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CHAPTER 5 — The Weight of Morning
Dawn came muted and grey, a reluctant light that crept across the lawns of Mickelson Manor as though afraid to wake the house. The rain had ceased, but the world still smelled of it—wet earth, crushed petals, and the faint metallic tang of the wrought-iron gates that sealed the estate from the rest of the world.
The servants moved like ghosts through the corridors, collecting empty glasses and discarded garlands. Every trace of last night's splendour had to vanish before the Duke rose. Among them was Hyacinth, quiet as ever, her eyes lowered, her mind elsewhere.
When she passed the grand staircase, she heard voices—sharp, clipped, unmistakably the Duchess's. Instinct made her pause.
"His attention was too obvious," the Duchess was saying. "He forgets who watches him."
A deeper voice answered—Hakeem's. "I was only being civil, Mother."
"Civil?" The word dripped with cold amusement. "Do not insult my intelligence, Hakeem. I saw the way you looked at her. A servant. Have you lost all sense of what it means to be a Mickelson?"
There was silence. Hyacinth pressed herself against the wall, breath shallow.
Finally, Hakeem replied, softly but with something dangerous in his tone. "Perhaps I'm beginning to understand it too well."
A gasp escaped her before she could stop it. She fled down the servants' passage, heart pounding, the Duchess's heels striking the marble behind her like a metronome of doom.
---
At breakfast, the family gathered around the long table—silver gleaming, sunlight refracted through crystal like fractured glass. The Duke read his correspondence while the Duchess poured tea with the composure of a general. No one spoke until he folded a letter and said, "Lord Everard has accepted. The engagement will be announced before the month's end."
Selene's cup trembled. "So soon?" she asked.
"Why delay what is certain?" the Duke said. "Our alliances must hold before the winter."
Damien muttered under his breath, "Our alliances, not our hearts."
"Speak up, boy," the Duke barked.
Damien only smiled, a gesture that looked like defiance dressed in politeness. "I said, it's admirable how swiftly the family moves when duty calls."
Hakeem stared at his plate. Selene felt his gaze flick toward her, a silent apology she couldn't return.
Across the table, Vincent's lips moved in a prayer that no one heard.
---
Later, in the rose garden, Selene walked with Isolde among the dew-laden paths. Her sister plucked petals absently, her face full of questions she dared not ask.
"Will you be happy with him?" Isolde finally whispered.
"Happiness is not required of me," Selene said, managing a smile. "Only obedience."
"Then I wish you'd disobey."
Selene laughed softly, the sound catching in her throat. "If I were braver, perhaps I would."
---
In the stables, Hakeem tightened a saddle strap until the leather creaked. The air was heavy with hay and horse sweat, comforting in its earthiness. Hyacinth appeared at the door, carrying a bundle of linen. For a long moment they only looked at each other—the silence filled with everything they could not say.
"You shouldn't be here," he said at last.
"I was sent to deliver the cloth, my lord," she replied, though her voice trembled.
He took it from her hands but didn't move away. "My mother will make your life difficult."
Hyacinth looked up then, eyes clear and steady. "It already is, my lord."
He exhaled, a half-laugh that wasn't laughter at all. "I never meant to endanger you."
"Then forget what passed between us," she whispered. "Forget it for both our sakes."
He wanted to say he couldn't. Instead, he turned away, staring at the grey fields beyond the stable door.
"When I look at this place," he said quietly, "it feels as though the walls themselves are listening—waiting for someone to break them."
Hyacinth hesitated, then stepped back into the rain-damp air. "If they break, my lord," she said, "be certain it was worth the noise."
When she was gone, Hakeem pressed his hand against the wooden beam, the echo of her words settling in his chest like a vow.
---
By afternoon, the house was alive with plans—the Duchess overseeing Selene's trousseau, the Duke writing letters to distant cousins, servants polishing silver that already shone. To the world, the Mickelsons looked untouched, impeccable. But beneath the polish, the first cracks had begun to whisper.
That night, Selene lit a single candle in her room and wrote in her diary:
> They call it duty, this cage of silk and gold. I call it something quieter—slow drowning in daylight.
> But perhaps every cage begins with love once.
She closed the book, blew out the flame, and stared into the dark until the dawn threatened again.