Part 2: She Married The Richest Man In The Village…If Only She Knew What Would Happen On The 7th Day
SHE MARRIED THE RICHEST MAN IN THE VILLAGE—THEN A SERVANT WHISPERED, “EVERY BRIDE DIES BEFORE THE SEVENTH SUNRISE”
Wanjiku had been married for only a few days when a frightened servant grabbed her wrist in a dark hallway and whispered six words that turned her dream marriage into a countdown.
“You have to leave before sunrise.”
Then Amani looked over her shoulder, lowered her voice even further, and said the words Wanjiku would hear in her mind every time she closed her eyes.
“Trust no one.”
Before Wanjiku could ask what she meant, footsteps sounded somewhere beyond the corridor.
Amani’s face changed instantly.
The young servant released her hand and stepped backward into the shadows.
“Amani, wait.”
But Amani was already gone.
Her bare feet made almost no sound against the polished floor as she disappeared through the narrow servants’ passage.
Wanjiku remained alone beneath the dim golden light of the enormous Mwangi mansion.
Her heart pounded.
Outside, night covered the estate.
Inside, everything looked perfect.
Too perfect.
The chandeliers glittered.
Fresh flowers filled carved wooden vases.
The floors shone so brightly that Wanjiku could see the reflection of her own frightened face.
Somewhere upstairs slept Baraka Mwangi, the man she had married believing she was entering the happiest chapter of her life.
The richest man in the village.
The man whose smile had once made her forget every warning people gave about wealthy families.
The man who had promised her she would never struggle again.
But now one question had pushed every beautiful promise out of her mind.
What happened on the seventh day?
Wanjiku returned to her bedroom but did not sleep.
She tried.
She truly tried.
She lay beneath the expensive embroidered blanket, staring at the carved ceiling while moonlight slipped between the curtains.
Every small sound made her turn.
A branch scratched the window.
She sat up.
A door closed somewhere downstairs.
Her stomach tightened.
Footsteps passed in the hallway.
She held her breath.
The mansion had seemed magical when she arrived as a bride.
Now it felt alive in a different way.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
She thought about Amani’s face.
There had been no joke in it.
No jealousy.
No attempt to frighten the new bride for entertainment.
Amani had looked genuinely terrified.
And fear like that did not come from gossip.
Wanjiku pulled the blanket closer around herself.
Perhaps Amani was trying to manipulate her.
Perhaps someone in the village resented the Mwangi family.
Perhaps there was a family disagreement she did not understand.
Perhaps—
She stopped herself.
Then why had Amani said seventh sunrise?
Not someday.
Not soon.
The seventh sunrise.
Specific.
Precise.
Like a deadline.
Wanjiku looked toward the window.
The darkness outside had begun turning gray.
Morning was coming.
Another sunrise.
How many did she have left?
She sat up before the first birds started singing.
Enough.
If there was a secret in this house, she would find it.
She had not left her mother’s home, married Baraka, and entered the Mwangi estate just to spend every night frightened of shadows.
If Amani knew something, she would tell her.
Wanjiku dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway.
The mansion at dawn looked almost peaceful.
Servants moved quietly between rooms.
Some carried trays.
Others swept the marble corridors.
A woman opened the enormous windows facing the courtyard.
Cool morning air drifted inside.
Wanjiku searched for Amani.
She checked the main hall first.
Nothing.
Then the rear courtyard.
Nothing.
She passed two gardeners trimming hedges.
Neither looked at her for longer than necessary.
She walked toward the kitchen.
Several servants were already working.
Steam rose from large pots.
Tea boiled.
Fresh mandazi rested beneath clean cloths.
Still no Amani.
Wanjiku’s concern grew.
Had something happened after their conversation?
Had somebody seen them?
Had the footsteps belonged to someone who knew what Amani was trying to tell her?
She continued toward the dining hall.
Then she saw her.
Amani stood beside the long dining table arranging fresh flowers.
Wanjiku felt relief so quickly that she almost called her name too loudly.
“Amani.”
The young servant looked up.
The smile that had started forming disappeared.
Her eyes immediately searched the room.
“My lady.”
Wanjiku hurried toward her.
“You disappeared last night.”
Amani’s hands tightened around the flower basket.
“My lady, not here.”
“No.”
Wanjiku lowered her voice but stepped closer.
“I spent the entire night awake because of you.”
Amani glanced toward the doorway.
“Please.”
“You told me I had to leave before the seventh sunrise.”
Amani swallowed.
“What happens on the seventh day?”
The servant’s lips parted.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Wanjiku could see fear moving across her face.
“Amani.”
“It means—”
“Amani.”
The new voice cut through the dining hall like a blade.
Amani froze.
One white flower slipped from her fingers onto the table.
