Chapter Text
1888
Harkness Manor stood like a watchful sentinel on the rural outskirts of Massachusetts, its tall windows catching the pale afternoon light, its long history woven into every beam and stone. Nearly a century of Harkness blood had lived and lingered within its walls.
Now it belonged to August Harkness, a man whose wealth carried weight in every nearby town, and to his wife, Evanora, whose presence was far sharper than any fortune. Their only child, a daughter, Agatha, was expected to inherit not just the manor, but the legacy of control, poise, and quiet dominance that came with it.
And yet—
Outside, far from Evanora’s careful eye, Agatha was not poised at all.
The gardens stretched wide behind the manor, manicured near the house but wilder the farther they reached. At the edge of that wildness, two small figures tore through the grass like they belonged to it.
“Wait—Rio, wait!” Agatha called, breathless, her polished shoes already scuffed beyond saving.
Rio didn’t wait.
She darted ahead, laughing, her dark hair loose and untamed, catching twigs and sunlight alike. Her dress—once clean that morning—was streaked with dirt, the hem torn from climbing somewhere she shouldn’t have been.
“You’re too slow!” Rio shouted back, spinning around mid-run and nearly tripping over her own feet.
Agatha huffed but smiled anyway, lifting her skirts just enough to chase after her. “I am not slow, I am—” she paused, searching for the right word her tutor might approve of, “—careful!”
Rio burst into laughter, doubling over. “That just means slow.”
“It does not!”
“Does so!”
Agatha finally caught up, grabbing Rio’s arm, and the two of them collapsed into the grass in a heap of giggles. For a moment, the world beyond the gardens didn’t exist—no expectations, no rules, no watchful eyes.
Just them.
Rio rolled onto her back, staring up at the sky. “When I’m older, I’m going to work with my papa all the time,” she said, voice bright with certainty. “I’ll climb the trees, fix the fences, everything.”
Agatha turned her head, watching her. “You already do that.”
“Yes—but then I won’t get in trouble for it.”
Agatha smiled softly. “I think you will always get in trouble, Rio.”
Rio grinned. “Only if they catch me.”
There was a pause, quieter now.
Agatha reached out, linking her pinky with Rio’s. “We’ll still see each other, won’t we? When we’re older?”
Rio didn’t hesitate. She hooked her finger tighter. “Always.”
“Even if—” Agatha swallowed, glancing faintly toward the manor in the distance, “—even if things change?”
Rio turned her head, expression suddenly serious in a way that didn’t match her usual wildness. “Nothing will change that much.”
Agatha searched her face, needing to believe it.
“We’ll always be best friends,” Rio said firmly.
Agatha nodded, her grip tightening. “Always.”
“Little Miss—your mother wishes to see you.”
The voice cut cleanly through the moment.
Both girls looked up to see Maria Vidal approaching, her hands folded neatly despite the long hours of work that lined her posture. There was kindness in her eyes—but also urgency.
Agatha sat up immediately, instinctively brushing down her dress, though it did little good now.
Rio groaned, flopping back dramatically. “Aw, mami, Cinco minutos, por favor?” she pleaded, slipping easily into Spanish.
Maria’s expression shifted—not unkind, but firm.
“En inglés, Rio,” she corrected gently, though her voice carried a quiet tension. “You know Lady Harkness does not like our mother tongue spoken on the grounds.”
Rio’s grin faded.
She sat up slowly, eyes dropping to the grass. “Please… just five minutes?” she repeated, softer now, in English.
Maria shook her head. “No, mi amor.”
Rio sighed, pushing herself to her feet. She turned to Agatha, forcing a small smile back onto her face.
“Tomorrow,” she said, like a promise. “We’ll play again tomorrow.”
Agatha nodded quickly. “Tomorrow,” she echoed, as if saying it enough times would make it certain.
Rio hesitated, then leaned in, bumping her shoulder lightly against Agatha’s—a quiet, familiar gesture.
Then she stepped back.
Maria rested a hand on Rio’s shoulder, drawing her close. “Go find your papa,” she said softly. “He needs help by the south fence.”
Rio nodded, though her eyes lingered on Agatha for just a moment longer.
Then she turned away.
Agatha watched her go—the easy way Rio moved, the way Maria’s gaze watched as she disappeared beyond the hedgerow.
Only then did the weight of the manor return.
“Miss Agatha,” Maria said gently, pausing just long enough to gesture toward the house. “You should not keep your mother waiting.”
Agatha straightened.
Smoothed her dress.
Lifted her chin.
And walked back toward the life waiting for her—leaving the grass, the laughter, and the promise of always behind her.
The south fence sat where the careful order of the manor gave way to something looser, wilder—the trees thicker, the grass taller, the air quieter. It was the kinder of place Rio liked best.
It took about five minutes to get there.
Or less—if you were Rio.
She didn’t walk.
