"Why do you always look like you're about to lose something?"
I stopped for a moment, and my bare feet sank into the soft ground under the mango tree. I didn't look at him when I said what I said.
"Because things don't last."
Rowan Blackwood laughed next to me, the sound sharp and careless, as if he had never seen anything disappear. "That's not true. This place has always been here.
I finally looked at him. "Forever" isn't real.
He frowned, as if I had insulted the estate itself, because he didn't like the idea. The Blackwood mansion was big and white behind us, and its tall windows caught the afternoon sun. Servants moved around the porch like shadows. From far away, the fountain that Rowan's father put in when he was born splashed water.
He owned this place. Every single stone. Every single tree. Every breath I took inside its walls.
My parents made me belong to it.
Rowan kicked the dirt with his shiny shoe. He said, "You think too much." "My dad says that people who think too much cause problems for themselves."
I smiled, but it was small and quiet. My mom said something else: that people who didn't think enough made things hard for other people.
The mango tree above us swayed slowly, its branches heavy with unripe fruit. It was old, older than the house and even Rowan's father, and it didn't care who owned the land it grew on. That was why I liked it here. The tree never made me feel like I was going to leave.
Rowan suddenly lay back with his arms outstretched and looked up through the leaves. He said, "When I'm older, I'll own everything." "More than my dad."
I sat next to him and carefully folded my skirt. "You already do."
He looked at me by turning his head. "What?"
"Everyone does that," I said. "More than anyone else, they listen to you."
That made him smile. "That's because they know I'll be in charge one day."
I didn't say anything. I saw a line of ants walk along the root near my foot, carrying crumbs that were bigger than their bodies. My dad used to say that strength wasn't about how big you were, but how long you could last.
"Elara," Rowan said suddenly, his voice softer. "If I tell my dad, he'll let your parents move into the smaller house by the orchard."
My chest got tight. "Why would you do that?"
"Because you don't like the servants' quarters," he said simply. "And because you're my friend."
The word hung between us, weak and dangerous.
I said, "Friends don't own each other."
He rolled his eyes. "You're weird."
"I understand."
We sat quietly for a while, listening to the cicadas sing. The air smelled like warm stone and cut grass. My father's voice carried to another gardener nearby. He was calm and steady, as if nothing in the world could shake him. From the open windows of the kitchen, I could hear my mother's short, bright laughter.
I kept those sounds safe inside me, where they wouldn't get lost.
Rowan made noise again. "My dad says your dad is lucky."
I frowned. "Fortunate?"
Rowan said, "He gets to work here." "He says that not everyone should have to serve a great family."
The words hurt, like thorns. I dug my nails into my palm.
I said quietly, "My father doesn't serve." "He works."
Rowan sat up, shocked by how I spoke. "It's the same thing."
"No," I said. "It's not."
He looked at me closely, as if he were seeing something new for the first time. His eyebrows came together in confusion. "You get mad for no reason."
I stood there, brushing dirt off my skirt. "I get mad about things that matter."
When I tried to leave, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. It wasn't hard, just enough to stop me.
"Hey," he said. "I didn't mean it that way."
I thought about it. His fingers were warm. He had never touched me like this before.
"Let go," I said.
He did right away, and his face turned red. "I'm sorry."
I nodded once and then walked away, my heart racing. I didn't stop until I got to the back of the estate, where my dad was trimming hedges and the collar of his shirt was getting wet with sweat.
He said, "You shouldn't run like that," without looking up. "The ground is not level."
I lied and said, "I wasn't running."
He smiled a little, and the lines around his eyes got deeper. "Did you and young master Rowan have another fight?"
I said, "We didn't fight." "We just talked."
My dad hummed. "Sometimes, words are more dangerous than fists."
That night, I couldn't sleep because I could hear the estate breathing. The sound of generators. The barking of dogs far away. The heavy silence of money falling asleep.
I thought about what it would be like to think the world would last forever.
Everything felt different the next day.
It started with how the servants whispered instead of talked. Because my mother's hands shook as she folded the linen. My dad kissed my forehead before he left for work, and he stayed there longer than usual.
"What's wrong?" I asked him.
He said "Nothing" too quickly. "Just stay close to your mom today."
I saw a black car pull into the courtyard from the kitchen window. It was sleek, strange, and wrong. Men stepped out in dark suits, even though it was hot. One of them had a leather briefcase with them.
A chill ran up my spine.
Rowan later found me by the mango tree. He looked pale, and his usual confidence was starting to fade.
He said, "My father wants to see yours." "In his office."
I took a drink. "Why?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
We both stood there this time, not sitting. The tree above us creaked softly, and the leaves rustled like they were warning us.
Rowan said, "Elara," in a low voice. "It's bad if my dad is mad."
"I know," I said.
A sharp, angry shout rang out across the estate. The name of my father came next.
Rowan jumped.
I didn't think. I ran.
As I got closer to the main house, my chest felt heavier, as if the air itself was pushing down on me. Servants stood still in the hallway, looking away. The door to the office was open.
Rowan's father was behind his desk inside, and his face was red with anger. There were papers all over the place. My father stood across from him with his hands clenched at his sides. Even though his shoulders were shaking, he stood up straight.
Mr. Blackwood yelled, "This is betrayal." "After all I've done for you."
My father said, "I didn't do it," and his voice was steady but strained. "I swear on my child's life."
The room looked like it was leaning.
Mr. Blackwood laughed in a cold, sharp way. "Your word doesn't mean anything here."
Someone yelled behind me.
I turned just as the sound of glass breaking filled the air. Then everything went horribly, impossibly quiet.