“What kind of music do you like?”

You pull your head away from the window and shift to sit up properly. You blink once, twice, but the daze of drowsiness only droops your eyelids further. You hadn’t slept all that well last night; too far gone in the anticipation of the day ahead, which had already commenced astray from what was imagined.

“Excuse me?”

You try to act discreetly when rubbing the remnants of sleep from your eyes, yet the grogginess of your voice gives away your exhaustion. Dozing off in the man’s car—you hadn’t meant it purposefully with any disrespect. Larks’ chauffeur had been trying to strike small talk all throughout the ride but it was more or less one-sided; you had only been partially immersed in the conversation.

A set of pale blue eyes stalk you through the rear mirror, “You look just about ready for bed, and this talk show isn’t doing any good in distracting either of us.”

You feel a twinge of embarrassment at the man’s remark. The exhaustion from the night prior had been all that was able to disturb ample thoughts away from the unpredictable possibilities the day holds for you.

“Anything is fine. I don’t have a specific taste,” you rejoin.

“Are you serious?”

He stares in disbelief, eyes wide like the sea against the swept sand of his hair. You nod your head without much regard and keep to yourself as he browses through each station at a louder-than-necessary volume. The radio eventually settles on the soft strokes of a guitar solo; a simple sound to scour away stray silence.

A moment later, the volume is pitched down as the chauffeur’s animated voice fills the small space between you. He starts reassuringly:

“Daisy’s a sweetheart. You don’t need to worry about her. She’s small and cute, a bit quiet sometimes but she isn’t the spoiled kind at all. Larks raised her right.”

Your doubts aren’t exactly reassured just yet. There is still so much to be said and known about the girl, given how unpredictable kids could be. But you think for now at least, “She sounds lovely.”

The man nods, eyes now firm on the road ahead. “It’s hard to tell who she takes after the most, though. Larks is a great guy and all, just not the kind to rub off too nicely on the kids. It’s different with Daisy—you know, they share something else besides blood. We all do.”

The phrasing is off; something about the way he talks so intimately about the Alstro’s doesn’t sit right with you. In the wake of the moment, a feeling of unease churns in your gut. You are virtually on edge, although it couldn’t all be blamed on the poor man.

“I wonder what that’s like,” you muse, tiredly.

A smile stretches across the mirror with the promise: “You’ll find out soon enough.”

The car rolls to a stop moments later. You tear away from the patterns on your palms and find that he had already settled onto the driveway of their grand home. Hastily, you unbuckle the beat and seize your satchel from the side most seat. It takes great effort to stray away a tremor from your hand when reaching for the handle.

The chauffeur offers a graceful sendoff: “Till then, take it easy. Six-year-olds aren’t as scary as you’d think.”

The subtle twitch of a wink from his sly eye sends your mind scrambling. You try and fail horribly in laughing it off. A wavering smile is all you can manage when pushing out the door, practically pulling yourself along with it. As it clicks shut, the driver’s window rolls down for an arm to rest on, and the chiseled shape of a chin.

He watches you with a peculiar fondness that tips at his lips.

“Thank you, uh…”

“Ladio.”

You nod, courteous. “Thank you, Ladio.”

“It’s no problem at all. I’ll be out here around noon.”

You thank Ladio once more before turning on your heel and starting towards the entrance. The stunning view of the home is just as captivating as when you first saw it only a few days ago. You find it hard to believe that you’ll ever get used to seeing such a grand, beautiful thing. As you stare on with awe, you wonder how it must have felt to wake up to such a sight every morning.

The weight slung across your shoulder wails. You wonder, once more, if you would find the opportunity to snap at the sight with the beloved third eye that sits alone in your bag, neglected. As the fresh scent of sea floods your senses, it becomes all too tempting to preserve the beautiful home with your camera.

The setting is extraordinary—nothing like the small room you’ve called ‘home’ for the past three years that reeks of old things and all kinds of people with their peculiar odors. The recollection leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You swallow it down before knocking at the door.

It takes a moment longer than last time for it to be pulled open. There’s a pale, slender hand that lays connected to the handle. A young woman greets you; like the charcoal of her uniform, her dark eyes seem to droop down in dreariness.