Wanjiku slowly turned.
An elderly woman stood at the entrance.
Madame Grace.
She was the senior housekeeper of the Mwangi estate.
Wanjiku had met her on the first day.
Madame Grace had welcomed her politely, inspected every servant with one glance, and seemed to know everything that happened inside the mansion before anyone else did.
She was not physically imposing.
She did not need to be.
There was something in the way the house changed whenever she entered.
Servants became quieter.
Backs straightened.
Conversations ended.
Now she walked toward them with slow, measured steps.
Her dark dress was perfectly pressed.
A ring of keys hung from her waist.
Her expression revealed nothing.
When she reached them, she looked first at Amani.
“Amani, I believe those flowers will not arrange themselves.”
The servant lowered her head.
“I’m sorry, Madame Grace.”
Madame Grace’s gaze remained on her.
Then she leaned slightly closer.
Her voice dropped.
“If you value your life, focus on your duties.”
Wanjiku felt something cold move through her.
Amani did not answer.
Madame Grace continued.
“And if you do not want what happened to your mother to happen to you…”
She paused.
“…stay away from the new bride.”
Amani’s face lost all color.
Her fingers gripped the basket so tightly that the woven handle bent.
“Yes, madam.”
The words barely came out.
Madame Grace straightened.
Then she turned toward Wanjiku.
Her entire expression changed.
A polite smile appeared.
“My lady, breakfast will be served shortly.”
Wanjiku stared at her.
“What happened to Amani’s mother?”
Madame Grace’s smile remained.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“You just mentioned her.”
“A private matter among staff.”
“Amani seemed frightened.”
“Servants sometimes become emotional.”
Wanjiku looked at Amani.
The young woman’s eyes remained lowered.
Madame Grace continued as though nothing unusual had happened.
“Would you prefer tea in the dining room or on the veranda today?”
Wanjiku did not answer immediately.
Finally she said, “The dining room is fine.”
Madame Grace nodded.
“Very good.”
Then she turned and walked away.
The click of her shoes echoed down the corridor.
Only when she disappeared completely did Amani breathe again.
Wanjiku stepped toward her.
“What did she mean?”
Amani shook her head.
“What happened to your mother?”
“My lady…”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Amani’s eyes filled.
“Please.”
Wanjiku softened her voice.
“Amani, if I’m in danger, I need to know.”
The servant looked toward the doorway.
Then back at Wanjiku.
“Not here.”
“Then where?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Amani—”
“Please.”
She picked up the fallen flower.
“I have to go.”
Before Wanjiku could stop her, Amani hurried through the servants’ entrance and vanished again.
Wanjiku remained alone in the dining hall.
Her thoughts raced.
Amani’s mother.
The seventh sunrise.
Madame Grace.
Trust no one.
It was beginning to feel less like superstition and more like a secret everyone understood except her.
She walked slowly toward one of the windows.
Outside, the Mwangi estate stretched across rolling land.
Tall trees moved gently in the morning wind.
The gardens were perfectly maintained.
Beyond the walls lay the village where Wanjiku had grown up hearing stories about the Mwangi family.
They were wealthy.
Powerful.
Respected.
People spoke about the estate with admiration.
Some with envy.
The family donated to the church.
They paid school fees for several children.
They employed dozens of villagers.
When Baraka had asked for Wanjiku’s hand, relatives had called her blessed.
“Your suffering is finished,” one aunt had said.
“You have entered a house where you will never worry about tomorrow.”
Yet here she was, wondering whether tomorrow itself was guaranteed.
“There you are.”
Wanjiku turned sharply.
Baraka walked toward her.
He wore a simple shirt and dark trousers, looking nothing like the dangerous man her imagination had begun creating overnight.
His smile was warm.
Familiar.
The smile that had made her trust him in the beginning.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
He reached her.
Then his expression changed.
“You look tired.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Baraka’s eyes softened.
“I’m sorry.”
He took her hand.
“I should have stayed with you longer last night.”
His thumb brushed gently across her fingers.
Wanjiku studied his face.
Could he really know?
Could this man who held her so carefully be part of whatever Amani feared?
He lifted his other hand and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek.
“I know everything here is still new.”
His voice was gentle.
“The house. The staff. My family. You’ll get used to it.”
Wanjiku almost asked him.
What happens on the seventh day?
The words reached the back of her throat.
Then she heard Amani’s warning.
Trust no one.
Even Baraka?
She hated that thought.
She had married him.
Shared prayers with him.
Shared meals.
Shared dreams.
He had listened when she talked about her childhood.
He had promised her mother he would protect her.
Was she now supposed to believe his kindness was a performance?
Baraka smiled.
“Come.”
“Where?”
