The Silk House Novels & Stories

Mathapelo whispered prayers, barely able to move. Gail documented everything, desperate to maintain balance. Abby contemplated Sandra’s defiance, torn between anger and pride. Mom hummed softly, weighed down by depression. Though the house appeared calm, secrets, rebellion, danger, and manipulation were ready to collide. The early morning sunlight barely pushed through gray clouds, casting a muted light over the Mokoena household. The house felt heavier than usual, burdened by secrets, tension, and the weight of yesterday’s events. In every room, small signs of unrest were visible—Sandra’s scattered papers, Tshepo’s bruises, Mathapelo’s pillows shifted for comfort, and Abby’s whiskey glass l

It was a structured, floor-length gown cut from an impossibly heavy, liquid charcoal silk that looked like molten metal in the dim light. The neckline was plunged to the navel, designed to expose the bare, elegant curves of my torso, while the high collar was lined with silver-threaded embroidery that would frame the left side of my neck like a frame—leaving the raw, bruised violet punctures of Rowan’s mating mark entirely open to the view of the high houses. There was no designer label on the silk. No fashion house crest from the Capital. Attached to the silver strap was a small, heavy piece of parchment carrying a single line of thick, elegant handwriting I had learned to recognize by the

“Two more weeks. Maybe three.” He nodded slowly. “Three weeks is fine.” She let out a careful breath. “Thank you.” “You already thanked me,” he said. “Stop thanking me.” She looked at him. He was looking at the meadow, but his ears were red. She looked away and smiled at her boots. Chapter 7: The Honey House The honey house sat between the farmhouse and the hive yard, small and wooden, smelling of wax and sweetness and something older underneath. Silas used it for extraction, for storage, for the quiet work of processing frames. He’d never offered to show it to her. She’d never asked.

Something that shouldn't be disturbed in the house of silence, not far from the killing square. Hope sprang in this house, and her tidy walls did rattle with joy. It was the most the house could do, for if she was capable of more, her silver and goldwares, plates, and cups would have left their racks and cupboards to make high-pitched sounds. Beds, sofas, stools, chairs, and tables would have joined in, causing a ruckus to attract attention. But this was a house that was not to be noticed. A house cursed to create nothing but whispers. A house that wasn't a house.

As its echoes faded, I approached the front porch, the weight of anticipation heavy in my chest, preparing to confront the memories that awaited me beyond the threshold. I nudged the foot mat aside, revealing the concealed house keys beneath. With a twist of the lock, the door swung open, granting me entry. Stepping over the threshold, the musty scent of neglect greeted me, permeating the air as I flicked on the lights. The sight that greeted me was disheartening—dust and disarray shrouded the once-familiar space, a proof to its abandonment over time.

She was still waving as we drove off. Silence filled the car. Tyrell began sniffing the air. I remembered that I had used his soap and shampoo this morning. I wanted to bury myself in embarrassment, feeling the heat rise up my neck. When he didn’t say anything, I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. There was a soft smile on his lips, barely noticeable or maybe I was just imagining it. A moment later, it was gone. I directed my attention back to the road. A few minutes later, we pulled up to a really large house. The pack house, I thought.

Too startled to be stilled, Julia crawled around the front of the bus to the opposite side, facing the driveway and not the house. Sarah and Diana crossed the aisle, tracking her movements. Michael focused on the windows of the building across the yard. Watching it had the effect of an optical illusion, or one of the Magic Eye illustrations he enjoyed so much when he was younger. The longer he looked at the house without blinking, the more it seemed to be breathing, that it was alive and hungry. *** Though still a distance, the driveway beckoned. I could just run for it. She remembered the snake and glared under the bus. It slithered through the wreckage, leaving winding curves in the dirt.