"𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘵?"
⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂જ⁀➴
Born into servitude, Zayd finds his place as the stablehand for the illustrious Fitzwilliam family. It is there that he forges a...
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A week later, chaos enveloped Fitzwilliam Manor. Armed with dusters and brooms, the maids meticulously polished every surface and diligently swept away any hint of dust lurking in the shadows. Gamekeepers returned from their expeditions, bearing a bountiful harvest of meats procured from the surrounding woodland. Over their shoulders hung an array of offerings fit for a royal banquet—rabbit, squirrel, duck, and deer—all destined for the bustling kitchen where the cooks laboured over roaring fires. The aroma of spices, herbs, and freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of flowers brought in by the gardeners to adorn the halls and chambers.
Outside, the Baron's infectious laughter rang out like music, traversing the sun-drenched grounds with a spring in his step. Draped in his most colourful attire and with a playful twinkle in his eye, he encouraged the stable hands to lavish extra care on the horses and the gardeners to pour their hearts into perfecting every petal on each bloom. For the Baron, this was not just a duty or tradition; it was a moment of celebration, and he embraced it with all the exuberance befitting the occasion.
The Baroness oversaw the preparations with a keen eye, ensuring that every detail met her exacting standards. Her two handmaids, Eleanor and Charlotte, fluttered about like butterflies assisting wherever they could. Nervousness hung thick in the air as everyone anxiously awaited the arrival of the esteemed Duke Harrington.
Amidst the frenzy, the Baroness had carved out time within her busy morning to visit the dungeon beneath the manor, a ritual that seemed to afford her a peculiar satisfaction. Descending the narrow, spiralling staircase, her steps echoed ominously against the cold, stone walls. The flickering of torches cast eerie shadows within the damp and foreboding atmosphere.
As she reached the bottom, the Baroness briskly dusted off her sleeves. She lifted the hem of her skirt off the grimy floor, as her eyes swept over the cells with a calculating gaze, taking in every detail. The two guards stationed at the entrance snapped to attention, bowing their heads in deference.
"All is in order, I trust?" she inquired, her voice devoid of warmth.
"Yes, my Lady," one guard replied. "No disturbances."
She approached the nearest cell, where a dishevelled prisoner sat slumped against the wall. He was a recent addition, sent only days ago. Despite the Baron's insistence that banishment sufficed, the Baroness disagreed, adamant in the decision to detain him for a month's time before doing so. He had worked as a cook within the manor, though the Baroness could not even recall his name—was it Thomas? Edward? Beside him lay a heap of food, now decaying and putrid.
The Baroness wrinkled her nose at the stench. It had been on her command to deposit the stolen provisions in his cell to serve as a cruel and taunting reminder of his wrongdoing. She traced the path of the noxious liquid seeping from the rotting food. It crept towards the prisoner in the cramped space, forcing him to sit amidst its rancidness. The Baroness speculated whether he would survive the month, considering him fortunate if the mice were to reach him before then.
