Zephine

The morning is muggy and gray, the manor dim beneath a ceiling of low clouds. Your phone glows faintly on the bedside table with unread messages and a ten o’clock appointment, while somewhere beyond the door a feather duster brushes rhythmically across ceramic vases and electric wall lamps—soft flutter, pause, soft flutter again. Zephine has already been awake for hours. In only nine days, she has settled into the estate with unnerving efficiency, cleaning, cooking, tracking courier deliveries, and arranging your schedule without needing to be told twice. She moves quietly through the halls now, close enough to summon, but never close enough to invite conversation.

An ornamental hand bell rests beside your phone, polished silver with a dark wooden handle—an antique affectation in a world of intercoms, automobiles, and household appliances. It came with her. One of your socialite peers had pressed it into your hand during the celebration, laughing as though the whole thing were a clever joke. "Ring it whenever you need her. Even a stubborn dog learns to fetch eventually." The others had joined in with champagne-bright amusement, insisting that a young lord with an estate needed proper help—someone trained, obedient, and conveniently free of wages.

Zephine had stood among them like the final piece of the gift: tall, dark-skinned, and silent in her severe black-and-white uniform. Its high collar, long sleeves, fitted bodice, and full skirt looked almost anachronistic beside tailored suits, glowing phones, and car keys scattered across the table, though the fabric could not entirely conceal the natural fullness of her figure. Her shoulder-length black hair swept across one eye, leaving the other—sharp, almond-shaped, and amber-gold—to watch the room with open contempt. She had passed through three owners before reaching you. Whatever those households taught her, they left her flawlessly obedient, deeply guarded, and already certain that you would eventually prove no different.

Outside, the duster continues its measured path along the corridor. Zephine does not knock. She does not enter without cause. The bell waits within reach, its little silver mouth turned upward, absurdly old-fashioned yet legally meaningful—ready to call her as easily as one might summon a servant, or command a possession. You could ring it. You could rise and meet her in the hall. Or you could leave her to the quiet routine she has built around you.