She ran.
Bare feet pounding against the earth, dress catching on branches she didn’t bother to avoid, laughter spilling out of her like it belonged to the wind itself.
“Papa!”
Her voice rang out before she even reached him.
José Vidal turned just in time to brace himself before a small, unstoppable force collided with him. Rio launched into his arms without hesitation, and he caught her easily, though the impact still knocked a breath from his chest.
“Oof—mija!” he laughed, tightening his hold around her as she clung to him. “You are getting much too big for that!”
Rio only grinned, her arms locked around his neck as if she might never let go.
“Never,” she declared.
José shook his head, smiling as he lifted her higher, spinning them both once, twice—her laughter echoing out across the open land before he finally set her back down on solid ground.
Rio swayed slightly as her feet hit the earth, then steadied herself, still smiling.
“Mami said you needed some help with the fence,” she said, already looking past him toward the half-repaired posts, the scattered tools, the work waiting to be done.
José followed her gaze, then nodded. “Ah, sí. Always more work than time, eh?”
Rio beamed. “Good thing I’m here.”
“Good thing,” he agreed warmly, reaching out to ruffle her already wild hair.
He turned back to the fence, pressing one of the wooden posts deeper into the ground with his boot.
“Hand me that mallet over there, cariño.”
He pointed toward a wooden tool lying a few feet away, its rubber end worn from use.
Rio spotted it immediately.
She marched over with purpose, bending down and grabbing it with both hands. It was heavier than she expected—her small arms straining slightly as she lifted it.
But she didn’t complain.
Instead, she set her jaw, tongue peeking out between her teeth in fierce concentrating as she dragged it across the dirt toward him. The head of the mallet bumped along the ground with each step, leaving a faint trail behind her.
José watched her, something soft settling into his expression.
“Careful,” he said gently, though there was pride in his voice.
Rio huffed a little, adjusting her grip, refusing to let it slow her down. “I got it,” she insisted.
And she did.
Eventually.
She reached him, arms trembling just slightly, and held the mallet up as high as she could.
José took it from her with an easy motion, his hand brushing hers. “Gracias, mija.”
Rio straightened immediately, puffing up with pride. “I’m strong,” she said.
José smiled down at her, eyes warm. “That you are.”
He positioned the post, raising the mallet before pausing, glancing at her again. “You want to try?”
Rio’s eyes lit up instantly. “Yes!”
He crouched slightly, guiding her hands onto the handle, his much larger ones covering hers.
“Like this,” he murmured. “You hold steady. Then—” he lifted it with her, “—you bring it down.”
Together, they brought the mallet down against the post.
Thunk.
Rio gasped, delighted. “Again!”
José chuckled. “Again.”
They lifted it once more.
Thunk.
Her laughter rang out, bright and full, echoing through the trees.
The work had taken longer than Rio realised.
By the time the final post was set firm into the earth, the sun had already begun its slow descent, spilling warm orange light across the fields. The tall grass swayed gently in the evening breeze, each blade tipped in gold, the whole world softened into something quieter… something almost dreamlike.
José wiped his hands on his trousers, surveying the fence with a small nod of satisfaction.
“Finished,” he said.
Rio beamed up at him, cheeks flushed, hair even wilder than before. “We did it.”
“We did,” he agreed.
Without another word, he bent and lifted her easily, settling her onto his shoulders. Rio let out a delighted laugh, her hands gripping his head as she balanced there like she belonged above the world.
José slung his burlap bag over his shoulder, tools clinking softly inside, and began the walk back toward their cottage at the edge of the grounds.
Rio swayed slightly with each step, humming to herself, watching the manor grow smaller behind them.
Then—
José stopped.
Abrupt enough that Rio leaned forward slight. “Why did we stop, Papa?” she asked, peering down at him.
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he shifted the bag from his shoulder and set it gently on the ground. Then he reached up, steadying her legs before stepping forward just a little—
And pointing.
“See all this, mija?” he said softly.
Rio followed his hand.
The stretch of land before them rolled gently toward their cottage—grass, uneven patches of earth, a few scattered stones, nothing grand or manicured like the manor gardens… but alive in a different way.
From where they stood—
All the way home.
“From here,” José continued, his voice quieter now, something almost reverent beneath it, “to our house…”
He glanced up at her.
“We own this.”
Rio blinked.
“It’s… mine?” she asked, eyes widening as she looked out again, as if the land might suddenly change now that she knew.
José laughed softly, warmth filling the sound. “Well—mine and your mami’s,” he corrected gently. “But one day—”
He reached into his waistcoat, carefully pulling out a folded piece of parchment.
“—it will be yours.”
Rio leaned forward as far as she dared, staring at the paper as he opened it. The page was filled with tight, careful writing—lines and loops that meant nothing to her yet. At the bottom, three signatures sat in fresh, dark ink.
Squiggles.
