Wanderer 2.0, Book 1 Of The Wanderer Series

11• It's Been A Long, Long Time

All information on her back in Marrakesh has been basic at best. Saffa and her lived in a brothel, both too poor to matter. Not a piece of property to their name, not even a rental trail. Saffa never went to school and Callaia isn't much better in the education department.

Her teachers say she's a quiet girl, keeps to herself mostly. She refuses to participate in group activities and projects, refuses to speak in front of her classroom, and won't ask questions if she doesn't understand something. She seems to be doing fairly well with paper assignments, but outside of that her grades are suffering. She did offer to help her teacher clean up after class which is something. Even if her idea of 'offering' had been to just start doing it without being asked.

Ivan worries about her education. In this modern world, education is vital. The only thing Callaia seems mildly interested in is his office. She likes to stare at him while he works and touch all of his trinkets. It's why he spends so much time in here these days, always inviting her to tag along.

It's the only time he gets a twinkle of wonder in those pretty eyes. There does seem to be a spark of murderous intent when Ester puts her in those floofy dresses. That's something too he supposes.

Ivan peers over at the child, trying to be nonchalant in his approach. She's sitting in her favorite chair - the one with the back facing the distant corner. It has to be the most uncomfortable chair in the room. He would know, he's attempted napping on every single one.

Callaia's hair is down and wild, a favorite look of his on her. The tight updos of southern ladies just doesn't seem to fit her like it does the other little girls. Ester had put her hair up in a top bun so tight, poor Callaia's eyebrows were stuck high on her forehead. The ringlets formed around her ears had looked as if they'd snap off given the slightest resistance with the amount of hairspray holding it there. As soon as the daily pleasantries were said and done, Callaia ripped that mess from her head and the wild white fell around her like a sheet of Arctic fur.

It looks marvelous on her. That wolf like glint in her blue eyes, combined with her wild straight locks and her bronzed skin - its breathtaking. She looks every bit the part of a feral child from some distant untouched wilderness in a faraway land. Ivan half expects her to start ululating any day now if Ester continues to push the child to wear those restrictive dresses currently in fashion. To be fair, Ivan feels like ululating his displeasure when he's forced to get a pedicure by his wife.

Refined society isn't designed for everyone, he thinks to himself dryly.

She sits with her dirty bare feet in the seat, arms holding them tightly to her chest, so her chin is resting on her knees. Ivan didn't have the heart to tell her that her underthings are on full display. She gets enough berating outside this room.

Her ice blue eyes follow him silently and he isn't sure if he's being studied or hunted.

It's in this moment that he decides something must change. Not to appease his critical family, not to ease his guilt of failing her for so long, but for Callaia herself. She's had a rough time of it. This shouldn't be another notch on her nightmare. This place should be a safe haven she can scuttle away to, a place she feels she can be herself. Ivan wants nothing more than to see her smile, hear her laugh, play with her after they've both had a long day of responsibility.

Cementing his goal in his heart, he looks over to an old 1930s radio that hasn't worked as long as he's been alive. He's fairly certain his grandfather originally owned it. Nothing like a little project to open hearts.