The Genius's Nanny

Chapter 3

At 5:50 PM, the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. It wasn’t a friendly sound. It was a deep, resonant gong that vibrated through the floorboards.

Don’t be late. If you are late, you do not eat.

Mrs. Sable’s warning replayed in my head like a looped audio track. My stomach gave a treacherous growl, reminding me that the last thing I’d eaten was a stale granola bar on the train ride over.

I smoothed down my sweater, checked my reflection in the dark window of the hallway—hair frizzy, eyes wide, looking thoroughly out of place—and marched toward the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor.

Knock, knock.

"Silas? It's Macy again," I called out, my voice sounding too cheerful for the gloomy hallway. "It's ten minutes to six. Mrs. Sable said it's feeding time... I mean, dinner time."

There was no answer. Naturally.

I waited a beat, then turned the brass handle. It was unlocked.

The room was exactly as I had left it an hour ago. The curtains were still drawn, casting the room in a permanent, dusty twilight. Silas was still in the velvet armchair, the heavy leather-bound book open on his lap. He hadn’t changed his posture. He looked like a porcelain doll that someone had posed and forgotten about.

"Hey," I said softly, stepping inside. "Did you hear me? It's dinner time."

At the word 'dinner,' Silas moved.

It wasn't a natural movement. He didn't stretch, or sigh, or mark his page with a bookmark. He simply snapped the book shut in one fluid motion and placed it on the side table. Then, he stood up. His spine was perfectly straight, his arms stiff at his sides. He pivoted toward the door with mechanical precision.

It was eerie. It was like watching a robot execute a command: Initiate Dinner Protocol.

"Okay then," I murmured, unsettled. "Let's go."

As he walked past me, I instinctively reached out my hand. It was a nanny reflex—you hold the kid's hand when you walk down the stairs. "Here, let's—"

Silas didn't even look at my hand. He walked right past it, his shoulder brushing against my outstretched arm without a pause. He didn't speed up or slow down to avoid me; he just existed in a space where I was apparently optional.

I let my hand drop, feeling foolish. "Right. No holding hands. Got it. I'm learning."

I followed him into the hallway. He walked with a silent grace that no eleven-year-old should have, his footsteps making zero sound on the carpet runner. I, on the other hand, squeaked and shuffled behind him, my sneakers betraying my every move.

We descended the grand staircase in silence and entered the dining room.

If the bedroom was big, the dining room was a cavern. A crystal chandelier the size of a small car hung from the ceiling, casting a glittering, cold light over a mahogany table that could easily seat twenty people.

Silas walked straight to the head of the table—the seat usually reserved for the father or the master of the house.

I quickly hurried ahead, grabbing the back of the heavy wooden chair. "Let me get that for you!"

I pulled it out, putting on my best waiter smile.

Silas stopped. He looked at the chair I was holding. Then, he looked at me. His expression was blank, but his eyes were sharp.

He sidestepped me completely. He walked to the other side of the chair—the side I wasn't blocking—pulled it out himself with surprising strength, and sat down.

I stood there, gripping the empty air where he should have been, my smile frozen on my face.

Okay. Point taken. He doesn't want help. He wants... I don't know what he wants.

I awkwardly shuffled to the chair to his right, the one set with a smaller, but still intimidating, array of silverware. I sat down, feeling very small in the massive room.

"So," I started, folding my hands in my lap. "Is it always this quiet? Do you ever listen to music while you eat? I usually listen to podcasts. There's this one about—"

The double doors to the kitchen swung open.

A man in pristine chef’s whites marched in. He was holding two silver domes. He didn't look at me. He didn't say hello. He walked over to Silas, placed a plate down, and whisked the silver dome away.

Then he did the same for me.

My eyes widened.

I stared at the plate. In the center of the massive white porcelain circle sat... something. It was small. It was brown. It had a bone sticking out of it. And it was covered in a green foam that looked suspiciously like moss.

"Um," I whispered.

It was definitely not a burger. It was definitely not carbonara.

The chef turned on his heel and marched out, the doors swinging shut behind him.

Silence descended again.

Silas picked up his knife and fork. He cut a precise, geometric piece of the meat, speared it, and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly.

I picked up my fork, which felt heavy enough to be a weapon. I poked the green foam.

"It looks... fancy," I said to Silas, trying to fill the void. "Do you know what this is? Is it duck? Quail? Maybe a very small, very unfortunate chicken?"

Silas didn't look up. Clink. Scrape. Chew.

"I used to work at a coffee shop," I continued, desperate for any sound other than the cutlery. "We sold muffins. They were huge.

Like, the size of your head. And they cost three dollars. This probably costs... more than my shoes."

Nothing.

