Chapter 75: Independence

Nicole settles into the Altamira household with a quiet ease that surprises even her. Within days, she moves through the corridors as though she has always belonged here ... carrying books under her arm, guiding the children through their lessons, speaking Spanish with increasing confidence. She laughs more now. She sleeps without waking in fear. She eats without glancing over her shoulder.

She is healing.

I feel it in the way she touches the bracelet less often, in the way her thoughts no longer reach for me at every uncertainty. She still listens when I speak, but she doesn’t depend on me. She is becoming her own strength again.

I am proud of her. But her growing independence is making me redundant and lonely.

The household is busy in the mornings. Servants sweep the courtyard, wash linens, carry baskets of olives and citrus. Nicole teaches the children in a small sunlit room overlooking the garden. I watch her from within the bracelet as she guides them through letters and numbers, her voice calm, her patience endless.

She still wears the bracelet constantly, but she doesn’t need me here. Not for this. Not any more.

But someone else does.

Isabel moves through the house like a shadow. She is quiet, diligent, and unnoticed. She rises before dawn, scrubs floors until her hands redden, carries water from the courtyard well, and endures the sharp words of the senior housekeeper, Doña Remedios, whose temper is as brittle as old pottery.

I feel Isabel’s emotions as faint impressions ... her fear, exhaustion, and longing. She is careful with her steps, careful with her words, careful with her hope. She watches Nicole with admiration, as though trying to understand how a woman alone in the world can carry herself with such calm.

She watches the bracelet too. Not directly. Not consciously. But her gaze lingers on Nicole’s wrist when she thinks no one sees. She doesn’t know it yet, but she feels me, just as I feel her.

One afternoon, Nicole sits in the courtyard with the children, helping them practice handwriting. The sun is warm, the air sweet with the scent of orange blossoms. Isabel passes by carrying a basket of laundry. She pauses, watching the children trace letters on their slates. Nicole smiles at her.

“Isabel, would you like to join us?”

Isabel shakes her head quickly.

“Thank you, but no, señora. I must finish the washing.”

But her eyes linger on the slates, on the children’s careful strokes, on the quiet joy of learning. She wants to sit. She wants to listen. She wants to be part of something gentler than her daily toil. She turns away before her longing shows too clearly.