She nods solemnly, “Welcome. You must be Mr. Mone. Please, come inside.”

Her touch disconnects as she takes a step or two back to make way for you to push through. You proceed with much hesitance like before. There’s a considerate compulsion that lurks at the tip of your tongue, perhaps a compliment or to return her weary welcome. But she leaves no room for words, nor any space to move.

A shadow lays long-stretched across the leeway. The sparsely furnished space had welcomed another ornament and left it hanging helplessly from the charming chandelier. Sunlight from the further expanse of the windowpanes shines through, obscuring past the desolated stretch and to the faceless figure.

As if suspended in still air, the silhouette of her slender stature greets you with the soft sway of lifeless limbs. Surroundings swing to and fro along the demented dance; a see-saw creaks off to the corner frame of your eyes, taunting.

“Please…”

But the noose had too firm of a hold around the soft skin at her neck. The threads of flesh now rest red, worn, and torn by the ruthless restraint that binds them together. At the point where the head and neck untie, you remember the nuzzle of a nose in the crook. She had always faired a floral fragrance, something peculiar between sultry and sweet.

Her lips detach, head dips with a civilized nod as she rejoins, “Please, take off your shoes. Ms. Thurium should be—”

“Oh, no dear… Let’s put on a smile!”

As if on cue, Ms. Ann steps into frame. She takes the younger woman’s hands in her own, counseling considerately, “We have to make our guests feel welcome! That little scowl of yours isn’t doing anyone any good—not even yourself!”

“Yes, ma’am,” she nods once more as if routine.

Ms. Ann slides her hands away as she turns toward you, smoothing her way up to the woman’s back. “Lottie, this is Miss Denia. If you need anything at all, just ask her. She’s a doll.”

You muster a smile and bow your head politely, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Denia isn’t given the chance to respond. Something tells you that even if there was space, she would have neglected it and let a sea of silence spread between you. Ms. Ann turns her head, directing all attention to her when she speaks once more.

“Why don’t you make Lottie here a cup of coffee? And bring something nice for Daisy, too. They’ll be in the study upstairs.”

She nods again. Not a second later and she has already scrambled off out of sight. Ms. Ann laughs lightly as if it was a harmless joke. Your brow raises as if to question—a look that Ms. Ann is quick to counter.

“Don’t mind her, she’s new.”

And her lips settle into a smile, as if sincere. With a gentle hand on your back, she prompts your steps forward with her elegance taking the lead. Ms. Ann continues casually, “I’m so glad Larks let you by! He doesn’t do that very often, you see. He told me—he really likes you. I hope you’ll come to like it here as well.”

The credibility of her words escapes you, but you force on another smile and rejoin, "With all the wonderful things here, I don’t doubt that at all."

She leads you through the open space of the living room and up the stairs that rest conveniently at the corner. You take great care in ensuring your firmness on each step of the spiral case. It would be embarrassing to fall; the way Ms. Ann stalks so closely at your side almost threatens a misstep.

You try not to pay it any mind by setting sights through the elongated pane that stretches along with your steps. It’s a narrower view of what’s on display downstairs, but there is plenty more to see with its height. What had just appeared to be a flat bed of water and rocks is now expanded onto the shoreline and little lighthouses that hold still against the waves crashing further out in the distance.

Captivated by its beauty, you nearly trip when floor becomes ground once more. Ms. Ann had kept a steady hand on your back, though, so it was only short of a stumble. You feel that if you had fell, the embarrassment colored onto the flesh of your cheeks would have at least been a bit more subtle.

The furnished extent of a loft stands before you. Its wide windows capture the opposite view of seaside, the extent of their driveway and all nature’s vigor that surrounds it. Ms. Ann presses against your back with just enough pressure to prompt your path down the hall.

She picks up from no place in particular,

“Now, Daisy’s a good girl. She might be a bit quiet but that’s only because you’re new. You see, Larks isn’t very fond of the schooling system so I often teach her myself. It’s been on and off with the tutors—not that she scares them away! Daisy doesn’t work well with people she can’t understand.”

“I’m sorry… I don’t mean to sound rude, but I think that’s a bit too isolating for a child of her age.” You glance at her questionably.