Important ones, she could tell.
Her father’s hand brushed over them lightly, almost like he was afraid they might disappear.
“Mr. Harkness sold me this the other day,” he said. “And he promised… that one day, I could buy more.”
Rio’s gaze flickered between the paper and the land again, her small mind trying to hold both ideas at once.
Then José’s voice shifted to something softer, more serious.
“But, mija…” He folded the parchment carefully, tucking it back into his waistcoat. “You cannot tell Agatha yet.”
Rio frowned immediately. “Why?”
José hesitated before answering.
“Lady Harkness does not know,” he said slowly. “And Mr. Harkness made me promise not to tell her. Not yet.”
Rio tilted her head, confusion knitting her brows together. “But… why?”
José let out a quiet breath, his eyes drifting briefly toward the distant manor, barely visible now through the trees.
“Well…” he began, choosing his words carefully, “Lady Harkness… does not think that people like us should be allowed to own land.”
He glanced up at her, something protective in his gaze now.
“People who do not look like her. Or speak like her.”
Rio looked at him for a long moment.
Then back at the land.
Then back down at him.
Her face scrunched slightly, as if trying to make sense of something that simply… didn’t.
“That’s silly,” she said.
José blinked—then smiled proudly.
“Sí,” he said softly. “It is.”
Rio leaned forward, resting her chin on the top of his head, looking out over the land again—but differently now.
“Then we just won’t tell her,” she decided simply. “And one day, it will all be ours anyway.”
José reached up, gently squeezing her leg.
“One day,” he echoed.
He picked up the burlap bag again, adjusting it over his shoulder.
The cottage welcomed them with warmth the moment they stepped inside.
It was small—just one main room with a narrow kitchen tucked to the side, a low table, and a hearth that still held the day’s lingering heat—but it felt alive in a way the manor never did. The air carried the faint scent of herbs and woodsmoke, of something always being made, always being shared.
José lowered Rio gently to her feet, rolling his shoulders with a soft sigh.
“Your mami must have been caught up at the manor,” he said, glancing toward the empty space where Maria should have been by now. “Looks like we will be doing the cooking tonight, mija.”
Rio perked up instantly. “Yes!”
José chuckled. “First—wash up.”
Rio groaned dramatically but obeyed, darting over to the basin. Water splashed everywhere as she scrubbed her hands with more enthusiasm than precision, leaving her sleeves damp and her cheeks dotted with stray droplets.
José shook his head fondly, following behind her to clean up properly before setting to work.
Soon, the little kitchen filled with movement.
José chopped vegetables with steady hands, the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk of the knife against the board grounding the space. Rio stood on a small wooden stool beside him, stirring vigorously in a large bowl that was almost too big for her.
“Slow down,” José warned gently.
“I am slow,” Rio insisted—while absolutely not being slow.
A bit of flour puffed into the air with her next enthusiastic stir, dusting her already messy hair.
José laughed. “Ay, Dios mío… your mother is going to think we had a flour fight in here.”
“I would win,” Rio declared proudly.
Before José could respond—
The door creaked open.
“Oh… something smells delicious.”
Maria stepped inside, slipping her shawl from her shoulders and hanging it neatly by the door. The weariness in her posture softened the moment she saw them—her family, her home.
Rio turned immediately. “Mami!”
Maria smiled, crossing the room to press a kiss to the top of Rio’s head, brushing a bit of flour from her hair as she did. “And what are you making, hmm?”
Rio glanced down at the bowl, then back up. “…I don’t know.”
Maria laughed softly.
José stepped closer, pressing a gentle kiss to Maria’s cheek. “Late night, mi amor?”
Maria exhaled, the sound heavier than usual.
“Sí,” she murmured.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward Rio—still stirring, still humming, blissfully unaware—before she leaned closer to José, lowering her voice.
“That poor girl,” she said quietly. “Tonight it was her hair that set the Lady off. Too wild, she said.”
José’s expression tightened, just slightly.
Maria shook her head, her voice trembling with restrained frustration. “That woman, I swear… if I could, I would take that little girl and flee her cruelty.”
José reached for her hand, squeezing it gently.
“Hush now, mi amor,” he murmured, nodding subtly toward Rio.
Little ears.
Rio, for her part, was entirely absorbed in her task—stirring with such determination that the contents of the bowl sloshed dangerously close to the edge with each turn.
“…I think it needs more,” she muttered to herself, reaching blindly for something on the counter.
José and Maria exchanged a look.
A quiet one.
Heavy with things unsaid.
Then Maria straightened, smoothing her apron, and let the softness return to her voice as she stepped toward her daughter again.
“Well,” she said, warmth threading back into her tone, “whatever it is, we will eat it.”
Rio grinned, beaming up at her.
Up at the manor, all was quiet.
Not the comforting kind of quiet Rio’s cottage held—full of soft voices and clinking dishes and laughter that lingered in the walls.
