Laila was always watching.
Silent in hallways. Present but invisible. Zina had started thinking of her less as a person and more as part of the house itself.
But today, something was different.
Laila came to her room—not with food, not with fabric for another ceremonial robe—but with a question:
> "Do you want to know how to survive him?"
Zina stared at her. "I thought I already was."
Laila closed the door softly behind her.
> "You're not."
Zina blinked, unsure if she'd heard correctly. Laila had never spoken in full sentences, let alone sentences sharp enough to draw blood.
"You're not," she repeated, voice steadier now. "You think surviving means waking up with breath in your chest. But here, survival means not being chosen."
Zina felt a chill settle over her skin. "Chosen for what?"
Laila looked toward the window. There was no view—just mist outside. "The house doesn't just curse. It consumes. It doesn't want a wife. It wants a vessel."
"A vessel for what?"
She didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
The two women sat across from each other, a low fire crackling between them.
Zina studied her carefully. Laila's face was unreadable, but her fingers wouldn't stop twisting the hem of her sleeve.
It was the first time she'd seen the woman nervous.
"Why now?" Zina asked. "Why talk to me?"
Laila looked toward the mirror—still covered. "Because the house likes you."
"That's a bad thing?"
"It's worse than being ignored."
Zina's breath caught. "Did the house like the others?"
Laila didn't answer right away.
Then she said, "It loved one of them. She smiled too much. Asked too many questions. Thought she could change him."
Zina's throat tightened. "And what happened?"
"She vanished," Laila whispered. "Not killed. Not buried. Just… gone. Like the house swallowed her."
Zina stood and walked toward the window, needing to move, needing air that didn't taste like prophecy.
"I don't understand any of this," she said softly. "I didn't ask for this. I just needed money. I didn't think—"
"You were sent," Laila cut in. "You said that, remember? Not chosen. Sent."
Zina turned. "By who?"
Laila finally looked her in the eyes. "That's the real question. And you're not going to like the answer."
Zina leaned forward. "Why stay here if it's so dangerous? You could've left."
Laila shook her head.
"I was born here."
Her voice dropped lower.
> "None of us who were born in this house can leave it."
Zina's eyes widened. "You mean you're trapped?"
Laila stood slowly. "Bound."
Zina stepped closer. "So you're not a maid. You're a prisoner."
Laila gave a sad smile. "A very well-trained one."
There was something tired in her face. Not just exhaustion—but erosion. Like she had once been bright and curious, too. Once had questions of her own. And this house had answered them mercilessly.
"I used to dream of outside," Laila said. "Lagos, Ibadan, even Enugu—I had pictures. Stolen ones. But dreams die fast here. Quicker than flowers. Quicker than brides."
She walked to the fireplace and removed a long, thin chain from under her blouse.
A sigil.
Not unlike Zina's.
Etched into silver. Older. Faded. But still glowing faintly.
Zina stood up, heart pounding. "What does that mean?"
Laila looked at her, eyes suddenly bright with urgency.
> "It means you're not the first woman this house has claimed."
> "But you might be the last."
🕯️ Later That Night – Alone Again
Kain didn't visit.
No notes. No candles. No whisper of footsteps outside her door.
Just silence.
Zina replayed Laila's words over and over.
> The house likes you.
> You might be the last.
What did that mean?
Was the curse preparing to end—or simply preparing to feed?
She wandered the corridor outside her room, careful not to go near the east wing or the black door. Every shadow seemed deeper now. Every step echoed louder.
She paused beside one of the many covered mirrors.
This one was taller than the rest. Almost like a door itself.
The cloth shifted slightly.
Like it had breathed.
She didn't lift it.
Not yet.
But she could feel it humming through the silk.
A pulse.
Like a heartbeat.
Like someone on the other side was waiting.
Zina stood frozen, hand just inches from the cloth covering the mirror.
One step closer and she could lift it.
She could look.
But what if she was looking back?
She thought of the ledger. The scroll. The sigil still glowing faintly under her skin. All pieces to a puzzle she hadn't asked to solve—but now couldn't escape.
The mirror pulsed again.
She stepped back.
Not today.
But soon.