The rain did not stop for three days. It came in thin, relentless sheets, blurring the gardens and turning the gravel paths into rivers of silver. The manor seemed to hold its breath beneath the weight of it.
Hakeem had spent the nights wandering the corridors, restless and sleepless. Since his return from Everard Hall, peace had been a stranger to him. Every shadow in the house whispered of something concealed, every glance from a servant carried unease.
On the fourth morning, the truth found him.
He was in the stables, saddling his horse for an early ride, when he overheard two maids speaking in hushed voices.
"They say she's leaving," one whispered. "Sent to the Marchioness's household. Her Grace arranged it herself."
Hakeem froze.
"Who?"
The maids startled. One curtsied hastily. "My lord— we meant no harm. It's— it's Hyacinth."
His world tilted. "When?"
"In a fortnight, my lord. She's to go quietly."
Without another word, he left the stables, rain soaking his coat as he strode back toward the manor.
---
The Duchess was in the drawing room, arranging correspondence in neat piles. She did not look up when he entered, dripping water onto the rug.
"Mother," he said, his voice rough. "Is it true you're sending Hyacinth away?"
She continued sealing a letter. "If you mean the maid, yes. The Marchioness of Holloway requested good service. It is a fine opportunity."
"You mean banishment," he snapped.
She set down her quill, her expression calm but cutting. "Do not dramatize, Hakeem. She is a servant, not a prisoner."
"She is mine," he said before he could stop himself.
The Duchess's eyes lifted slowly to his. In them burned the cool fire of command.
"Do not say that again."
For a moment, neither moved. The sound of rain filled the room — a thousand tiny heartbeats between mother and son.
"You think I don't see what's happening?" she said softly. "The glances. The excuses. The foolishness. You risk the ruin of our name for a passing fancy."
"It's not a fancy." His voice broke. "She's the only person who makes me feel human."
"Then perhaps you were raised too gently." The Duchess stood, her posture flawless. "You are the heir to Mickelson Manor, not a lovestruck farmer. I will not see this family disgraced by sentiment."
He stared at her, trembling with fury. "You speak of honour, but all I see is fear — fear of scandal, fear of losing control. Do you even remember what love feels like?"
Her lips tightened. "Love is a luxury the powerful cannot afford."
"And yet you would call yourself powerful?" he spat. "A woman who rules her children through guilt and silence?"
For a heartbeat, something flickered in her gaze — not pain, but memory. Then it was gone.
"This conversation is over," she said coldly. "The girl leaves in two weeks. That is final."
Hakeem's hands curled into fists. "If she leaves, I leave."
The Duchess smiled faintly, the expression more weary than cruel. "You will do no such thing. You are a Mickelson. And Mickelsons do not run from duty — not even for love."
She turned away, leaving him standing there, the echo of her words heavy as thunder.
---
That night, Hakeem rode into the storm. The fields stretched wide and endless, the rain lashing at his face. He rode until the lights of the manor were only faint sparks behind him, until he could breathe without the weight of marble walls pressing in.
At last, he stopped by the river — the same place where, as a boy, he and Selene had played before the world taught them to wear masks. The river was swollen now, fierce and wild.
He dismounted, falling to his knees in the mud, and let the rain hide his tears.
> "What am I to do, Father?" he whispered into the wind.
"You built this house on pride, and now it is choking us all."
The thunder rolled in answer.
---
At the manor, Selene watched from her window, her candle flickering in the draft. She saw her brother's figure vanish into the storm and felt a pang of both envy and sorrow.
He still had the will to fight. She had already surrendered hers.
On her desk lay Lord Everard's latest letter, unopened. The wax seal stared back at her like an accusation.
She took up her pen and began to write instead — not to him, but to someone who would never receive it.
> To the one I once knew in laughter,
If I could choose again, I would choose freedom over diamonds, truth over silence, love over duty.
But choices, like cages, are easier to see from the inside once the door is shut.
When she finished, she folded the letter and tucked it into her journal. Her hands shook as she blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.
---
In the courtyard below, Hakeem returned hours later, soaked and exhausted. He looked up at the manor — his home, his prison — and saw one window still faintly glowing with light.
Selene's.
For a moment, the two siblings shared the same thought, though neither knew it:
> How much longer before something within us breaks?
The rain answered for them, whispering against the glass — the sound of a house beginning to drown in its own silence.