“My mother wants to see us before breakfast.”
Wanjiku hesitated.
Baraka noticed.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
The lie came easier than she expected.
He squeezed her hand.
“Good.”
As they walked, Wanjiku glanced once toward the servants’ passage.
Amani was nowhere in sight.
Breakfast was served in a smaller family dining room.
Baraka’s mother spoke mostly about household matters.
Which relatives would visit.
Which dresses Wanjiku should wear when important guests came.
Which traditions the Mwangi family followed.
Wanjiku answered politely.
But beneath the conversation, she was studying everyone.
The way Madame Grace entered silently with tea.
The way Baraka’s mother stopped speaking whenever certain servants came too close.
The way doors seemed to close whenever Wanjiku walked toward unfamiliar parts of the mansion.
Maybe it was paranoia.
Maybe not.
After breakfast, Baraka smiled.
“Come. I want to show you something.”
He led her outside.
The gardens behind the estate were even larger than Wanjiku had realized.
Stone paths wound between flowering bushes and tall trees.
A fountain stood near the center.
Beyond it lay farmland and worker quarters in the distance.
Baraka seemed relaxed outside.
He told her stories about growing up there.
How he used to hide from tutors.
How his father had taught him to ride horses.
How he and his cousins would steal mangoes even though there were baskets of fruit in the kitchen.
Wanjiku laughed despite herself.
For a few minutes, the fear loosened.
This was the Baraka she knew.
The man who could tease himself.
The man who had made her believe wealth had not changed his heart.
They stopped near a row of blooming flowers.
Wanjiku looked beyond the estate wall.
From where they stood, she could see part of the road toward the village.
An idea came.
“Baraka.”
“Yes?”
“Would it be all right if I visited the village today?”
His smile faded.
Only for a second.
But Wanjiku saw it.
“The village?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She shrugged casually.
“I’ve been inside the estate since the wedding. I’d like to see people.”
“Which people?”
“No one in particular.”
She forced a small laugh.
“I grew up not far from here. I’m not used to staying inside walls all day.”
Baraka’s expression softened again.
“Not today.”
Wanjiku frowned.
“Why?”
“It’s safer if you remain here.”
“Safer?”
He looked toward the road.
“There are many people interested in this family.”
“I’m only taking a walk.”
“I know.”
“I won’t be long.”
Baraka shook his head gently.
“I would rather you stay.”
Wanjiku studied him.
“Am I not allowed to leave?”
“Of course you are.”
“Then why are you telling me not to?”
His smile returned.
“I’m asking.”
“It doesn’t feel like asking.”
Silence appeared between them.
Baraka reached for her hand.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
From what?
The question burned inside her.
Instead she asked, “When can I go?”
“Another time.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
He kissed her forehead.
“Trust me.”
Wanjiku’s entire body went still.
Trust me.
Amani’s voice answered inside her.
Trust no one.
Wanjiku forced a smile.
“All right.”
They continued walking.
But the garden no longer looked beautiful.
It looked fenced.
When they returned to the mansion, Baraka’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
“I need to take this.”
Wanjiku nodded.
“I’ll be in my study.”
He walked away.
The moment he disappeared around the corner, a voice came from behind Wanjiku.
“My lady.”
She turned.
Amani stood beside a narrow service doorway.
Her body remained half hidden.
Wanjiku hurried toward her.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been trying to protect you.”
“Then stop giving me half the truth.”
Amani’s eyes moved down the hallway.
“Keep your voice low.”
“What happens on the seventh day?”
Amani looked at Wanjiku.
Something inside her seemed to surrender.
“The seventh day…”
She swallowed.
“…is the day every bride dies.”
Wanjiku stared at her.
For several seconds she could not understand the sentence.
“What?”
Amani’s voice trembled.
“No bride has lived beyond the seventh sunrise.”
Wanjiku stepped backward.
“That’s impossible.”
“I wish it was.”
“Every bride?”
Amani nodded.
“To this family?”
Another nod.
“How many?”
Amani looked away.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Some were before I was born.”
Wanjiku felt dizzy.
“No.”
“My lady—”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Baraka has never been married.”
Amani hesitated.
“I said every bride.”
Wanjiku’s breathing changed.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“You just told me I’m going to die.”
“I told you what I know.”
“Then tell me why.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know the whole truth.”
Wanjiku pressed one hand against the wall.
The corridor seemed suddenly too narrow.
“What do you know?”
“Only stories.”
“Whose stories?”
“Servants.”
“Which servants?”
“Most won’t speak.”
“Because of Madame Grace?”
Amani’s eyes flickered.
“Because of this house.”
Wanjiku looked toward the ceiling as though the mansion itself might be listening.
Then she faced Amani.
