The Glass Cage

The drive took two hours. They left the grimy, gray grid of the city and wound their way up the coastal highway, where the ocean crashed against jagged black cliffs.

Highland Manor sat at the top of the world. It was a sprawling estate of limestone and glass, cold and imposing against the gray sky.

Silas opened the car door for her. The wind whipped Leo’s hair across her face. She shivered, and she saw Silas’s hand twitch, as if he wanted to shield her from the air itself.

"Inside," he said.

The interior was worse than the outside. It was beautiful, yes—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, art that Leo recognized from textbooks—but it felt dead. It was a museum, not a home.

"Your room is the East Suite," Penhaligon said, checking his watch. "Your uncle, Marcus Sterling, is the executor of the estate until the probate clears. He will meet you at dinner."

"Uncle?" Leo asked. "I have an uncle?"

"He lives in the West Wing," Penhaligon said vaguely. "Silas will show you to your quarters."

The "quarters" were larger than the entire apartment building Leo had just left. The bed was the size of a boat. The windows were floor-to-ceiling, overlooking the angry sea.

"I'll be right outside," Silas said, standing in the doorway. He hadn't taken off his tactical jacket. He looked like a dark smudge on a pristine white canvas. "The door locks from the inside, Leo. No one comes in unless you open it."

Leo nodded, overwhelmed.

That night, dinner was a disaster.

Uncle Marcus was a thin, sharp man with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He sat at the head of a table long enough to land a plane on.

"Remarkable," Marcus said, sipping red wine. "You look just like him. Around the eyes."

"I didn't know him," Leo mumbled, staring at the array of silverware. She counted four forks. Why would anyone need four forks?

"A pity," Marcus said. "Richard was... complicated. Brilliant, but unstable. It runs in the family, unfortunately."

He gestured to a server, who placed a plate in front of Leo. It was a tiny piece of fish with a drizzle of green foam.

Leo’s stomach growled, a loud, tearing sound in the quiet room.

Marcus smirked. Silas, standing in the corner like a statue, shifted his weight.

"Eat up, my dear," Marcus said. "We have a lot of paperwork to get through tomorrow."

Leo ate. But she didn't just eat. The instinct—the street instinct that told her *this might be the last meal for two days*—kicked in.

When Marcus turned to pour more wine, Leo grabbed a dinner roll. In a blur of motion, she wrapped it in her napkin and shoved it into the pocket of her hoodie.

She glanced up, terrified.

Silas was watching her.

His face remained impassive. He didn't frown. He didn't blink. But his eyes softened, just a fraction. He gave a microscopic nod, then looked away, granting her the dignity of her secret.

Later that night, the manor was silent. Leo lay in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence was heavy. In The Burrow, there were always sirens, shouting, pipes rattling. Here, the quiet felt like pressure.

She got up and checked the nightstand.

Inside the drawer, nestled among the antique Bibles, were three hard rolls, a packet of crackers she’d swiped from the pantry, and an apple.

Her stash. Her insurance.

She curled up on the rug by the door, wrapping the duvet around her shoulders. The bed was too soft, too exposed. The floor felt safer.

Outside the door, she heard a soft scuff of a boot. Silas. He was still there.

Leo closed her eyes. For the first time in her life, the monster wasn't at the door. The monster was the door.

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