No.
This quiet was vast.
Hollow.
Cold.
It stretched through the corridors, climbed the tall ceilings, settled into every polished surface until it felt like the house itself was holding its breath.
Agatha sat curled in the wide window ledge of her bedroom, small enough still that she could fit there perfectly, knees tucked to her chest. The glass was cool against her shoulder, but she didn’t move away from it.
Outside, the grounds rolled into darkness—
Except for one place.
Her eyes stayed fixed on it.
The Vidal cottage.
A warm glow spilled from its windows, golden and alive, flickering softly like something breathing. Even from this distance, it looked… different.
Inviting and safe.
Agatha pressed her forehead lightly against the glass, her breath fogging it for a moment before fading.
Her cheeks were damp, streaked with tears she hadn’t bothered to wipe away. They slipped silently down her skin, disappearing into the collar of her nightdress.
In her arms, she held her stuffed bunny tight—so tight the fabric had begun to twist beneath her fingers.
“Why does my mother hate me?” she whispered, voice so small it barely existed.
The words disappeared into the room, unanswered.
She imagined it instead.
What it would feel like to sit at that little table, feet not quite touching the ground, listening to voices that didn’t sharpen or correct or watch. What it would feel like to be wrapped up in arms that held you because they wanted to—not because they were expected to.
She imagined Rio laughing.
Her mami’s voice.
Her papa’s warmth.
The smell of food.
The sound of something alive.
Agatha’s grip tightened around the bunny.
Behind her, the manor loomed—grand, immaculate, silent.
Love here was something spoken of in lessons, in careful tones and proper phrasing. A thing to be understood, perhaps… but not felt.
Agatha swallowed, her chest tightening with something she didn’t yet have the words for.
Loneliness.
She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, though more tears followed anyway.
“They think I have everything,” she murmured softly, almost as if testing the truth of it.
Her gaze drifted back to the cottage.
The light still glowed.
Rio was there.
Warm.
Happy.
Loved.
Agatha curled in on herself just a little more, pressing her face into her bunny, breathing in the faint, familiar scent of it like it might comfort her.
“…I don’t think I do,” she whispered.
Outside, the little cottage shone against the dark—
And from the window of a grand, empty room, a small girl watched it like it was the only real thing in the world she could draw any warmth from.
Sunday mornings arrived with a different kind of energy.
Even before the sun had fully risen, the grounds stirred. It was the one day the rhythm of the manor stretched beyond its walls, reaching into the nearby town.
Market day.
For Maria and José Vidal, it meant long hours and heavy baskets. Ingredients for the manor’s kitchen. Tobacco for Mr. Harkness. Bolts of fabric—always fabric—for Evanora’s exacting standards, garments that would never wrinkle, never loosen, never allow for anything less than perfection.
And sometimes—
Small scraps.
Leftover edges Maria would quietly tuck away, later turning them into dresses for Rio. Dresses that would, without fail, be torn and muddied within days.
“Please let me come this time?!”
Rio’s voice rang out across the yard as she darted between her parents, practically vibrating with excitement. Her hair was already untamed, her dress slightly crooked, one shoe not fully fastened.
She had been ready far too early.
José was fastening the last of the baskets onto the cart, while Maria checked their contents one final time, her hands moving with practiced efficiency.
At Rio’s plea, they both paused.
And shared a look.
A very specific look.
The last time Rio had gone to the market…
José exhaled slowly through his nose.
Maria pressed her lips together, clearly holding back a smile.
“…Rio,” Maria began carefully, turning to face her daughter, “do you remember what happened the last time you came with us?”
Rio straightened immediately. “Yes.”
A beat.
“…no.”
José let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You nearly knocked over Señor Alvarez’s entire fruit stand.”
“I did not—” Rio started, then faltered. “…I only bumped it.”
“Hard enough that everything rolled into the street,” Maria corrected gently.
“And,” José added, raising a brow, “you wandered off. Twice.”
“I was just exploring.”
“You were missing.”
Rio crossed her arms, huffing. “But I came back.”
Maria knelt slightly in front of her, smoothing down the front of her dress—though it made little difference. “Mi amor, the market is busy. It is not like here.”
But José stepped in, crouching slightly so he was level with her, his expression soft but firm.
“Mija,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders, “who is going to watch our home while we are gone?”
Rio blinked.
“What?”
José nodded toward the cottage behind them, then to the stretch of land surrounding it—the land he had shown her, the land that was theirs.
“We need someone strong,” he continued, voice warm but serious. “Someone we can trust. Someone to protect the house.”
Rio’s expression shifted.
The disappointment didn’t vanish—but it changed shape.
She turned, looking back at the cottage.
At the door.
The windows.
The small patch of land that now, secretly, meant something more.
Protect it.
She straightened a little.
“…me?” she asked.