“You said there’s someone who knows everything.”
Amani nodded slowly.
“Who?”
“Mama Yamburura.”
The name meant nothing to Wanjiku.
“Who is she?”
“An old woman who lives beyond the lower village.”
“How does she know?”
Amani looked frightened again.
“She was here long ago.”
“As a servant?”
“I can’t explain now.”
“Then take me to her.”
Amani stared.
“My lady…”
“You said I have until the seventh sunrise.”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t have time for fear.”
Amani almost laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“You think fear is the problem?”
“What is?”
“Leaving.”
Wanjiku frowned.
“The estate is guarded.”
“I’ve seen the guards.”
“No one leaves without permission.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is.”
“What about staff?”
“Staff are checked.”
“Family?”
“They don’t need permission.”
“So I’m a prisoner?”
Amani lowered her voice further.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
They stood in silence.
Then Wanjiku asked, “There has to be another way.”
Amani looked down.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Finally:
“There is.”
Wanjiku stepped closer.
“What?”
Amani’s eyes met hers.
“But if we are caught…”
She paused.
“…we will both die.”
Wanjiku stared at her.
The words should have made her retreat.
Instead they made everything clearer.
“You mean we have to escape.”
Amani nodded.
“It’s the only way you’ll reach Mama Yamburura.”
Wanjiku looked toward the nearest window.
Two guards stood near the main gate.
Another walked slowly across the courtyard.
“How?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“The household staff takes food and supplies to the worker quarters.”
“Outside the main gate?”
“Through the lower service entrance.”
“Is it guarded?”
“Yes.”
“Then how does that help?”
“The guards pay less attention to servants carrying baskets.”
Wanjiku glanced at her expensive dress.
Amani understood.
“I’ll dress you as one of us.”
Wanjiku almost smiled despite the fear.
“You think nobody will recognize me?”
“Keep your head down.”
“Baraka knows how I walk.”
“Baraka will not be at the service entrance before sunrise.”
“How do you know?”
Amani’s face tightened.
“I know the household routine.”
“Madame Grace?”
“She wakes early.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“It isn’t.”
Wanjiku looked outside again.
“What happens after we pass the gate?”
“We stay with the staff until the path splits near the workers’ quarters.”
“And then?”
“We run.”
“To Mama Yamburura?”
Amani nodded.
“How far?”
“Far enough that they will search before we arrive.”
Wanjiku turned back.
“What if Baraka finds out?”
Amani did not answer immediately.
Her silence was worse than any explanation.
“Amani.”
“If he finds out before we leave…”
She looked directly into Wanjiku’s eyes.
“…you may not live to see the seventh sunrise.”
Wanjiku’s stomach tightened.
“So you think my husband is part of this.”
“I said trust no one.”
“That includes him?”
Amani looked away.
“Answer me.”
“I can’t.”
“Amani!”
“My lady, I am trying to keep you alive.”
“Then tell me whether the man sleeping beside me wants me dead.”
Amani’s eyes filled with pain.
“I don’t know.”
That answer frightened Wanjiku more than yes would have.
Because uncertainty meant even Amani did not understand the full danger.
A noise came from the far end of the hall.
Amani stepped backward.
“I have to go.”
“Wait.”
“Tomorrow. Before sunrise.”
“What time?”
“You’ll know.”
“Amani—”
The servant disappeared through the service door.
Wanjiku remained alone.
Every bride dies.
The words sounded impossible.
Absurd.
Like something from an old village tale told around a cooking fire to frighten children.
But this was not a tale.
Amani’s fear was real.
Madame Grace’s warning was real.
Baraka’s refusal to let Wanjiku leave was real.
She looked toward the study where her husband had gone.
Could she confront him?
Demand the truth?
Tell him Amani had warned her?
If Baraka was innocent, he would protect her.
If he was not…
She might not survive the mistake.
“Wanjiku.”
She turned so quickly that her heart nearly stopped.
Baraka stood behind her.
His expression was calm.
His smile unchanged.
“Who were you talking to?”
Wanjiku hesitated.
“No one.”
Baraka glanced toward the servants’ doorway.
“I could have sworn I heard voices.”
“You heard me.”
“Talking to yourself?”
She forced a small laugh.
“Maybe marriage is already driving me mad.”
He smiled.
But his eyes continued studying her.
For one terrible second, Wanjiku wondered whether he could hear her heartbeat.
Then he stepped closer.
“My mother is waiting for us.”
“For what?”
“She wants to discuss dinner tonight.”
He took Wanjiku’s hand.
His touch was warm.
Normal.
That almost made it worse.
As they walked away, neither of them noticed Madame Grace standing at the far end of the corridor.
The old housekeeper had seen enough.
