Ilyas stirred from slumber, finding himself nestled within the familiar embrace of his childhood chamber. Solitude in this room didn’t displease him; in fact, he rather relished the solitary compared to the clamor of shared quarters with his fellow young gentlemen. Yet, a yearning for a few cherished friends tugged at his heart. An unusual hush enveloped the surroundings, a silence unbroken by the customary disturbances that had disturbed his nights—no jarring thuds, no creaking floorboards, and no laughter echoing from the distant corner of the chamber.
Merely twenty-four hours had elapsed since his return home, and already, he found himself thrust into the bustle of society. In truth, Ilyas had half-expected his mother to orchestrate a grand welcome-home celebration upon his arrival. However, he welcomed the modest gathering of close family and a select few friends that awaited him as his carriage pulled up to their townhouse. As he stepped inside, his gaze fell upon his sister, a sight that nearly eluded recognition. She had grown in stature, her flowing locks now cascading nearly to her waist. She was a far cry from the twelve-year-old girl etched into his memory from before his departure. His visits home had been rare, and often brief, each instance serving as a reminder of his preference to spend as much time away as possible. She, on the other hand, had always been diligent about sending him letters, and to those, he faithfully replied. It warmed his heart to know that someone within his family eagerly awaited his return with a smile and an anxious heart. He despised her a bit in all honesty. She was of age now, why was she not joining society? Why was it him? Why were all expectations always on him?
Descending the corridor and winding staircase leading to the dining room, his keen eyes absorbed the artworks adorning their crimson walls. A hue he had grown to cherish deeply, the very shade that marked the unmistakable Keats family color, well-known amidst the ton. Amongst the artworks, a number were creations of his mother’s hand, while others had been acquired through purchase or gifted by friends she had cultivated over the years. She boasted a wide circle of acquaintances, including several renowned artists, some of whom frequented their homes during their travels or the various gatherings she was fond of hosting. Yet, it was evident she was discerning about the guest list for such affairs.
The dining room was adorned with an exquisite chandelier suspended just above the dark oak table. Seated at one end, was his father. A fountain pen poised in hand, he perused a document spread out before him, briefly acknowledging Ilyas with a subtle nod as a morning greeting before returning to his work. On the opposite side, his mother and sister engaged in animated conversation, their voices carrying the anticipation of the evening’s upcoming festivities. They deliberated over the hues that might dominate the soirée dresses worn by the ladies while gossiping discreetly about whose attire might reveal a tad too much décolletage. Ilyas couldn’t help but secretly hope that it would be everyone.
Warm smiles greeted him as he took his place at the table, with his sister extending an inviting gesture to the seat beside her. He settled into the chair, and his mother inquired about his sentiments regarding the approaching evening, as well as his choice of suit that the maid had thoughtfully arranged for his selection. Meanwhile, his sister persistently advocated for the addition of a hat to his ensemble, to which he playfully retorted that such an accessory would never grace his head, even if it meant going to the grave without it.
With his mother departing for the market and his sister eagerly accompanying her to visit the Modiste, they set off on their excursion, two maids trailing closely behind. Now, only his father remained in the room with Ilyas. “I trust you shall uphold the honor of our family this evening,” his father remarked before taking a sip of the tea before him. His gaze, though not lingering, met Ilyas’s briefly, prompting a gulp and a tentative nod in response.
The weight of family interactions proved sufficient for Ilyas, prompting his polite withdrawal from the dining room with a small portion of food in hand. Since his return, he had been yearning to visit his favorite room in the house, and now the opportunity beckoned. He chose to traverse the outdoor route rather than meander through the entire estate, finally arriving at the sanctuary of the greenhouse.
Within, he found a trove of his mother’s art supplies and a designated corner he had claimed as his own, where he pursued his passion for sculpting. His fingers reverently grazed the dried wood. The surface bore the tactile remnants of dried clay and water-weathered finishes. He couldn’t help but notice the absence of fresh clay, as his nimble fingers instinctively traced every indentation. His gaze fixated on his work, making a mental note to ensure replenishment of supplies soon. Amidst the room’s contents lay a handful of his creations, interspersed with a few shattered pieces—a testament to the tumultuous exchanges with his father during his previous visits home.
The day seemed to go much faster than he had thought it would when he awoke. He soon found himself sitting in a carriage on his way to the ball. He had chosen the crimson red suit, instead of the maroon one. No hat was on his head and he had gotten a pouty look from his sister. They came upon the palace. His eyes looked at the architecture and it ever so slightly reminded him of the family bank. Inside there was already music playing from the band. They played a slower melody as everyone entered.
His discerning gaze roamed across the gathering, ultimately fixing upon a tall, slender figure with dark tresses that captivated his attention. Compelled by curiosity, his feet guided him in her direction. As he approached from behind, a sense of certainty washed over him; it was Miss Northwick, though not the one he had known five years ago.
Miss Northwick, it’s a delightful surprise to cross paths with you at this gathering, he greeted her warmly, his tone tinged with a subtle flirtatious undertone. His gaze sparkled with mischief. However, his tone faltered slightly as he recognized his mistake. Well, perhaps not exactly who I thought it was, and I’m sure the honor isn’t quite mutual, he quipped, seeking to alleviate any awkwardness that lingered in the air.
Standing before him was the twin sister of his previous acquaintance, her features adorned with a few more freckles—the telltale sign that he wasn’t conversing with the person he had hoped to encounter. Undeterred, he pressed on with curiosity, Is your sister attending tonight? His confidence not once faded from his words. His eyes involuntarily continued their once-familiar perusal of her form, a habit he had picked up, and was unsure would ever break. She wore a striking green dress, a choice that accentuated her dark eyes and other attributes. Her hair was elegantly fixed up, exposing her shoulders and collarbone, adorned with its own sprinkling of freckles. It suited her impeccably, though Ilyas was reluctant to admit it. Despite their shared lineage, it was evident that the sisters possessed distinct energies, leaving him eager to discover just how different they truly were.
@Jass