"I like to cook, you know," I rambled on. "My specialty is pasta. I make the sauce from scratch. Lots of garlic. Maybe one day I can make it for you? If the Chef doesn't chase me out with a cleaver, that is."

Silas took a sip of water from a crystal goblet. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. He looked at me for a split second—just a flicker of those dark eyes—before returning to his plate.

He wasn't engaging, but he wasn't telling me to shut up, either. It was like I was a TV playing in the background. Annoying, perhaps, but tolerable.

We ate in silence. I managed to swallow half of the mystery meat (it was actually delicious, which made me mad) and all of the bread rolls.

When Silas was finished, he placed his knife and fork parallel on the plate—4:00 o'clock position, perfectly aligned—and stood up.

Dinner was over.

★

The transition to night felt heavier. The house, dark during the day, became a tomb at night. Shadows stretched long and thin across the hallways as I followed Silas back up the stairs.

I checked my watch. 8:00 PM.

"Okay," I said as we reached his bedroom door. "It's getting late. Mrs. Sable said bedtime is at nine."

We entered his room. He walked over to the window again, looking out at the blackness of the estate grounds.

I stood by the door, wringing my hands. This was the part I was nervous about. The job description said 'caregiver.' It implies... care.

"Silas?" I asked softly.

He turned to face me.

"Do you... do you need to take a bath?" I asked, feeling my face heat up. It felt like such a personal question to ask someone who acted like a miniature CEO. "Do you need help with the water? Or... anything?"

He stared at me. His face was a mask.

Without a word, he turned and walked toward a door on the left side of the room—the en-suite bathroom. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

I stayed where I was, hovering by the bed. "I'll just... wait here while you get ready?"

Silas stopped just inside the bathroom door. He turned around.

He looked at me. Then he looked at the bathtub. Then he looked back at me.

He didn't move. He didn't start unbuttoning his shirt. He didn't turn on the tap. He just stood there, waiting.

I blinked. "Silas?"

He tilted his head slightly to the side. The look in his eyes was expectant. It wasn't pleading; it was demanding. It was the look a king gives a servant when the wine glass is empty.

He’s waiting for me.

The realization hit me like a splash of cold water. He wasn't just a quiet kid. He was a Vane. He had been raised to be attended to. He didn't run his own baths. He didn't wash his own back.

My heart hammered a little faster. This was part of the job. For four thousand dollars a month, I could run a bath.

"Oh," I breathed out. "I understand."

I walked toward him. When I reached the bathroom threshold, I stopped. The tile was black marble, the fixtures gold. It was obscene.

Silas was still watching me.

I took a deep breath. I remembered seeing a movie once about a butler. What did they do? They showed respect.

I bowed.

It was a small, awkward thing—a quick dip of my head and shoulders—but as soon as I did it, the tension in Silas's shoulders relaxed.

I had passed a test.

I stepped past him into the bathroom and knelt by the massive tub. I turned on the gold taps. Water roared out, steaming and hot. I tested the temperature with my wrist, adjusting the cold until it was perfect. I found a bottle of expensive-looking lavender wash and poured a cupful in, swirling the water until bubbles rose up.

"It's ready," I whispered, standing up and stepping back, keeping my eyes averted.

I waited outside the shower door while he undressed, giving him privacy. When I heard the splash of water, I stepped back in.

He was sitting in the bubbles, looking smaller than he did in his suit. The water came up to his chest. He looked at the sponge sitting on the rim of the tub, then at me.

I picked up the sponge.

The next twenty minutes were silent. I washed his back. I washed his arms. I carefully rinsed the shampoo from his hair, shielding his eyes with my hand so the soap wouldn't sting.

He sat perfectly still. He didn't splash. He didn't play with the bubbles. He let me manipulate his limbs like he was a doll.

It was intimate, but in a strange, detached way. I wasn't his mother. I wasn't his friend. I was his hands.

When it was done, I handed him a fluffy white towel. He dried himself and changed into silk pajamas that probably cost more than my car.

I followed him back into the bedroom. He climbed into the bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin.

For the first time all day, he looked like a child. Just a boy in a big bed in a lonely house.

I walked over to the bedside lamp.

"Goodnight, Silas," I said softly.

I reached out, hesitating for a second, and then gently patted the top of his head. His hair was still damp and smelled of lavender. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He just watched me with those dark, unblinking eyes.

I clicked the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness.

"Sweet dreams, Boss."

I closed the door, leaving him alone in the dark.

I leaned against the wood of the door in the hallway, letting out a shaky breath. My hands were trembling slightly.

I had survived Day One. But as I walked toward my own room in the servants' quarters, I couldn't shake the feeling of Silas's eyes on me. Even through the walls.

He was just a boy.