. Good to know. I'll keep that in mind next time I try to show you a picture of a smiling sun."

Silas leaned forward. For the first time, he looked frustrated.

"I don't want pictures, Macy," he said.

The use of my name—my actual name—startled me.

"I have the pictures in here," he said, tapping his head again. "I have the diagrams. I have the data. I know the distance of Alpha Centauri. I know the chemical composition of Jupiter's atmosphere."

He looked toward the high windows of the library, where the afternoon sun was streaming in.

"I don't want to see paper stars," he whispered, his voice cracking just a little, revealing the eleven-year-old boy beneath the genius. "I want to see the real ones. I want to see a heavenly body. With my own eyes. Not just pixels or ink."

He turned his gaze back to me. It was piercing.

"Like you did," he said. "With your father's telescope."

My stomach dropped.

The lie. The stupid, panic-induced lie I had told him last night to make him feel better.

"Oh," I said, my throat suddenly dry. "Right. The telescope."

"Is it a refractor or a reflector?" Silas asked. "What is the aperture size? If it was your father's, it must be older. Does it have an equatorial mount?"

"Um," I stammered. "It's... big? And... tube-shaped?"

Silas narrowed his eyes. He looked suspicious. "You said you would show me."

"I did! I did say that," I said, sweating. "And I will! I just... I have to find it. It's in storage. At my parents' house. Deep in the attic. Behind... boxes. Lots of boxes."

"Find it," Silas said. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

"I will," I lied again, digging the hole deeper. "I'll look for it this weekend."

Silas nodded, satisfied, and opened his giant book again.

I let out a shaky breath. I was in trouble.

★

That night, the silence of the mansion felt oppressive.

I lay in my bed in the servants' quarters. It was a nice room—nicer than my apartment, certainly. The sheets were high thread count, and there was a little chocolate on my pillow every night (which I ate immediately).

But right now, I felt sick.

I pulled out my phone. The screen cast a blue glow over my worried face.

I opened the sss app. I typed in the search bar: Telescope.

Results flooded the screen.

Celestron NexStar 8SE - $1,599.00 Orion SkyQuest XT8 - $649.99 Gskyer Telescope, 70mm Aperture - $99.99

"Okay," I muttered, scrolling frantically. "Ninety-nine is better. But it looks... flimsy. He'll know. He's a genius. He'll take one look at a plastic lens and know I bought it at a discount store."

I found one that looked decent. Metal tube. Tripod. Looked somewhat professional.

Price: $489.50.

I bit my lip. Five hundred dollars.

I minimized the shopping app and opened my banking app. I held my breath as the little loading circle spun.

Available Balance: $12.43.

I stared at the number. Twelve dollars and forty-three cents.

I couldn't even afford the shipping, let alone the telescope.

"I am such an i***t," I groaned, rolling over and burying my face in the pillow. "Why did I lie? Why didn't I just say 'Hey kid, I'm broke and my dad's idea of astronomy was looking at the ceiling fan'?"

But I knew why. I had seen that spark in his eyes. I had seen him look at me with something other than boredom. I wanted to keep that connection. I wanted to be the one person in his life who gave him what he wanted.

And now, I was going to disappoint him. Just like everyone else.

★

Breakfast the next morning was pancakes.

Usually, this would be a cause for celebration. They were fluffy, golden, and dusted with powdered sugar. But to me, they tasted like sawdust.

I sat across from Silas, pushing a piece of pancake around my plate with my fork. I couldn't look him in the eye. Every time I glanced up, I imagined him asking about the telescope. Where is it? Did you find it? Is it a refractor?

Silas was eating methodically. He cut a square, ate it. Cut a square, ate it. He was wearing a grey sweater today that probably cost more than my entire college tuition.

"So," I started, my voice cracking slightly. I cleared my throat. "Big day today? More... market trends?"

Silas paused. He set his knife and fork down. He didn't answer the question.

"Regarding the telescope," he said.

My heart stopped. I froze, a piece of pancake halfway to my mouth.

"Right!" I squeaked, forcing a bright, fake smile. "The telescope! Yes! I was actually... I was thinking about calling my parents today. To ask them to look for it. But you know how attics are. Dusty. Dangerous. Spiders."

Silas stared at me. His face was completely impassive.

"Stop," he said.

It wasn't a shout. It was a flat, calm command.

"You don't have a telescope," he stated.

I opened my mouth to protest, to spin another web of lies, but the look in his eyes stopped me dead. He wasn't guessing. He knew.

"I... well, I..." I stammered, feeling the heat rise up my neck. "I do! It's just old, and—"

"The cheapest functional telescope with an aperture capable of seeing planetary detail costs approximately one hundred and twenty dollars," Silas said. He spoke as if he were reading from a catalog. "A decent entry-level model is closer to three hundred. A high-quality reflector is upwards of six hundred."

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his small arms over his chest. He looked me up and down. His eyes lingered on my wrist.

"Your watch," he said. "It has a scratch on the face. It’s a knock-off brand. You’ve been wearing the same sneakers for days. The rubber on the sole is peeling on the left side. And yesterday, when we went to the market, you stared at the food cart like you hadn't eaten a real meal in weeks."

I instinctively pulled my left foot under the chair, hiding the peeling sneaker. My face was burning. I felt naked. He had dissected me. He had looked past the cheerful nanny act and seen exactly what I was: a desperate, broke girl in a rich man's house.

"Silas, that's rude," I whispered, stung.

"It is not rude. It is observation," Silas countered calmly. "You are currently employed here for a salary of four thousand dollars a month. However, you have not received your first paycheck yet."

He tilted his head to the side, calculating.

"Based on your age and your desperation during the interview—which Mrs. Sable mentioned—it is highly probable you have student loans. Average debt for an art degree is roughly thirty thousand dollars. You likely have credit card debt. Rent in the city averages twelve hundred. Utilities. Food."

He looked me right in the eye.

"You have twelve dollars and forty-three cents in your bank account."

I gasped. "How did you—did you hack my phone?!"

"No," Silas said, looking bored. "I deduced it. You bought a coffee on your first day. You haven't bought anything since. You count your steps to save on bus fare. It’s simple math, Macy."

The room fell silent. The ticking of the grandfather clock felt like a hammer hitting an anvil.

I gripped the edge of the table. My knuckles were white. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes—tears of humiliation. He was eleven. He was an eleven-year-old boy, and he had just laid out my entire financial failure over a plate of pancakes.

"I was going to buy it," I said, my voice trembling. "When I get paid. I was going to buy you the best telescope I could find. I just... I wanted you to be happy."

"You cannot afford to make me happy," Silas said.

He stood up. He didn't say it with malice. He said it like it was a fact of physics. Gravity makes things fall. Macy cannot afford a telescope.

"Your salary will barely cover your interest payments and living expenses," he continued, pushing his chair in. "Do not promise things you cannot deliver. It is inefficient."

He picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth, and dropped it onto the table.

"I do not need a telescope," he said, turning away. "I have books."

He walked out of the dining room, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet.

I sat there for a long time. The pancakes were cold. The coffee was cold.

"Inefficient," I whispered to the empty room.

I looked down at my peeling sneaker. A single tear escaped and landed on the table.

He was right. I was broke. I was a mess. And I had just been outsmarted, out-reasoned, and utterly dismantled by a boy who hadn't even hit puberty yet.

But what hurt the most wasn't that he knew I was poor. It was that he had looked at my attempt to connect with him—my attempt to bring him the stars—and reduced it to a math problem.

And the answer was zero.