CHAPTER 3 — The Autumn Ball
The chandeliers of Mickelson Manor blazed like captive suns. Every crystal sparkled; every polished surface mirrored the gold of candlelight. Beyond the arched windows, the moors slept beneath a silver mist, but within, the house awakened in splendour. The Autumn Ball had begun.
Music floated through the air—violins and cellos weaving a waltz that trembled between joy and expectation. Carriages arrived in procession, wheels whispering over gravel. The great doors opened to admit a tide of silks, jewels, and laughter. The Duke and Duchess stood at the head of the staircase, flawless as sculpture, greeting each guest with measured warmth.
Hakeem descended beside them, his expression that of the perfect heir—smiling, courteous, his hand steady upon the banister. Only his eyes betrayed unease, glancing now and then toward the servants who hovered along the walls like shadows. Among them was Hyacinth, her plain gown a soft gray against the brilliance, her hair neatly pinned beneath her cap. She carried a tray of champagne flutes, her head bowed, though she could feel his gaze brush over her like a secret.
"Lord and Lady Verrington," the butler announced.
At once the Duchess straightened. Behind the guests came a figure of quiet dignity—Lord Everard Verrington, tall, silver-haired, severe. And beside him, his niece, a delicate woman whose laughter could charm an army of mothers. They bowed low to the Duke, their arrival causing murmurs of admiration.
Selene Mickelson, radiant in ivory silk, stepped forward. Her smile was practiced, her composure immaculate. Only Hakeem, who knew her best, noticed the faint tremor at the edge of her lips.
"Lord Everard," the Duke said proudly, "may I present my eldest daughter. You have, I believe, met at last year's council."
"We have," Lord Everard replied. His voice was smooth, deliberate. "Miss Mickelson was a vision even then. I see the years have only refined her."
Selene lowered her eyes. "You are kind, my lord."
The Duchess's fan flicked open, concealing her satisfaction. "Perhaps," she said, "you will honour us with the first dance?"
Lord Everard bowed. "With pleasure."
As the orchestra began, Hakeem turned away, his jaw tightening. He saw Selene take her place on the polished floor, her gloved hand resting in her partner's. Around them, the guests watched with envy. Yet, for all the light and laughter, Hakeem saw only the emptiness in his sister's gaze.
---
The waltz swelled. Servants hurried to refill glasses, to adjust candelabra, to remain unseen. Hyacinth moved carefully among them, though her attention strayed often to the dancing figures. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would feel like—to be seen, to be chosen, to belong beneath such light.
When the music ended, applause filled the hall. Selene curtseyed gracefully, but her colour had faded. "If you will excuse me," she murmured, and slipped away toward the gallery. No one stopped her.
From the terrace doors, Hakeem followed with his eyes, but another sight caught him instead—Hyacinth, stepping briefly into the garden to gather breath. The night air clung with the scent of rain and roses. He hesitated, then crossed the ballroom and slipped quietly after her.
---
Outside, the moon hung low over the moor. The lamps cast soft pools of gold along the stone balustrade. Hyacinth turned as he approached, surprise widening her eyes.
"My lord—you should be within."
"And miss the only moment of peace this house allows?" He smiled faintly. "Surely that would be a tragedy."
She looked down, hands clasped. "It is not fitting for you to linger here."
"Nor is it fitting for a Mickelson to question his own heart," he said. "Yet here we are."
For a moment, neither spoke. The music inside drifted faintly through the open doors. Hakeem rested a hand upon the balustrade beside hers, leaving a whisper of space between them.
"Tell me, Hyacinth," he said quietly, "if you could go anywhere—anywhere at all—where would it be?"
She hesitated. "Somewhere no one knows my name," she said at last. "Where mistakes are not remembered."
He looked at her then, truly looked—the honesty in her eyes, the quiet strength in her voice. "Then perhaps," he murmured, "you are freer than any of us already."
A sudden movement in the shadows caught his attention. The Duchess stood at an upper balcony, her gaze fixed upon them. Though she said nothing, Hakeem felt the chill of her disapproval even from afar.
He stepped back at once, bowing slightly. "Forgive me. The night makes philosophers of fools."
Hyacinth curtsied. "Good evening, my lord."
When she turned to go, he reached out, almost touched her hand—but stopped, his fingers trembling in mid-air. She disappeared into the doorway, leaving the faint echo of her footsteps and the scent of roses behind.
---
High above, Selene leaned against a marble column, her fan forgotten, her breath shallow. The ballroom noise below seemed distant, unreal. She pressed her hand to her chest as if to hold herself together. In the reflection of a tall window she saw her own face—serene, lovely, utterly unfamiliar.
Damien's voice broke the silence. "Sister, hiding already?"
She smiled faintly. "A lady must rest between performances."
"Performances indeed," he said, folding his arms. "Father seems delighted. Lord Everard is a jewel of a prospect—if you admire stones without life."
"Hush," she whispered. "You will be heard."
"Then tell me you love him, and I'll hold my tongue."
Her eyes flicked away. "Love is a luxury we were not raised to afford."
For once, Damien had no answer. He touched her arm briefly—an unspoken apology—then left her to the shadows.
---
By the time the final guests departed, the manor had fallen back into silence. The Duke retired in triumph, the Duchess in satisfaction. Hakeem lingered at the top of the stairs, staring down at the darkened ballroom—the flowers wilting slightly under the heat of the candles, the air heavy with perfume and exhaustion.
From the far corner, Hyacinth and the other servants cleared the remnants of the feast. Their laughter was soft, subdued. She did not see him watching, but he saw the quiet grace with which she moved, the light in her eyes that no ballroom could dim.
Selene passed him on her way to her chamber. "You should rest," she said, her voice thin. "Tomorrow Father will speak of alliances again."
"I know," he murmured. "And you?"
She paused. "I will do what is required." Her smile was faint, brittle. "That is what we were born for, is it not?"
He wanted to answer, but she was already gone.
---
The candles guttered one by one. In the silence that followed, Mickelson Manor seemed to exhale—its splendour spent, its secrets deepening. Outside, the moor stretched into darkness; within, love and despair had begun their quiet dance.