“Not at all! I’m sure you’ll come to understand. It’s a dangerous world out there; all kinds of people with very different minds. Just the thought of letting her loose for others to corrupt makes my eyes water…” She sighs, “Larks and I just want to keep her safe.”

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“And her mother—does she mind it at all?”

Ms. Ann stays silent for a moment. The pace of her steps significantly slows down as the gentle touch of her hand slides free from your back. A feeling of dread drowns your tongue. You’ve spoken too much, particularly in places that shouldn’t concern you.

“Quill isn’t home as often. She’s quite busy with work, although they do have a mutual adoration for each other.”

You nod in understanding. She seems to sense your troubled heart once more, all doubt is soothed away with a tender rub to your shoulder. You don’t mean to flinch at the contact.

“Lot, dear, don’t you worry. With you here, everything will be just fine, I promise.”

Ms. Ann holds firm. You aren’t all that sure anymore, and question whether you were in the first place. Outside of your experience as one, you know nothing of children nor of their wellbeings and whereabouts to even argue about what’s right for Daisy.

There was something about the way she seemed to justify that girl's isolation. It reminds you of yourself, aside from her family’s prominence and wealth, you were nearly the same. Although, it isn’t exactly the ideal revelation to speculate of.

In spite of your bitterness, you guarantee, “Then I promise, too. I’ll do my best.”

“We don’t expect anything less,” she smiles.

Your steps come to an abrupt end at the foot of a door. With the effort of a tug, Ms. Ann pushes the door open with an invitation to enter. You accept it carefully and find that the relative size and structure of the room are nearly identical to the study downstairs; Larks’ office. The minimalist theme thrown about the house isn’t an exception here either.

Boundless bookshelves take the walls, only bare before a vast window panel that stretches across the side most portion of the room. Sofas sit idle off to the corners as a table and a few chairs lay in the center. The choice of lighting seems to be favorable of two industrial lamps that take the floor, neglected.

You think for a moment, envisioning how nice it would be to laze around till sunset where the warmth of lamps and remnants of sunlight would be all that’s left to illuminate the words of each book. You wonder if they’ll ever grant you the pleasure of a picture when the time comes. The dream doesn’t go far as you’d like; Ms. Ann’s sweet voice tears you away.

“Daisy, darling, come here,” she calls.

The tiniest form of a girl crawls off the sofa and proceeds hesitantly toward you.

“This is the wonderful boy I told you about, Mr. Mone. Now, you play nicely with him, you hear? He’s quite sensitive.”

She looks away, mumbling, “Ok…”

True to Ladio’s words, Daisy demonstrates the definition of cuteness. Although her frame is awfully petite, her face is made full by the chubbiness of her rosy cheeks. She shares the same dark hair as her father with short bangs that sweep just above her eyes, the rest falling at her shoulder. Her eyes; big, blue, and beaming are most likely from her mother.

Ms. Ann turns to you, her hand now smoothing the thick locks on Daisy’s head. “Well, I’ll leave you to it! You’ll find today’s worksheets just by those books over there. Daisy knows what to do for the most part, you should only tend to her comprehension.”

You nod, almost dutiful.

“Denia should be up any moment now. Please, let her know if you’d like anything else. I only wish you the utmost comfort in working here.”

“You’ve already done so much for me. I promise to not be much of a bother. Thank you, though,” you reassure.

She nods in place of words, her eyes shining with something you could never recognize before; fondness. As you settle down at the table, Ms. Ann dismisses herself, the door clicks shut behind her. You aren’t sure what to expect of Daisy. Part of you cautions to keep quiet and prepare for when she decides to lash out, but the girl acts in no such way. She takes the seat right before you at the table and watches silently, awaiting instruction.

Like a dog.

You make it a priority to act gently with her. From previous tutors, she might not have had the best of experiences. You can’t guarantee anything just yet, but you do feel determined, for once. She shouldn’t grow up with such an obscure state of mind—not like you.

The homework Ms. Ann had prepared for the day appears to be typical for a child in second grade. You aren’t exactly sure if it’s at all appropriate for Daisy, but suppose that part of your job is to find out anyway. It’s an English worksheet that prompts for the identification of nouns and adjectives in sentences. Simple enough, you think.

