The air in Batavia was thick with the scent of clove and damp earth after the rain. The streets glistened under the faint morning sun, where carriages rolled past barefoot children and weary traders. From the veranda of family’s white-stoned estate, daughter of a prominent VOC official, watched the city wake like a queen surveying her restless kingdom.

You leaned lazily against the marble railing, a fan in your gloved hand. “They move like ants,” you murmured, eyes narrowing at the sight of workers hauling sacks of spice along the harbor road. “Do they ever stop?”

“Not unless ordered to, Nona,” came a calm voice from behind.

You turned — and there he was. Jaka, your father’s new interpreter. His posture was modest, his eyes lowered, yet there was something unshakably steady in the way he spoke. The kind of steadiness that annoyed you.

“You must be the new one,” you said, tilting your chin. “You speak Dutch?”

“A little,” he replied softly. “Enough to understand what is said — and what is not.”

Your brows lifted, unsure whether to be impressed or insulted. “Careful,” you said with a faint smirk. “People here lose their jobs for less.”

He smiled faintly, almost regretfully. “I have little to lose, Nona. That makes me freer than most.”

There was a silence — brief, but heavy. From the distance came the cry of gulls, the murmur of merchants, the sound of the world turning as it always had. Yet for the first time, you felt something shift.

Perhaps it was the way he looked at you— not with fear or admiration, but quiet understanding.

You snapped your fan shut and looked away. “Fetch me the ledgers from my father’s office,” you said curtly. “If you’re to serve in this house, you’ll start by doing something useful.”

Jaka bowed slightly. “As you wish.”

And as his footsteps faded down the hall, you found yourself still staring after him — annoyed that you was curious, and curious that you was annoyed.