Her eyes followed Wanjiku and Baraka until they disappeared.
Then she turned toward the service passage where Amani had gone.
Her expression hardened.
That evening, Wanjiku barely ate.
The family dinner stretched endlessly.
Baraka’s mother discussed relatives.
Baraka asked whether Wanjiku wanted the east garden renovated.
Madame Grace moved silently around the table directing servants.
Everything looked ordinary.
Wanjiku kept counting.
If Amani was right, every hour mattered.
She observed doors.
Windows.
Guard rotations.
Servant movements.
She had never imagined needing to study her husband’s home as if planning an escape from it.
At one point Baraka noticed she was not eating.
“You don’t like the food?”
“It’s good.”
“You’ve barely touched it.”
“I’m tired.”
His mother looked at her.
“You must keep your strength.”
Something about the sentence made Wanjiku’s fingers tighten around her spoon.
“For what?” she asked.
Baraka’s mother paused.
Then smiled.
“For your new life.”
Wanjiku looked down.
Was every sentence suspicious now?
Perhaps that was what fear did.
It poisoned ordinary language.
After dinner, Baraka walked her toward their rooms.
He seemed unusually affectionate.
Or perhaps she was only noticing everything now.
He asked if she missed home.
She said yes.
He promised they would visit her mother soon.
Soon.
That word again.
Always later.
Never today.
At the bedroom door, Wanjiku stopped.
“Baraka.”
“Yes?”
“Were there other women before me?”
He looked surprised.
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer.”
“I had relationships.”
“Serious ones?”
“Why are we discussing this tonight?”
“Because I’m your wife.”
He smiled gently.
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m asking.”
Baraka studied her.
“No one mattered the way you do.”
It was not an answer.
Wanjiku noticed.
“Did you ever almost marry someone?”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
“No.”
Too quick.
Perhaps she imagined it.
He touched her cheek.
“Where are these questions coming from?”
“Nowhere.”
“Wanjiku.”
She looked at him.
For the first time since meeting him, she became aware of how physically trapped a lie could make a person feel.
She wanted desperately to ask:
Have brides died in this house?
What happened to Amani’s mother?
Who is Mama Yamburura?
Why can’t I leave?
Instead she smiled.
“I told you. I’m tired.”
Baraka kissed her forehead.
“Sleep.”
He went toward his study.
Wanjiku closed the bedroom door.
Then locked it.
She stood with her back against the wood.
Only then did she breathe.
Hours passed.
She did not undress.
She placed simple clothes beneath the bed.
She kept shoes nearby.
She tried remembering every instruction Amani had given.
Before sunrise.
Keep your head down.
Don’t speak.
If something goes wrong, run.
Wanjiku thought about her mother.
If she disappeared, what would the Mwangi family tell her?
That she had run away?
That there had been an accident?
That she became ill?
If every bride truly died, how had nobody questioned it?
Maybe they had.
Maybe wealth had silenced questions.
Maybe the village knew more than people admitted.
She went to the window.
The estate lay dark beneath the moon.
Guards moved near the gate.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
She remembered her wedding day.
Women singing.
Children running beside decorated vehicles.
Her mother crying with happiness.
Baraka’s family welcoming her.
Every person telling her she had entered blessing.
Seven days.
How could a life transform so completely in less than a week?
She eventually lay down without sleeping.
Then—
Three soft knocks.
Wanjiku opened her eyes.
Darkness still filled the room.
Another pause.
Three gentle taps again.
She sat up.
Her heart began pounding.
Amani.
Wanjiku hurried to the door.
Before unlocking it, she whispered, “Who is it?”
“My lady.”
Amani.
Wanjiku opened the door quickly.
The servant slipped inside and closed it behind herself.
She carried a folded bundle.
Her face looked more frightened than before.
“We have to move quickly.”
Wanjiku looked at the clothes.
“What is that?”
“Your uniform.”
Wanjiku gestured toward herself.
She was already dressed.
A cream long-sleeve blouse.
Beige trousers.
White sneakers.
“I’m ready.”
Amani shook her head.
“No.”
She unfolded a loose green servants’ dress.
“Wear this over your clothes.”
“Over them?”
“If something goes wrong outside, you remove the uniform and run.”
Wanjiku understood.
A white apron followed.
Then a simple headscarf.
She changed quickly.
The servant’s dress covered nearly everything.
Amani tied the scarf low, hiding most of Wanjiku’s hair.
Then she stepped backward and studied her.
“Turn.”
Wanjiku turned slowly.
Amani adjusted the scarf.
“Again.”
Wanjiku obeyed.
“Perfect.”
“I don’t feel perfect.”
“You look ordinary.”
“Thank you.”
“For once, ordinary may save your life.”
Wanjiku almost smiled.
