The Genius's Nanny

Chapter 2

The car ride had taken an hour, winding away from the noise and grime of the city into a part of the countryside I didn’t know existed. The trees here looked taller, the grass greener, and the air smelled like money—crisp, clean, and entirely unfriendly.

When the black sedan finally crunched to a halt over a gravel driveway, I pressed my face against the tinted window like a confused puppy.

"We have arrived, Ms. Choi," the driver said. He hadn't spoken a word since picking me up.

I opened the door and stepped out, clutching my worn-out suitcase.

The house wasn't a house.

It was a fortress.

It was a sprawling Victorian mansion made of grey stone that seemed to swallow the sunlight. Tall, narrow windows stared down at me like judging eyes. There were no flower beds, no garden gnomes, no bicycles on the lawn. Just perfectly manicured hedges and silence. It was so quiet I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

Lifeless.

The massive oak front door creaked open before I could even reach for the knocker. A woman stood there. She was tall, dressed in a severe black suit, with hair pulled back so tight it looked painful.

"Ms. Choi," she said. It wasn't a question. "I am Mrs. Sable, the household manager. Follow me."

I scrambled to grab my bag, the wheels clattering loudly on the marble entryway as I hurried after her. "Hi! Hello! It’s so nice to—"

"Mr. Vane is currently in Tokyo on business," Mrs. Sable cut me off, her heels clicking rhythmically on the floor. "He is rarely home. You will report to me."

The interior was even colder than the outside. The walls were hung with expensive-looking oil paintings of storms and shipwrecks. The furniture looked like it cost more than my entire existence, but it was all stiff and uncomfortable. No throw pillows. No blankets.

"Your duties are simple," Mrs. Sable droned on. "You are to ensure Silas is fed, bathed, and attends his tutoring sessions. He is eleven years old, but he is... particular."

"Particular?" I asked, breathless as we climbed a grand staircase. "Does he have allergies? I make a really good peanut-free cookie if—"

Mrs. Sable stopped dead on the landing. She turned to me, her expression unreadable.

"He does not speak, Ms. Choi."

I blinked. "Oh. Is he... non-verbal? I can learn sign language! I watched a YouTube video on it once, I know the alphabet and how to say 'turtle'—"

"He can speak," Mrs. Sable corrected, her voice dropping a freezing degree. "He chooses not to. He has gone through four nannies in the last six months. They all left because they found his presence... unnerving."

She turned and continued walking. "Do not let him unsettle you. He is just a child. His room is at the end of the hall."

She pointed to a heavy wooden door at the very end of the corridor, isolated from the rest of the house.

"Good luck, Ms. Choi. Dinner is served at six precisely. If you are late, you do not eat."

And with that, she turned on her heel and marched away, leaving me alone in the silent hallway.

I took a deep breath. Okay, Macy. You can do this. It’s just an eleven-year-old boy. You’ve dealt with angry landlords and caffeine-deprived customers. A quiet kid is nothing.

I smoothed down the front of my oversized yellow sweater—my "happy color"—and knocked on the door.

Knock, knock.

No answer.

"Hello?" I called out softly. "I'm coming in!"

I pushed the door open.

The room was massive. It was bigger than my entire apartment. But just like the rest of the house, it felt empty. There were shelves lined with books, perfectly organized by height. There was a bed made with military precision. There were no toys. No posters. No mess.

And there, sitting in a high-backed velvet armchair by the window, was Silas.

He was small for his age, with sharp shoulders hunched under a crisp white button-down shirt that looked too formal for a kid. He had messy, ink-black hair that fell into his eyes.

He didn't look up when I entered. He was staring out the window at the grey sky, his hands resting perfectly still on his lap.

"Hi, Silas!" I said, forcing my voice to be bright and bubbly. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. "I'm Macy. I'm your new... well, I guess I'm your new nanny, but that sounds kind of boring, doesn't it? Let's go with 'Personal Assistant to the CEO of Being Eleven.'"

I waited for a smile. A twitch. Anything.

Nothing.

He didn't even blink.

I walked a little closer, my sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with a strange static. Mrs. Sable was right; there was something intense about him. It wasn't just that he was quiet. It was the quality of the silence. It felt like he was screaming without making a sound.

"So," I continued, feeling the sweat prickle on the back of my neck. "Mrs. Sable told me you like to read? That's cool. I like pictures more than words, to be honest. I'm an artist! Well, sort of. I draw cartoons."

I swung my backpack off my shoulder and unzipped it. I needed a prop. I needed something to bridge the gap between my chaotic energy and his statue-like stillness.

I pulled out my sketchbook and a charcoal pencil.

"I can draw you, if you want?" I offered.

Silas slowly turned his head.

It was the first time he had moved. The motion was slow, fluid, almost predatory.

He looked at me.

His eyes were terrifying. They were a dark, dark brown, almost black, framed by long lashes. But they weren't the eyes of a child. They were old. They were bored. And they were looking at me like I was a bug he was deciding whether to squash or study.