José smiled. “Sí. You.”
Maria watched her carefully, seeing the way Rio’s mind worked—how quickly she took something to heart.
“It is an important job,” Maria added softly. “Not just anyone could do it.”
Rio looked between them.
Then back at the house.
She thought about it—really thought about it, her little face serious in a way that didn’t come often. Her hands settled on her hips, her posture shifting as if she were already stepping into something bigger than herself.
Finally—
“…okay,” she said.
José raised a brow, amused. “Okay?”
Rio nodded firmly. “I’ll stay.”
She turned fully toward the cottage now, squinting slightly like she was assessing it for danger.
“I’ll look after our land.”
The words carried weight.
José’s expression softened, something proud and quiet settling into his features. “That’s my girl.”
Maria stepped closer, brushing a hand over Rio’s hair. “We will not be long,” she promised gently.
Rio nodded again, more resolute now. “Go,” she said, waving them off with sudden authority. “I’ve got it.”
José chuckled as he stood, climbing up onto the cart. “Ah, we are in good hands then.”
Maria followed, settling beside him, though her gaze lingered on Rio just a moment longer—taking her in, memorising her.
“Stay near the house,” she called softly.
“I will!”
With a flick of the reins, the cart began to move.
Rio stood in place, watching them go, her small figure steady in the morning light.
Only when they had disappeared down the path did she turn back to the cottage.
She walked up to the door.
Placed her hand against it.
Then stepped back, planting her feet firmly in the dirt.
“Don’t worry,” she muttered to the house, to the land, to everything her father had trusted her with.
“I’ll protect you.”
“Protect who?”
Rio jumped.
A sharp yelp tore out of her as she spun around, nearly losing her footing on the step. Her hand flew to her chest, heart racing—
And there, just a few feet away—
Agatha.
Trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“Agatha!” Rio huffed, glaring at her, though the relief was immediate. “You scared me.”
Agatha snorted, stepping closer, her hands tucked behind her back like she hadn’t just nearly caused a heart attack. “You were talking to the house,” she pointed out. “That’s a little strange.”
Rio rolled her eyes, though she was already calming down. “It’s not strange,” she muttered, dropping down onto the front step. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the cottage. “Papa said I have to stay here and protect it while they’re gone.”
Agatha followed, sitting beside her, smoothing her dress automatically before glancing up at the small house.
“Protect it from who?” she asked.
Rio paused.
Really thought about it.
Then—
A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face.
“Pirates,” she said.
Agatha blinked.
Then laughed. “Pirates? Rio—pirates aren’t real.”
“Are too!” Rio shot back immediately, louder now, her chin lifting. “Papa said they are.”
Agatha tilted her head, still smiling. “Did he?”
“Yes.”
Agatha studied her for a moment, amused. “Okay then… what happens if a pirate shows up?”
Rio didn’t hesitate.
“I fight them.”
The answer was so immediate, so certain, that Agatha burst into laughter again, louder this time, the sound bright and unrestrained in a way it never was inside the manor.
“You?” she teased. “You’re going to fight pirates?”
Rio shoved her lightly. “Yes!”
“With what?”
Rio looked around quickly, grabbing a nearby stick and holding it up like a sword. “With this.”
Agatha laughed harder, leaning slightly into her. “That’s not even a proper sword.”
“It’s enough,” Rio insisted, swinging it once through the air. “I’ll protect the house. And the land.”
Agatha’s laughter softened, her eyes drifting out across the small stretch of earth, then back to Rio.
“And what if…” she started, quieter now, “the pirates come for me instead?”
Rio didn’t laugh or hesitate.
She just turned her head, looking at Agatha like the answer should have been obvious.
“Then I protect you too,” she said simply.
Agatha stilled as the playfulness slipped from her face, something more serious settling in its place—something small and careful and hopeful.
She searched Rio’s expression, like she needed to be sure it wasn’t part of the game.
“…promise?” she asked softly.
Rio frowned slightly, like the question itself didn’t make sense.
Then she shifted, holding up her pinky.
“Promise.”
Agatha looked at it for a moment—
Then slowly hooked her own pinky around Rio’s.
“Promise,” she echoed.
Their hands stayed like that for a second longer than necessary.
Then Rio pulled back suddenly, jumping to her feet again, lifting her stick with renewed determination.
“Now—if any pirates come,” she declared, scanning the horizon dramatically, “we are ready.”
Agatha smiled faintly, watching her—
Then, without warning, she reached down, snatched up a stick of her own, and swung it toward Rio’s.
Their makeshift swords clacked together with a sharp tap.
Rio’s eyes lit up instantly. “You’re a pirate!” she gasped.
Agatha grinned, something wild and bright breaking through her usual careful composure. “And I’ve come for your land.”
“Never!” Rio shouted, lunging forward.