Amani handed her an empty basket.
“Carry this.”
“What if they ask where I’m going?”
“Do not answer.”
“They’ll become suspicious.”
“Most servants don’t speak unless addressed by Madame Grace or senior staff.”
“That sounds healthy.”
Amani gave her a warning look.
“This is not the time.”
“I know.”
She gripped the basket.
“What route?”
“We leave your room. Down the servants’ staircase behind the west corridor. Then through the kitchen yard.”
“The main hall?”
“No.”
“Guards?”
“One near the service gate.”
“One?”
“Usually.”
“Usually?”
Amani looked uncomfortable.
“Madame Grace sometimes changes the rotation.”
Wanjiku stared at her.
“You think she knows.”
“I don’t know.”
“She saw us yesterday.”
“She sees everything.”
“Why are you helping me?”
Amani went still.
The question had been waiting between them.
“You barely know me.”
Amani looked down.
“My mother tried to help someone once.”
Wanjiku’s throat tightened.
“A bride?”
Amani’s silence answered.
“What happened?”
“Not now.”
“Amani.”
“If we survive the morning, I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Wanjiku nodded.
“Fine.”
Amani opened the bedroom door a few inches.
The corridor was empty.
She stepped out first.
Wanjiku followed.
The mansion felt different before dawn.
Colder.
Larger.
Every corridor stretched too far.
Every shadow looked occupied.
Their shoes made almost no noise.
Amani walked ahead carrying another basket.
Wanjiku kept her head lowered.
At the corner, Amani lifted one hand.
Stop.
They froze.
Footsteps.
Someone moved across the corridor ahead.
A servant carrying folded linens.
The woman did not look toward them.
Amani waited.
Then continued.
They passed the grand staircase.
Wanjiku remembered descending those steps after her wedding while everyone applauded.
Now she was sneaking past them disguised as staff.
The irony would have been almost funny in another life.
They reached a narrow door hidden behind a wall panel.
Amani opened it.
A steep servants’ staircase descended into darkness.
“Careful.”
Wanjiku followed.
The smell changed.
Less perfume.
More smoke, food, soap, and damp stone.
This was the hidden machinery of the estate.
The corridors where servants moved while the wealthy family lived upstairs believing everything appeared by itself.
Voices came from below.
Amani slowed.
“Remember. Head down.”
They reached the bottom.
Three women were packing vegetables into baskets.
A young man carried sacks toward the courtyard.
Nobody questioned Wanjiku.
Her heartbeat began slowing.
Maybe this could work.
Amani handed her another small bundle.
“Carry these cloths.”
Wanjiku took them.
They joined two other servants moving toward the rear courtyard.
Dawn had not yet arrived.
The sky was deep blue.
Cold air touched Wanjiku’s face.
For the first time since entering the Mwangi estate, she was outside without Baraka.
The feeling nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Freedom was perhaps fifty meters away.
A wall.
A gate.
One guard.
Beyond that, the road.
Beyond the road, Mama Yamburura.
Truth.
Amani walked steadily.
Wanjiku followed.
Do not rush.
Do not look around.
Do not speak.
They crossed the courtyard.
The service gate came into view.
One guard.
Exactly as Amani said.
He stood beside a small security building drinking tea.
Two servants ahead of them passed without difficulty.
Wanjiku’s pulse raced.
Twenty steps.
Fifteen.
Ten.
The guard looked at them.
Amani lowered her head.
Wanjiku copied her.
Five steps.
The gate was open.
For one unbelievable moment, Wanjiku thought they were going to make it.
Then a voice came from behind.
“Amani.”
The servant beside Wanjiku stopped so suddenly that one of the baskets struck her leg.
Wanjiku’s blood turned cold.
No.
Not here.
Not now.
Amani slowly turned.
Wanjiku kept her head lowered.
She could hear footsteps approaching across the courtyard.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Familiar.
The same footsteps that had entered the dining hall before Amani could explain the seventh day.
Madame Grace.
Wanjiku stared at the ground beneath the edge of her scarf.
Amani’s voice barely worked.
“Yes, madam?”
Madame Grace stopped somewhere behind them.
For several terrible seconds, she said nothing.
Wanjiku could feel the guard watching.
A servant nearby shifted nervously.
The estate seemed to hold its breath.
Then Madame Grace spoke.
“Where are you going?”
Amani swallowed.
“To the workers’ quarters, madam.”
“With supplies?”
“Yes.”
“And who is that beside you?”
Wanjiku’s fingers tightened around the basket.
Amani did not answer immediately.
Madame Grace took one step closer.
“I asked you a question.”
Amani’s breathing changed.
Wanjiku could hear it.
“This is…”
Silence.