Daisy begins by writing her name at the top of the sheet. You take a moment to remark,

“Your handwriting is very neat.”

In all honesty, the letters she draws are mediocre. You remind yourself that she’s only a child and force your expectations lower.

Daisy says nothing. She keeps her eyes on the paper and continues her work without acknowledging you in the slightest. Ms. Ann’s earlier comments had warned you about her silence, so you aren’t exactly put off just yet.

She keeps to herself for the most part. When she reads aloud the words per directions, she speaks in soft, hushed tones. It feels unnatural for a girl her age, with eyes as big and awe-struck as her own, to be so discreet. There isn’t any space for intervention unless she asks for help, which she hasn’t done once since starting.

You continue to watch her silently, observing every little mark made on the paper; the way she chews at her lips to keep herself from talking; the twist and turns of her features when she’s unsure but unwilling to ask for help. She lands a good few minutes on a particular word. She’s circled it, already in comprehension of its nature, just undecided on something.

“…I don’t know this one.” Daisy suddenly says. She keeps her face firm on the paper, a finger pointing directly at the point of struggle.

You feel accomplished in some way, although you don’t know what.“That word is ‘attention’. Do you know—”

“I know what it means,” she interjects.

“Then could you tell me? I’d like to know too.”

You need to be sure of her comprehension, per Ms. Ann’s request. Daisy stares at the word for another few seconds, her soft brows furrowing with each ounce of energy spared in concentration.

It takes a moment for her to try, “It’s like to… to take care of something?”

She isn’t exactly wrong. The idea is there, just not put into formal terms. Once more, you remind yourself that she’s only six years old; anything she says shouldn’t be arraigned for accuracy.

“You’re almost there. More or less, it means to take care of something, as in to give it all our focus. We care so much about that something to know what it is and how it works, so that we can understand it better.”

“Like us?” she asks. “You’re giving me attention because dad’s paying you.”

You aren’t sure how to react. She isn’t wrong, but your reasons are beyond that. It just isn’t something you can put into terms simple enough for her to understand without taking offense or mocking your efforts, much like her father.

But that isn’t a way for a child with such little social interaction to think, so you offer, “I’d like to understand you better, Daisy.”

She gives you a funny look with a brow raised as her eyes appear to grow. She scans the features of your face as if searching for even the smallest bit of deceit. It takes a moment too long. And just when you think she’s about to retort in some way, Daisy pushes aside the papers and stands, excusing herself to use the restroom.

You stare in disbelief. With a subtle nod of your head, she turns on her heel to leave. The moment she passes through the doorway, Denia takes her place in the room. The absent steam from a cup trails across the space as she proceeds to the center table. She sets down the tray, where a cold coffee and short glass of orange juice stand still.

“Why are you here?” she demands, dull.

You watch with wide eyes, partially disturbed by the curt intrusion of her presence and words. You aren’t quite sure what to say.

“I’m only trying to help Daisy… ”

“You don’t seem to be capable of helping anyone, not even yourself.”

There isn’t anything in her eyes when she speaks. Like a bottomless pit of nothing, two orbs that stare on only because they must, not that they want to. Something shifts in your chest; a cramp clutches the careful cadence of your heart. Denia carries on without much regard to her words, placing both cups in their proper places off the tray.

“You’re only looking at the surface. The pay may be good, but it won’t last once they see you lacking. I’d start looking for another job if I were you,” she continues.

You feel that you should say something, but the words weigh heavy on your tongue. You set your hands down on your knees and stare at them, no longer finding the will to watch her routine commence any further.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t leave the brightest first impression, but Ms. Ann thinks that I–”

“She thought that I was, too. You’re not the first.”

The leverage of those letters that she spits so slovenly—you don’t understand. She had welcomed you inside only moments ago. Why is she trying to push you away so disruptively? Before you’re left to ponder any further, the door swings back open and draws your attention.

Daisy steps inside reluctantly as if the tense atmosphere tempted uncertainty. She looks over to Denia, eyes practically sparkling at the sight of such a dreary figure. With a curt glance, you find that Denia’s lips host the ghost of a smile.