The two of them burst into motion—sticks clashing, feet slipping in the dirt, laughter spilling out across the open grounds. Rio fought like she did everything—full force, uncoordinated but fearless—while Agatha tried (and failed) to maintain anything resembling grace.
“Take that!” Rio yelled, swinging wildly.
Agatha shrieked as she dodged, nearly tripping over her own feet. “You’re cheating!”
“I’m winning!”
“You’re not!”
Their laughter rang out, loud and unrestrained, carried on the breeze, filling the space between the cottage and the distant manor.
For a while there were no rules or expectations, just two girls and a world they made for themselvs.
“Agatha!”
The shrill voice cut through everything.
Both girls froze and Agatha’s smile vanished instantly as she turned slowly.
Evanora Harkness stood several paces away, her posture rigid, her expression carved into something cold and disapproving. Her gaze swept over the scene—the dirt, the sticks, Rio—
—and lingered there with unmistakable disdain.
“What have I told you,” Evanora said, her voice tight, controlled, “about coming down here?”
Agatha’s grip on the stick loosened.
“I—” she started, but the words caught in her throat.
Evanora took a step closer, her presence swallowing the space, suffocating the lightness that had existed just moments before.
“You will not associate yourself with this kind of… behaviour,” she continued, her eyes flicking to Rio again, the judgment in them unmistakable. “It is unbecoming.”
Rio went still.
The stick in her hand lowered slowly.
Agatha swallowed hard, her shoulders drawing inward. “We were just playing,” she said quietly.
“That is precisely the problem.”
Evanora’s gaze snapped back to her daughter. “Look at you.”
Agatha glanced down.
Her dress—creased.
Her shoes—dirty.
Her hair—loosened from its careful arrangement.
Evanora stepped forward, brushing invisible dust from Agatha’s sleeve with brisk, sharp movements.
“You are a Harkness,” she said, low and firm. “You will conduct yourself as such.”
Agatha nodded quickly, eyes downcast. “Yes, Mother.”
There was a heavy pause.
Then Evanora straightened. “Come.”
Agatha hesitated.
Just for a second her eyes flickered toward Rio.
Rio stood where she was, small and quiet now, her earlier fire dimmed, her grip tightening slightly around the stick at her side.
Agatha opened her mouth—
Then closed it.
“…I have to go,” she murmured.
Rio nodded, though she didn’t speak.
Evanora had already turned, expecting to be followed.
Agatha dropped the stick.
And obeyed.
She walked back toward the manor, her steps measured, careful—already reshaping herself into something neater, quieter, more acceptable.
Behind her, the cottage remained.
Rio remained where she was.
Slowly, she lowered herself back onto the front step of the cottage, the stick resting loosely in her hands now. The world felt quieter without Agatha’s laughter beside her—too quiet—but she stayed anyway.
Because she had a job to do.
She lifted her chin slightly, eyes scanning the darkening grounds.
Protecting the house.
Back at the manor, Agatha sat stiffly at her desk, her hands folded far too neatly in her lap as her mother’s voice droned on about posture, pronunciation, presentation—
—but she wasn’t listening.
Her gaze kept drifting out the window.
To the small, distant shape of the Vidal cottage.
Even as the light faded, even as shadows swallowed most of the land between them, she could still make out a small figure on the front step.
Still there, keeping watch over her home.
Agatha’s chest tightened slightly as the hours stretched.
The sky turned from gold, to violet, to something deep and endless.
And still—
No sign of Maria and José.
By the time the faint glow of a lantern appeared in the distance, the world had already gone dark.
Agatha leaned forward in her seat, pressing closer to the glass.
The horse and cart came into view slowly, the lantern swinging gently, casting long, uneven shadows across the gravel path.
Something about it felt wrong.
The cart approached the manor instead of the cottage.
Agatha’s stomach twisted as a sharp knock echoed through the house.
Evanora stopped mid-sentence, her shoulders stiffening.
The Vidals would never knock on the front door.
Evanora turned without a word, her skirts sweeping behind her as she moved toward the staircase as Agatha quickly followed.
They descended partway—Evanora continuing, Agatha lingering just behind the banister, small fingers curling around the carved wood as she peered through the railings.
Below, August Harkness opened the grand front door.
On the threshold stood a man in dark, formal attire—heavy wool coat buttoned high, brass buttons catching the low light, a tall helmet-style cap on his head. A truncheon hung at his belt, and his boots were dusted from the road.
A constable with a grave look on his face.
“Mr. Harkness,” he began, voice measured but heavy, “I’m sorry to trouble you this late, but there has been an incident involving some of your work staff.”
August frowned slightly. “Incident?”
Behind Agatha, Evanora’s heels clicked sharply against the marble as she descended further, her expression already edged with irritation.
“Oh, what have they done now?” she huffed.
The constable hesitated before slowly lowering his cap.
The gesture alone was enough to make something in the room shift.