Wanjiku’s heart hammered against her ribs.
She had been warned not to speak.
If she ran now, the guards would catch her before she crossed the gate.
If she lifted her face, everything was over.
Amani tried again.
“She is new.”
Madame Grace remained quiet.
“New?”
“Yes, madam.”
“From which household?”
Amani froze.
Wanjiku realized the escape plan had one enormous weakness.
There were dozens of servants at the estate.
But Madame Grace knew all of them.
She knew their families.
Their schedules.
Their voices.
Their faces.
The old housekeeper stepped closer.
Wanjiku saw the edge of her shoes.
“Amani.”
“Yes, madam?”
“Look at me.”
Amani slowly lifted her head.
“You know what I told you yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, madam.”
“What did I tell you?”
Amani’s voice trembled.
“To focus on my duties.”
“And?”
A pause.
“To stay away from…”
Amani stopped.
Madame Grace finished for her.
“The new bride.”
Wanjiku’s stomach dropped.
The guard straightened.
Madame Grace continued.
“And yet here you are, before sunrise, taking a servant I have never seen toward the gate.”
Wanjiku heard Amani take a shallow breath.
Nobody moved.
Then Madame Grace said something much softer.
“Lift your head.”
Wanjiku remained still.
The basket shook slightly in her hands.
“I said lift your head.”
Amani whispered, “My lady…”
That was enough.
The guard stepped forward.
Wanjiku looked up.
Madame Grace stared directly into her eyes.
Recognition appeared instantly.
But what surprised Wanjiku was not anger.
It was sorrow.
Deep.
Ancient.
Almost unbearable.
For one second, the terrifying housekeeper did not look like an enemy.
She looked like someone watching history repeat itself.
Wanjiku took a step backward.
Amani moved beside her.
The guard reached toward the gate.
Madame Grace raised one hand.
“Do not close it.”
The guard froze.
Amani stared at her.
Wanjiku did too.
Madame Grace looked toward the mansion.
Then toward the dark road beyond the gate.
Her face changed again.
The controlled mask returned.
“You have exactly three minutes.”
Wanjiku could not speak.
Amani’s mouth opened.
“Madam?”
“You heard me.”
Madame Grace’s eyes hardened.
“Run.”
Neither woman moved.
“Now.”
Amani grabbed Wanjiku’s hand.
They crossed the gate.
Wanjiku nearly stumbled.
Behind them, Madame Grace called after Amani.
“Take the lower path.”
Amani turned.
“Why?”
“Because they will expect the road.”
Wanjiku stared back at the old housekeeper.
“Why are you helping us?”
Madame Grace’s face tightened.
“I am not helping you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
The first line of sunlight had begun touching the horizon.
Madame Grace looked toward the mansion.
“Trying not to watch another girl die.”
Amani pulled Wanjiku.
“Come!”
They ran.
The gate disappeared behind them.
Wanjiku could barely believe what was happening.
They cut down the lower path through tall grass.
Branches struck Wanjiku’s arms.
The loose servant uniform tangled around her legs.
Amani did not slow.
“Take it off!”
Wanjiku dropped the basket.
She pulled off the green dress while running.
The apron fell behind her.
She tore away the headscarf.
Underneath, her cream blouse and trousers appeared.
“Faster!”
“I’m trying!”
The sky was brightening quickly.
Somewhere behind them, a bell rang at the estate.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
Amani’s face changed.
“They know.”
“How?”
“The morning alarm.”
“What does it mean?”
“The bride is missing.”
Wanjiku nearly stopped.
“They have an alarm for that?”
“Run!”
They reached a narrow path between fields.
Wanjiku’s lungs burned.
She had not run like this in years.
Behind them came distant shouting.
Men.
Perhaps guards.
Perhaps Baraka.
The thought of her husband seeing an empty bedroom made something inside her ache.
For all her fear, part of her still wanted him to be innocent.
Part of her wanted him to appear on the road calling her name, not because he wanted to stop her, but because he had discovered the secret too and was trying to save her.
But Amani had given her one rule.
Trust no one.
So Wanjiku ran.
They crossed a shallow stream.
Mud soaked Wanjiku’s shoes.
Amani led her toward a line of thick trees.
“How far?”
“Keep moving.”
“How far, Amani?”
“Not far.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“I lied.”
Wanjiku almost laughed despite the terror.
Amani pulled her through the trees.
The path narrowed.
Birds exploded from branches as they passed.
The estate bell continued ringing faintly behind them.
Then came something worse.
An engine.
A vehicle.
Amani heard it too.
She turned.
“They’re using the road.”
“Madame Grace said they would.”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re ahead.”
“If they stay on the road.”
Wanjiku understood.
“If they don’t?”
Amani did not answer.
