Morning came soft and silver over Mickelson Manor, but the light did little to warm its halls. The air was heavy, as though the house itself sensed that something was quietly breaking beneath its grand façade.
The Duchess sat in her morning room, the same chamber from which she had once overseen the children's tutors and lessons. Now, she oversaw the fates of grown heirs. A letter lay open before her — its seal a deep burgundy, the mark of the Marchioness of Holloway, a woman of reputation and power.
The contents were brief: A position may soon open in my household. A young maid of good conduct would be acceptable.
The Duchess folded the letter neatly, her eyes unreadable.
Hyacinth would be gone before winter.
---
Elsewhere, in the servant's wing, Hyacinth hummed softly as she polished the silver. The melody was a simple countryside tune, bright and out of place in the marble silence. To her, the manor was a world of echoes — she could see luxury but never touch it, hear laughter but never join. And yet, she loved it still, because he lived here.
Hakeem.
He had been quiet since their last stolen meeting — words half-spoken, promises broken by fear. She did not blame him. Nobles were like stars: distant, dazzling, and doomed to fade if they fell. But sometimes, when he passed her in the corridor and their eyes met, she still felt that dangerous warmth in her chest.
That morning, he found her in the greenhouse, arranging the Duchess's roses.
"Hyacinth," he said softly.
She turned, startled. "My lord, you shouldn't—"
"I needed to see you." His voice was low, urgent. "Everard's proposal for Selene has gone through. Mother will stop at nothing to make sure I follow next."
Her fingers trembled on the shears. "Then you must obey. You are her pride."
"I don't want pride," he said bitterly. "I want peace. And you."
Her gaze dropped. "You can't have both."
The silence that followed was heavy with things neither dared to say. Outside, rain began to fall, a slow tapping against the glass panes.
At last, she whispered, "If you love me, you must not come here again. The Duchess has eyes everywhere."
He stepped forward, the distance between them narrowing until he could see the tear clinging to her lashes. "Then let her see. I will not live as a stranger in my own home."
But before she could answer, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Hyacinth's face paled.
"Go," she breathed. "Please."
Hakeem turned away, his jaw set, his heart thundering with a fury he could no longer name.
---
That afternoon, the Duchess summoned her steward.
"Send word to the Marchioness," she said coolly. "Tell her the maid I mentioned is of excellent skill and virtue. She will be ready within a fortnight."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And ensure the girl knows nothing until the evening before her departure. I wish her moved quietly."
The steward bowed and withdrew. The Duchess lifted her teacup, watching the ripples tremble across the surface. "One must prune the vine before it strangles the bloom," she murmured.
---
Meanwhile, Selene sat by her window, staring out at the mist that had rolled in from the hills. Her room was the brightest in the manor, yet it felt dimmer than the cellars below. Letters from Lord Everard lay unopened on her desk.
Her maid knocked lightly. "My lady, your mother requests your presence."
Selene didn't move. "Tell her I am unwell."
When the door closed, she drew her knees to her chest like a child and rested her head against them. There were moments she still dreamed of sunlight, of laughter echoing down the halls. But dreams faded faster now, and in their place was only the slow, steady ache of surrender.
From her window, she could see Hakeem crossing the courtyard, his coat dark against the rain. His face was a shadow, but his stride spoke of unrest. Selene's heart ached for him — for all the ways he too was caged.
She whispered his name once, softly, as though saying it might keep him safe.
---
By evening, the household seemed almost peaceful again. The Duchess dined in her private room, reviewing invitations and correspondence. Selene excused herself early.
Only Hyacinth remained awake in the servants' quarters, mending one of the younger maids' aprons. The candle beside her flickered, throwing golden light across her face. She looked up when the steward entered.
"Hyacinth," he said, his tone polite but firm. "Her Grace has found you a new position. You are to serve the Marchioness of Holloway. You leave in two weeks."
Her hands went still. "A new position?"
"It is a great honour," he added quickly. "You will be well treated."
Hyacinth forced a small smile. "Yes, sir. Of course."
But when he left, she pressed her palm against her chest as if to still her heart. Somewhere deep inside, she already knew what it meant.
---
Upstairs, Hakeem stood on his balcony, staring out at the rain. In the silence below, he thought he heard the faint sound of weeping — or perhaps it was only the wind through the corridors.
Either way, he could feel it:
The house was changing.
Something — someone — was being taken from him.