“I brought you some orange juice, Daisy. Is that alright?”

She nods and returns to her seat, voicing a respective “thank you” in return.

Denia runs a hand through the girl’s dark hair, giving it a gentle ruffle before picking up the tray and heading off toward the door. Her eyes, all the while, remain entranced in dreary. The door clicks shut behind her, and Daisy’s studies continue as if she were never there.

You often catch yourself glancing at the cold coffee. It looks as if it has been sitting out for some time, forgotten perhaps. Daisy takes turns sipping her juice and circling words, now in complete disregard for the mellowed mood. You try not to ponder on Denia’s words and shift all focus to the little hand that writes carelessly.

Her handwriting only partially improves when jotting down numbers, although her math skills aren’t as sufficient. She at least is a bit more pliable in asking for help when needed, so you don’t let yourself bother with criticism. It’s only after completing a page does she stop and stare.

You catch the reflection of her gaze through the glass cup, watching how the liquid holds still all together. Her brows furrow with a subtle squint at those gleaming eyes; the quiver at her lips suggests speech, and yet they hold together silent. She looks unsure, doubting. You clear your throat to make way for words, but she beats you to it.

“Why don’t you have any friends?”

She stares at you with prying eyes. The air turns stale, offset by the curtness of her question. Your tongue weighs heavy, blood runs cold; you hadn’t noticed the consistent clicks of the clock until it felt in sync with your racing heart. How did she know?

You can’t seem to find it, wherever that tiresome ticking lies. It feels as if you’ve searched everywhere—grazed every last inch of each surface until you could practically feel its textures—but you hadn’t left the reflection of her eyes for even a single moment.

Surroundings seem to scatter off someplace, distant. The waves recede as something stirs in the sea of her eyes, suggesting that she knows. Everything. There’s a familiar click that draws off from a corner and tacked taps that teeter towards the table that falls just out of frame. Seconds slip away; you can’t see the clock but know that it’s just about noon.

She announces it, so fondly.

“Will you be joining us for lunch?”

Ms. Ann watches eagerly, her hand buried deep within the dark locks at Daisy’s head. You blink once, twice, your gaze shifting from the sea, the table, the clock, then onto the glistening green now presenting past you.

“M-Maybe another time… I’ve got to head off to class soon.”

“Well, that’s just unfortunate.” Ms. Ann’s lips instantly flip into a soft frown.

“Oh! Before you go, this is from Larks. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d miss you or not, so he asked me just in case,” she suddenly recollects.

Ms. Ann pulls something out from the pocket of her apron and offers it to you. It’s a plain envelope; the thick paper weighs wearily in your hand when you accept it. You stare down at it for a moment, wondering what it could be, but don’t let the possibilities run far.

You look back up at her, nodding with an awkward smile. “Ah, thank you… but will I be seeing Daisy again tomorrow? We hardly spoke; I’m not sure if she likes me.”

“If she didn’t like you, you wouldn’t have lasted till noon,” Ms. Ann teases. “Ladio should be just outside. You take care now, ok, Lottie?”

You would laugh off the whole ordeal if you could. You nod once more and gather your things. Another expression of gratitude escapes your lips, followed by a careful ‘goodbye’ to Daisy. You find the chauffeur right outside, as promised.

Ladio drums his fingers along the wheel in a comfortable rhythm with whatever sound took the radio. The smile he lends feels more like a smirk in the way it mocks your initial anticipation.

“See? Easy money, right?” He jokes.

You shut the door in response. With a quick click of your belt and the gentle toss of your satchel to the seat beside you, the car pulls out of the driveway. You can’t keep your eyes astray from the envelope. Something had sparked along Ladio’s words that had given you the faintest idea of what might be inside, but you don’t want to seem rude opening it the moment you left.

It takes a good ten minutes for Ladio to fully immerse himself into the radio, and it’s only then you have the chance to open it without the other man’s prying eyes stalking your every move. You gently tear off the side and slide out the contents—a clean check, dedicated to your odd name, signed off by Lark’s wonderfully fluid signature, for five hundred dollars.

You can't help but laugh.