The envelope arrived quietly, delivered with the precision the Heelshires expected from the private courier service they had used for years.
Mrs. Heelshire—meticulous, composed—noticed it first. Mr. Heelshire was in the library, reviewing the ledger of estate maintenance and caretaker schedules.
She placed the letter on the polished oak table between them.
"A letter," she said.
His gaze immediately goes to the sender's familiar name, "From her."
They read it in silence.
Greta Evans.
Soulmark confirmed.
Proof included.
Mr. Heelshire set the letter down carefully. The edges aligned perfectly with the tabletop, as though misalignment might destabilize the truth.
"She knows," he said.
"Indeed," Mrs. Heelshire replied. Her tone was calm, almost clinical. "The mark does not lie."
They had known this day would come ever since their hidden son's eighteenth birthday when he spoke for the first time since the fire to tell them of the mark of the mark on his arm.
They had spent all twenty six of his years managing consequences, calibrating every movement to maintain control over the boy they claimed to protect.
"She comes prepared," he noted, scanning the letter again. "She understands the survival of the child, the soulmark… she's deliberate."
Mrs. Heelshire nodded. "She is aware. That makes her dangerous in the sense that she cannot be ignored. But—" she paused, tracing a fingertip along the envelope, "we can work with her. We offer a structure, she complies. That is the simplest solution."
"Payment," Mr. Heelshire said, as though speaking of a ledger rather than a human. "She must be treated as staff initially. We offer money. Boundaries. Legal constraints. Then… marriage. Only then is she properly accounted for."
Money = control.
This was the same system they had used to hide Brahms for decades. The only difference now was another variable: Greta Evans.
---
Behind the walls, Brahms stirred. He had been listening, always listening. He felt the energy shift when the envelope arrived.
A slow tightening of attention, the kind that had been trained into him over years of silence.
"Mother. Father."
The words were soft. A rasp, almost like air moving through a cracked vent.
The Heelshires froze. They had anticipated that he might speak. They had trained him to do so rarely, only when it was strategically necessary.
"Yes?" Mrs. Heelshire replied, measured.
"I… I can feel Greta," he said, and the sound was uncanny. He had rarely spoken these words aloud, certainly never addressed her directly. "She is… my… my mark."
A brief pause. Then Mr. Heelshire leaned back, expression unreadable.
"So," he said, calm as ever, "we proceed carefully."
And so the first stage of their transactional control was set:
- Greta Evans would be offered an official role in the manor.
- Payment would be offered, silently expecting her to accept.
- Marriage would be suggested, to enforce proximity and oversight.
But one thing they had not expected: Brahms had spoken.
And in doing so, he had reminded them that he was not merely an object to manage, but a living, thinking presence.
The balance of control had subtly shifted.
Behind walls that had long held silence, a new variable was now in motion.