“I’m afraid…” he said quietly, “they have been killed. Robbed on their return from the Salem Market.”
Agatha felt something inside her drop—like the ground had vanished beneath her feet.
Dead.
Her fingers tightened painfully around the banister as her breath hitched.
Rio.
Her eyes snapped toward the window—toward the darkness where the small cottage sat, where a little girl had promised to protect her home.
Agatha’s blood ran cold.
Below, the silence stretched—thick, suffocating—until Evanora broke it.
She lifted a hand to her chest, her voice sharp with alarm. “And what of our fabrics? Did they take it all?”
The constable blinked, visibly taken aback.
August turned to her, something dark flashing behind his composure. “Maria and José are dead, Evanora,” he said, his voice tight, controlled. “And you worry about fabric?”
For a brief moment—
She faltered.
A flicker of something like shame crossed her face.
But it passed quickly.
Evanora straightened, smoothing her skirts as if nothing had happened, her attention already shifting elsewhere.
“I take it you are here for the child then?”
The constable frowned slightly. “Child, ma’am?”
Evanora let out an impatient huff, as though the answer should have been obvious.
“Yes, the Vidal girl,” she said, her tone clipped. “She is much too young to be living on her own in that house.”
Agatha’s grip on the banister tightened.
Her gaze flicked instinctively toward the window again, though from here she could see nothing but darkness.
August’s expression shifted—something uncertain, something heavy settling in his features. His eyes lifted, just briefly, to the upper floor to where Agatha was watching.
“The Vidals lived on our property,” he said slowly, turning back to the constable. “With their daughter. What will happen to her?”
The constable adjusted his grip on his cap, his voice gentler now. “Well… I can take her tonight to the orphanage, unless of course…” He hesitated, glancing between August and Evanora. “You would prefer to make other arrangements.”
“Absolutely not.”
Evanora’s voice cut through it like a blade.
“She cannot stay here,” she continued, sharper now, her composure cracking into something harsher. “She is not one of us.”
The words echoed.
Upstairs, Agatha felt something twist painfully in her chest.
Down below, August said nothing at first but his jaw tightened slightly.
“Let me tell the child,” he said at last, his voice low, controlled in a way that carried weight. “She deserves to hear it from a familiar face.”
The constable nodded once, grateful, it seemed, to step back from the moment.
“Of course, sir.”
August reached for his coat, pulling it on with steady hands, though there was a heaviness to the movement now. He took a lantern from the side table, lighting it with practiced ease—the small flame flickering to life, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
Evanora said nothing.
She only watched, her expression tight, displeased—but she did not stop him.
August moved toward the door, pausing only long enough to gesture for the constable to follow.
The night air rushed in as the door opened, cold and dark and vast as they made their way towards the little cottage house.
Rio pulled her knees closer to her chest, rubbing her hands over her arms as the night air crept in, colder now that the sun was long gone.
She stayed on the step.
Just like she promised.
The world had gone quiet around her—no birds, no wind strong enough to fill the silence. Just the distant hum of night settling in.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the path.
Waiting.
They should have been back by now.
They were always back by now.
A flicker of light appeared in the distance.
Rio straightened immediately.
Relief rushed through her—there they are—and she pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her dress quickly, ready to greet them, ready to tell them she had protected everything just like she said she would—
But as the figures grew closer—
Her smile faltered.
It wasn’t the cart.
No horse.
No familiar shape of her papa guiding it.
Just—
Mr. Harkness.
And another man.
The lantern they carried cast long shadows ahead of them, stretching toward her like something reaching.
Rio swallowed.
She stayed frozen where she was.
Mr. Harkness stepped forward first as they reached the cottage, lowering himself into a crouch so he was level with her. The lantern light illuminated his face—clear, steady.
His eyes were so blue.
Soft and Kind.
…Like Agatha’s.
“Hello, Rio,” he said gently.
Rio shifted slightly, her hands fidgeting at her sides. She had only spoken to him a handful of times before—passing moments, polite greetings—but she knew him.
Her papa liked him so that meant for something.
“Hello, sir,” she replied quietly.
Her eyes flicked past him, searching the darkness behind, like maybe she had missed them. “Where’s my papa?” she asked, the question simple, expectant. “And my mami?”
The words hung in the air.
Mr. Harkness’s expression changed as something in his eyes dimmed.
He reached out slowly, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“Rio…” he began, his voice softer now, careful in a way that made her stomach twist.
She didn’t understand why.
The constable stood a few paces behind, removing his cap, holding it against his chest.
The night started to feel colder.
Too still.
Rio frowned slightly, her small brows pulling together. “Are they still at the market?” she asked, trying to fill the silence herself. “Did they go back to get more things?”
Mr. Harkness’s hand tightened just a fraction on her shoulder.
“No, little one…” he said gently.
“I’m afraid…”
He hesitated for a moment.
