CHAPTER 1 — The Morning at Mickelsons manor
CHAPTER 1 — The Morning at Mickelson Manor
The first bell of dawn tolled through the corridors of Mickelson Manor, a deep, measured sound that carried the weight of generations. Servants stirred at once—shoes whispering across marble, doors closing softly, voices hushed to a reverent murmur. The house demanded perfection before the sun dared rise too high.
Hyacinth moved quickly but quietly, balancing a tray of polished silver. Each step was counted: ten from the scullery to the gallery, fourteen to the breakfast hall. The Duchess disliked the sound of hurried feet. A single clatter, a tremor of nerves, could mean dismissal. Hyacinth's breath misted the edge of the silver lid; she straightened, swallowed her fear, and entered the hall.
It was a room built for admiration rather than comfort. Sunlight fell in tall, obedient columns through arched windows, touching crystal goblets and the gilt frame of a portrait—Lord and Lady Mickelson in their wedding finery, unsmiling, eternal. The scent of beeswax polish and early roses hung in the air.
"Too much salt in the kippers yesterday," the Duchess murmured without turning from the window. "Do ensure the cook remembers that our guests are refined, not sailors."
"Yes, Your Grace." The butler bowed. Hyacinth lowered her eyes, setting the silver in its precise place.
The Duchess glided forward, silks whispering like restrained thunder. "A fraction to the left," she said, touching the rim of a cup. "There. You see, symmetry soothes the mind."
Hyacinth dared a glance upward. The Duchess was beautiful in a way marble statues are beautiful—flawless, cold, and unyielding. Beneath that stillness, Hyacinth sensed an impatience that could shatter glass.
The door opened. Light footsteps, measured, confident.
"My lady mother," said a calm voice, "the morning is too fine for disapproval."
Hakeem Mickelson crossed the threshold, the sunlight catching the dark velvet of his coat. His smile was gentle; his bow to his mother, perfect. Yet his eyes—gray with a hint of warmth—held something unguarded, almost human. Hyacinth felt her pulse quicken. She focused on the tray again, though the silver seemed suddenly to tremble.
"You are late," the Duchess said.
"Two minutes, perhaps." Hakeem took his seat. "The stables required attention."
"Leave horses to stable boys," she replied. "An heir's hands must not smell of hay."
He laughed softly, and the sound made Hyacinth forget the fear that lived in her shoulders. She stepped forward with the coffee pot. As she poured, his hand brushed hers—an instant, no more—and yet the air between them seemed to still. He murmured, "Thank you, Miss—"
"Hyacinth, my lord," she whispered.
Their eyes met; the world returned with the sharp clink of the Duchess's spoon. Hyacinth retreated as if burned.
---
By half past eight the family had gathered. Lord Mickelson took his place at the head, stern and precise, every movement deliberate. Around him arrayed his children like a gallery of virtues.
Selene, the eldest daughter, poured tea with unerring grace; a faint line of strain shadowed her temple.
Damien lounged carelessly, the edge of a grin daring rebuke.
Vincent read a folded letter from the church, lips moving in silent prayer.
Isolde, the youngest, gazed dreamily at the morning sky through the high windows, whispering that the clouds looked like ships.
"Sit straight, Isolde," Selene murmured. "You are not in a meadow."
"Yes, sister."
The Duke cleared his throat. Conversation died as if extinguished.
"This season," he said, "Mickelson Manor will host the Autumn Ball. Invitations shall be sent today to the leading houses. It is time," he looked directly at Hakeem, "that certain alliances are secured."
A silence spread, smooth and suffocating. Hakeem inclined his head. "As you wish, Father."
Selene's cup trembled; Damien rolled his eyes; the Duchess's smile froze into satisfaction.
"Our lineage has endured because we wed wisely," the Duke continued. "Love is the poetry of the weak. Duty makes the world turn."
Hyacinth, still standing by the sideboard, felt the words fall like stones. She dared glance at Hakeem; his gaze was fixed on the tablecloth, jaw set tight.
When the meal ended, chairs scraped in orderly sequence. The family dispersed—Selene to her charities, Damien to mischief, Vincent to the chapel, Isolde to her sketches. The Duke retreated to his study; the Duchess remained long enough to say, "Remember, Hakeem: the eyes of the realm are upon you."
"Yes, Mother."
---
Outside the breakfast hall, the hush of the manor seemed almost kind. Hyacinth gathered the empty cups, the scent of coffee lingering. As she turned toward the servants' stair, a voice stopped her.
"Miss Hyacinth."
She looked up. Hakeem stood at the corridor's end, framed by sunlight. For a moment he appeared uncertain—an heir caught between command and impulse.
"You served flawlessly," he said quietly. "My mother's standards are… formidable."
"Thank you, my lord."
He hesitated, then smiled—softly, almost apologetically. "It must be difficult, working in a house that never forgives mistakes."
"I have learned to make none," she replied, and instantly feared her boldness.
But he only nodded. "That is a rare art, Miss Hyacinth. Perhaps rarer than nobility itself."
Footsteps echoed from the hall; the Duchess's voice drifted nearer. Hakeem stepped back, masking the warmth in his eyes with practiced calm. "Good morning to you," he said, and was gone.
Hyacinth stood very still, tray in hand, while the corridor swallowed the sound of his retreat. Through an open window she saw the first sunlight touch the roses beyond the terrace. Perfect, disciplined rows of beauty—each bloom trimmed to shape, none allowed to grow wild.
She wondered what it would feel like to be one that did.