They ran harder.
The rising sun began turning the sky orange.
Wanjiku looked toward it.
How many sunrises had passed since her wedding?
How close was she to the seventh?
She pushed the thought away.
Ahead, the trees thinned.
A small cluster of houses appeared in the distance.
Amani pointed.
“There.”
“Mama Yamburura?”
“Beyond those houses.”
They reached a dirt path.
A woman carrying water stared at them.
Amani did not stop.
Wanjiku followed.
People began noticing.
A bride from the Mwangi estate running through the lower village in dirty trousers was not easy to ignore.
An old man sitting beside a doorway stood.
A child pointed.
Whispers began.
“Is that…?”
“Wanjiku?”
“The Mwangi bride?”
Amani grabbed her hand.
“Don’t stop.”
“Won’t they tell the family?”
“They won’t need to. Everyone will know soon.”
They passed the last house.
Beyond it stood a smaller hut near a grove of trees.
Smoke rose from behind it.
Amani slowed for the first time.
“There.”
Wanjiku’s knees nearly gave way.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
They approached.
Before Amani could knock, the door opened.
An elderly woman stood inside.
She had wrapped herself in a dark shawl.
Her eyes moved first to Amani.
Then to Wanjiku.
Everything in her face changed.
“No.”
Wanjiku stopped.
The old woman stepped backward.
“No. No, no, no.”
Amani moved closer.
“Mama Yamburura.”
“You should not have brought her.”
“We had no choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Not this time.”
Mama Yamburura stared at Wanjiku.
“How many days?”
Wanjiku swallowed.
“Since the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“I…”
She counted.
The old woman’s expression grew more frightened with every second.
“Tell me.”
“Almost seven.”
Mama Yamburura closed her eyes.
Then she grabbed Wanjiku’s arm and pulled her inside.
“Amani, close the door.”
The servant obeyed.
The hut was small.
Herbs hung from wooden beams.
A kettle rested over a low fire.
Wanjiku could barely breathe.
“Tell me the truth.”
Mama Yamburura looked at Amani.
“You told her?”
“Only that brides die.”
The old woman shook her head.
“That is not enough.”
Wanjiku stepped forward.
“Then tell me everything.”
Mama Yamburura stared toward the covered window.
“You should never have married into that house.”
“I didn’t know.”
“No one does.”
“Why do the brides die?”
The old woman’s face hardened.
“That is the wrong question.”
Wanjiku stared.
“What is the right one?”
Mama Yamburura looked directly at her.
“Why does the Mwangi family need a bride every time?”
The room became silent.
Wanjiku felt something colder than fear.
Amani stepped closer.
“Mama…”
The old woman held up one hand.
Then outside, somewhere beyond the hut, a vehicle stopped.
All three women froze.
A car door slammed.
Then another.
Voices.
Men.
Amani whispered, “They found us.”
Wanjiku’s heart slammed against her ribs.
Mama Yamburura crossed the room quickly.
She lifted a woven mat.
Beneath it was a small wooden door built into the floor.
“Down.”
Wanjiku stared.
“What?”
“Now!”
Amani opened it.
Darkness waited below.
Wanjiku could hear footsteps approaching the hut.
Fast.
Heavy.
Then—
A knock.
Not violent.
Three calm taps.
Mama Yamburura looked toward the door.
Nobody breathed.
Another knock.
Then a familiar voice.
“Wanjiku.”
Her entire body went cold.
Baraka.
He had come himself.
His voice remained gentle.
Exactly the way it sounded when he held her hand in the garden.
“Wanjiku, I know you’re inside.”
Amani whispered, “Go.”
Wanjiku stared at the trapdoor.
Baraka knocked again.
“My love.”
The tenderness in those two words almost broke her.
“Come outside.”
Mama Yamburura grabbed Wanjiku’s shoulders.
“Listen to me.”
Wanjiku looked at her.
“If he takes you back before you know the truth, you will never leave that house again.”
Outside, Baraka spoke once more.
“I’m not angry.”
Wanjiku’s eyes filled.
Was he telling the truth?
“I just want to take you home.”
Home.
Less than a week earlier, she would have followed that voice anywhere.
Now she looked at Amani.
At Mama Yamburura.
At the darkness beneath the floor.
Then Baraka said something that made all three women go still.
“The seventh sunrise is almost here.”
Wanjiku stopped breathing.
Amani’s face drained of color.
Mama Yamburura closed her eyes.
There was no longer any question.
Baraka knew.
Wanjiku looked toward the door.
Her husband had known all along.
And for the first time since the warning began, she understood that escaping the mansion was only the beginning.
Because whatever was waiting for her on the seventh day had followed her out.
And this time, it was standing on the other side of the door.