Like he wished he didn’t have to say it at all.
“They were hurt,” he said carefully. “On their way home.”
Rio blinked.
Hurt.
That made sense.
People got hurt. Rio got hurt all the time.
“They’ll be okay,” she said quickly, nodding a little, like she could decide it into truth. “My papa is strong. And my mami—she fixes everything.”
Mr. Harkness swallowed.
His voice dropped even softer.
“They won’t be coming home tonight, Rio.”
Something in the way he said it—
The way the night seemed to hold its breath around them—
Made something inside her shift.
“…tomorrow?” she asked.
Her voice was smaller now.
Mr. Harkness shook his head.
“They’ve… passed on, Rio.”
The words were gentle.
Rio stared at him.
Then at the lantern.
Then past him again—like maybe if she just looked hard enough, she would see them walking up the path after all, laughing, carrying baskets, calling her name—
“They’re just late,” she said.
Not to him.
To herself.
“They’re just late.”
Mr. Harkness didn’t correct her this time.
He just moved closer, pulling her gently into his arms.
Rio didn’t resist.
But she didn’t return it either.
She stood there, small and still, her gaze fixed over his shoulder into the darkness—
Waiting.
Still waiting.
Because she had promised to protect the house.
And they had promised—
They would come back.
“I have to protect the house,” Rio said, her voice small but stubborn, like if she said it enough it would hold everything together. “From pirates. Papa… papa said I have to pro—protect it.”
Her words trembled, breaking apart in her mouth.
“Rio…” Mr. Harkness said gently, his voice unsteady now, “this policeman has to take you now. It’s not safe for you to stay here anymore.”
Rio shook her head immediately.
“No.”
It came out quiet—but firm.
Her feet stayed planted on the ground, small hands curling into fists at her sides.
“I’m staying,” she said, louder now, her voice shaking. “They’ll come back and I won’t be here.”
The constable shifted awkwardly, glancing between the child and the man beside him.
“I want my mami,” Rio whispered, her voice cracking open. “I want my papa.”
Mr. Harkness swallowed hard, his hand hovering near her shoulder like he didn’t know whether to comfort her or let her stand.
“They won’t be coming back, Rio,” he said softly.
Rio shook her head again, backing away from them both now. “No,” she said, more desperate. “No, they said—they said—”
She couldn’t finished it.
“I’m not going,” she cried, her voice breaking fully now. “I have to stay. I have to protect it.”
The constable hesitated.
Then—slowly—he looked to Mr. Harkness.
A silent question.
Mr. Harkness closed his eyes for just a moment.
When he opened them—
He gave a small, heavy nod.
The decision settled like a stone in his chest.
The constable moved.
“Miss, I’m sorry,” he said quietly as he stepped forward.
Rio barely had time to react before his hands were on her arms, lifting her despite her immediate struggle.
“No—!” she cried, kicking, twisting, reaching back toward the cottage. “No, let me go! I have to stay—!”
Her voice cracked into sobs as he carried her toward the cart.
“I have to protect it! Papa said—he said—!”
Mr. Harkness turned away, unable watch.
The constable set her into the cart, holding her there as she fought, her small hands clawing at the wooden sides, trying to climb back out.
“Please!” she cried. “Please, I have to go back!”
But the reins were already being gathered.
The lantern swung.
The horse shifted.
And then—
The cart began to move.
By the time Mr. Harkness reached the front of the manor again, the cart was already halfway down the path, its light bobbing in the darkness like something being swallowed by the night.
He stopped at the door.
Then—
A blur of white.
Bare feet against cold stone.
“Rio!”
Agatha.
She darted past him before he could react, her nightdress catching in the wind, her hair loose and unkempt, nothing like the careful image her mother demanded.
“Agatha—!” he called, but she was already gone.
Running, as fast as she could.
“Rio!” she cried again, her voice breaking as she chased after the cart down the path. “Rio, wait!”
The distance was too great.
The cart didn’t stop.
But Rio heard her.
Through her sobs, through the chaos, she twisted, looking back—
And saw her.
Agatha.
Running.
Crying.
Reaching for her.
“Agatha!” Rio screamed, her voice raw, desperate, her hands stretching out as far as they could go.
“Don’t let them take me!”
Agatha ran harder, her feet hitting gravel, then dirt, stumbling but not stopping.
“I’m coming!” she cried. “I’m coming, Rio!”
But she wasn’t fast enough.
She could never be fast enough.
The cart kept moving.
The lantern grew smaller.
Rio’s voice faded into the night—
“Agatha!”
Until finally—
There was nothing left but darkness.
Agatha slowed.
Then stopped.
Standing alone on the path, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face.
Behind her, Mr. Harkness stood at the door of the manor watching with unshed tears.
As the light disappeared completely.
And something—small, bright, and irreplaceable—
Was taken with it.