The days that followed were thin with silence. Even the wind seemed to move carefully through Mickelson Manor, wary of breaking the hush that had settled over its walls.
Hyacinth's departure had been fixed for the end of the week. Trunks were being aired, letters exchanged; the servants whispered in corners, knowing better than to speak aloud what they feared.
Hakeem listened to it all from the shadows. Every sound of packing felt like a nail being driven into his chest. The Duke's order for his own journey to Holloway had arrived as well — an elegant dismissal written in a steady hand.
That night he went to the stables, lantern in hand, and studied the map spread across a feed box. He traced a finger along the roads leading south, toward the smaller villages beyond Holloway. A coach could be hired there without drawing attention. From there, the sea was only two days away.
It was madness — treason against blood and title — but for the first time, madness felt like mercy.
---
Upstairs, Selene sat by her mirror as her maid arranged her hair. The reflection that stared back was ghost-pale, her eyes ringed with sleeplessness. Letters from Lord Everard lay stacked on the table, unopened.
When the maid finished, Selene dismissed her gently and sat in the quiet. In the silver of the looking-glass, she barely recognized herself.
Her mother entered without knocking.
"My dear, Lord Everard writes that his family will host a dinner in your honour next week. You must look rested. Appearances are everything."
Selene nodded. "Of course, Mother."
The Duchess touched her shoulder — a gesture that looked tender but felt like possession. "You will make us proud."
When she left, Selene released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her journal.
> Some days I wake and feel the world watching me, waiting to see if I will smile on command.
I do, and they are satisfied. But inside, the silence grows louder.
She closed the book and pressed it to her chest, as though she could hold herself together through sheer will.
---
Two nights before Hyacinth's departure, Hakeem slipped into the servants' quarters under cover of darkness. The narrow corridor smelled of soap and damp wood.
Hyacinth's door was slightly ajar; candlelight spilled onto the floor. She sat on the edge of her small bed, folding linens into a worn bag.
When she saw him, she rose at once. "My lord —"
"Hush." He closed the door behind him. "I have a plan."
"A plan?"
"You're not going to Holloway. At dawn on the day they mean to send you, I'll be waiting by the east gate. There's a carriage. Money enough to take us beyond the county line. After that—"
"After that?" she whispered.
"Whatever freedom we can find."
She stared at him, her face a war between hope and fear. "You can't do this. If they find out—"
"They will," he said. "But by then, it will be too late to stop us."
Tears welled in her eyes. "You would give up your home, your name—everything—for me?"
"For the chance to live honestly," he said. "To breathe without permission."
For a moment she believed him — believed in the impossible warmth of the words. Then, softly, she shook her head.
"You don't understand," she said. "They will forgive you, because you are their son. But they will never forgive me."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then let me bear the sin."
Her breath hitched, but before she could answer, footsteps echoed in the corridor. He caught her hand, squeezed it once — a silent vow — and slipped away into the dark.
---
In her chamber above, Selene lay awake, listening to the faint murmur of the storm that had begun again outside. The wind rattled the shutters, and somewhere down the hall she thought she heard voices — low, urgent, almost pleading.
She closed her eyes, letting the sound blend with the rhythm of rain. Every voice in this house seemed to carry the same ache: love forbidden, dreams denied, hope smothered beneath duty.
> Perhaps, she thought, we are all prisoners here, each with our own kind of chain.
---
Morning crept pale through the mist. The Duchess reviewed travel papers with the steward, her tone brisk.
"Ensure the carriage for Lady Selene's wedding dress arrives by tomorrow," she said. "And send word to the stable that Lord Hakeem's horse is to be ready for his journey to Holloway by first light."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Has the maid packed?"
"She has, my lady. Everything is in order."
The Duchess smiled thinly. "Good. Let the house be at peace once more."
---
That evening, as lamps flickered to life across the manor, Hakeem stood again in the stables, tightening the saddle straps of a black mare. His heart pounded with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.
Above him, the clouds gathered, dark and heavy. Somewhere in the east wing, Selene's piano began to play — a soft, halting melody that drifted through the night like a farewell.
He closed his eyes, listening.
> "Hold on, sister," he murmured. "Just a little longer."
When he looked up again, lightning flashed across the horizon, illuminating the path beyond the gate — the road that would decide everything.