CHAPTER 7 — The House of Everard
The journey took half a day through fields washed in the gold of early autumn. Selene sat beside her mother in the carriage, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. The steady clatter of hooves on the road became a rhythm that lulled thought into numbness.
Across from her, the Duchess spoke of arrangements — floral schemes, the fabric of the gown, the date most "socially agreeable" for the announcement. Her voice was smooth and practical, like one reciting an inventory.
Selene answered when required, but her gaze wandered to the world outside — the amber trees, the drifting leaves, the freedom of open air. Every passing mile felt like another door closing.
When at last the carriage turned into the long drive of Everard Hall, she caught her breath despite herself. The estate was vast but joyless, its stone walls bleached by weather, its windows tall and cold. Ivy crawled across the façade like veins on an aging hand. Even the sky above seemed to dim.
At the top of the marble steps stood Lord Everard — tall, severe, and utterly without warmth. His bow was exact, his smile thin.
"Lady Selene," he said. "Your presence honours my home."
Selene curtsied with grace practiced since childhood. "The honour is mine, my lord."
Behind her, the Duchess's approving nod was almost imperceptible, but Selene felt its weight all the same.
---
The hall was quiet, almost reverent. Oil paintings of ancestors lined the walls — men in black coats and powdered wigs, their expressions caught between pride and contempt. The air smelled faintly of wax and disuse.
Dinner was served in a room so large their words vanished before reaching the walls. The table gleamed under candlelight, yet the food tasted of ash. Lord Everard spoke only of estates, trade, and the coming winter.
"I have always believed," he said, "that a house prospers best when every member knows their duty. You strike me as a lady of excellent discipline, Lady Selene."
Selene managed a polite smile. "I have been taught that obedience sustains harmony, my lord."
"Then we shall suit each other well," he replied, satisfied.
Her mother smiled, the expression soft but triumphant. The deal, it seemed, was already sealed in the air between them.
---
When dinner ended, Selene asked to walk in the gardens. Her mother agreed — "Fresh air will brighten your colour."
Outside, the moon hung low, pale and watchful. The gardens were orderly to the point of sterility — every hedge trimmed, every rosebush confined to symmetry. At the center stood a dry fountain, its marble angels eroded by years of quiet neglect.
Hakeem, who had accompanied them for form's sake, followed her at a distance. When she paused by the fountain, he approached, his voice a low murmur.
"Selene."
She turned, her silk skirts whispering against the gravel. "You shouldn't be seen here."
"I don't care," he said. "I had to see you. You look—" he stopped, searching for the word, "—trapped."
She gave a short laugh, soft but bitter. "Then you see clearly."
"This isn't right," he pressed. "He's twice your age and colder than the stone he lives in."
"Perhaps that is what suits me best," she said, looking at the empty fountain. "Coldness does not wound as deeply as hope."
"Selene—"
"Don't," she interrupted gently. "If you speak kindness, I might remember what it feels like to want something."
He clenched his fists at his sides. "Then let me fight for you."
She met his gaze, her eyes bright in the moonlight. "And lose everything our family has built? We are both bound, Hakeem. Yours is the chain of inheritance. Mine, the chain of duty. Only the weight differs."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind shifted, scattering dry leaves across the stones. Somewhere within the house, a clock began to strike, marking the hour like a warning.
At last, she whispered, "Please, brother. Let me have my quiet dignity while I can."
He nodded, though his heart rebelled against it.
---
Inside, the Duchess watched from the drawing-room window, her reflection pale in the glass. She saw the closeness of their silhouettes — not scandalous, but dangerous enough.
Lord Everard approached, carrying a glass of port. "Your children share a fine bond," he said politely.
The Duchess's smile was faint, unreadable. "As they should. Family loyalty is the foundation of our name."
Yet beneath her calm, a calculation was forming — a sense that her son's compassion might one day threaten everything she had built.
---
The ride home was long and silent. The carriage wheels hummed against the gravel drive, the night pressing close. Selene sat with her head bowed, the small bouquet Lord Everard had given her resting in her lap. White roses — perfect, scentless, lifeless.
One petal fell, landing on her glove. She touched it absently, feeling how easily it bruised.
"Even perfection wilts," she whispered.
The Duchess turned. "Did you say something, my dear?"
Selene looked up and smiled — the same delicate, empty smile she had worn all evening. "Nothing, Mother. I was only admiring how long these flowers will last."
Outside, the moonlight followed them like a witness, pale and pitiless, over fields where no one would ever hear a noblewoman weep.