He held my gaze. He didn't speak. He just stared, dissecting me. He looked at my messy bun, my yellow sweater, the hole in the knee of my jeans.

I swallowed hard, but I refused to look away. I gave him a small, wobbly smile.

"I'll take that as a 'maybe,'" I said.

I sat down on the floor—right there on the expensive Persian rug—crossed my legs, and opened my sketchbook. I didn't try to force him to talk. I didn't try to play games. I just started drawing.

I sketched quickly, the charcoal scratching against the paper. The sound was the only noise in the room.

I didn't draw him as he was—sad and lonely in a big chair. I drew a caricature. I drew him as a little king on a throne, but instead of a crown, he was wearing a raccoon hat. And I drew myself next to him, tripping over my own shoelaces and spilling a tray of cookies.

Ten minutes passed. My hand was covered in black smudge.

"Done," I announced.

I stood up and walked over to him. He hadn't moved a muscle, but his eyes had followed my hand the entire time.

"Here," I said, holding the sketchbook out to him. "It's us."

Silas looked at the paper. For a long, agonizing moment, he did nothing.

Then, his hand twitched. He reached out, his pale fingers brushing against mine as he took the book. His skin was cold.

He looked at the drawing. He looked at the raccoon hat. He looked at the cartoon version of me falling on my face.

And then, a tiny breath left his nose. A huff.

It wasn't a laugh. But it wasn't silence.

He looked up at me again. The look in his eyes had changed. The boredom was gone. It was replaced by something else. Curiosity.

He tapped the paper with his index finger, right on the cartoon version of me. Then he pointed to the floor, right where I had been sitting.

Sit.

It was a command.

I blinked, surprised. "You... you want me to sit back down?"

He nodded once. Sharp. precise.

I sat back down on the rug.

Silas settled back into his chair, the sketchbook resting on his knees. He didn't smile. He didn't say thank you. But he didn't look out the window anymore.

He was watching me. Just me.

And for the first time since I arrived at this cold, dead house, I felt a strange sense of purpose. I wasn't just the hired help. I was the only thing in the room that was in Technicolor.

"Okay, Boss," I grinned, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. "What should we draw next? A dragon eating lasagna? Coming right up."

I bent over the paper, my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth—a bad habit I’d had since kindergarten. I worked fast, the charcoal sweeping across the page. I drew a very rotund, happy dragon. I gave him a little bib tied around his scaly neck and a giant fork holding a gooey, cheesy slice of lasagna.

"Voila!" I said, spinning the sketchbook around to face him. "His name is Lorenzo. He loves pasta and hates Mondays."

Silas looked at the drawing. He studied the dragon’s chubby stomach. He studied the cheese dripping off the fork. He looked at it for a solid ten seconds, his expression completely blank.

Then, he looked back at me.

Is that it? his eyes seemed to say.

"Tough crowd," I muttered under my breath. "Okay, okay. How about... a penguin? But he’s a secret agent."

I flipped the page and started again. This time, I drew a penguin in a tuxedo (which looked a lot like the suit Silas was wearing) holding a magnifying glass. I made him look serious and important.

"Agent P," I presented the drawing with a flourish. "He solves crimes in the Arctic."

Silas stared at the penguin.

Then, without a sound, he stood up.

I froze, half-expecting him to rip the paper or throw the book at me. Instead, he turned his back on me completely. He walked over to the tall mahogany bookshelf, his movements precise and calm. He ran a finger along the spines of the leather-bound books before selecting a thick, heavy volume that looked way too complicated for an eleven-year-old.

He walked back to his velvet chair, sat down, opened the book, and started reading.

He didn't look at me. He didn't acknowledge the sketchbook I was still holding out. It was as if I had suddenly turned invisible.

I sat there on the rug for a moment, holding the drawing of Agent P, feeling like a total i***t.

"Right," I said, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet room. I cleared my throat. "I guess art class is over."

I slowly gathered my charcoal sticks and zipped up my backpack. I stood up, brushing the eraser shavings off my jeans. The silence in the room was suffocating. I needed this job. I needed the four thousand dollars. I couldn't mess this up by annoying him.

"Um, Silas?" I tried one last time, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "Do you need anything? A snack? Water? I can make a really mean grilled cheese if you're hungry."

Silas didn't even blink. He turned a page of his book, his eyes scanning the text, completely ignoring my existence.

"Okay," I whispered. "I'll... I'll just be downstairs if you need me."

I waited another second, hoping for a nod, a wave, anything. Nothing.

I backed out of the room, feeling like an intruder, and gently pulled the heavy wooden door shut until it clicked.

As soon as I was in the hallway, I slumped against the wall, my head falling back.

"Phew!" I let out a loud, long exhale, blowing a stray piece of hair out of my face. My heart was hammering in my chest.

That kid was intense.

"Day one," I whispered to the empty, creepy hallway. "Just survive day one, Macy. Think of the carbonara. Think of the rent."

I gripped my backpack strap and headed for the stairs. I had a job, I had a roof over my head, and I had a weird, silent boss who liked cartoons but hated people.

It was a start.