CHAPTER 4 – THE RULES OF HOLT MANOR
1531 Words
Liana learns that silence isn’t simply expected—it’s LAW
She woke before the sun, her heart knocking against her ribs, sharp and sudden like a warning. The air in the room was cold, and the silk sheets had slipped off during the night. She pushed them away, sat up slowly, and let her feet find the chill of the marble floor. Her slippers waited near the bed, soft and she slipped them on without thought.
A silver tray had been placed by the window—bread rolls tucked into folded linen, a scattering of berries in a crystal dish, and a porcelain cup of steaming tea. No note or greeting. Not even the trace of a human hand, just the quiet instruction to eat alone.
She stood there a moment, looking at it. Then she picked up the tea and cradled it between her palms. Each sip was warm but didn’t settle anything inside her. She remembered mornings in her old flat—burnt toast, cold coffee, radio static and sunlight pooling across sketchbooks. The kettle's hiss had felt like company. That life now felt like it belonged to someone else.
At exactly eight o’clock, her tablet lit up. A message from Cassian:
“Dress for etiquette session. Nine a.m.”
No “good morning.” or any explanation, a single directive.
She tapped the screen. A file opened, titled:
“ETIQUETTE OF HOLT MANOR.”
It read like a list of rules for surviving someone else’s kingdom:
1. Speak only when addressed by Mr. Holt or senior staff.
2. Appear on schedule. No exceptions.
3. Walk with poise; maintain forward gaze.
4. Meals are silent. Speak only when dismissed.
5. Doors open and close only by signal.
She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the edge of the tablet. Then she shut it off, her stomach turning.
A pale blue suit had been laid out for her on the chair—pressed, perfect, not hers. She stepped into it anyway. The fabric was smooth and expensive, shaped to flatter, and devoid of any personality. She looked at herself in the mirror and practiced standing still. Chin up. Shoulders relaxed but controlled. She didn’t look like a person, she resembled a symbol.
At exactly nine, Mireille knocked once and opened the door. No words were spoken. She only nodded.
Liana followed.
They moved through a long corridor lined with antique mirrors. Her reflection caught again and again in the glass—dozens of her, stretching forward and behind. Some looked afraid, others were resigned. She wondered if any of them were real.
They entered a quiet room with tall ceilings and a long table at its center. On the table: a neat stack of gold-edged cards, a polished silver bell, and nothing else. Standing at the far end was Madame Claridge, a woman so composed she looked carved from marble. Her clothes were precise, her voice was sharper than crystal.
“Good morning, Mrs. Holt,” she said, not smiling. “We’ll begin with the basics.”
She picked up a card.
“‘Speak only when addressed.’ You will repeat this. You will absorb it until it’s instinct.”
Liana nodded once. “Speak only when addressed,” she repeated quietly.
“Louder,” said Madame Claridge. “But never loud.”
They moved through the rest of the cards, one by one. Each bore a command, a warning, a boundary. Liana repeated them all, each one settling in her like a stone. Her shoulders grew heavy. Her voice became hoarse. By the end of the hour, she was exhausted from being obedient.
“Good,” said Madame Claridge, after a long silence. “You're learning.”
Dismissed with a nod, Liana clutched the ribbon-bound folder like it might shield her from something. She returned to her suite and shut the door behind her, resting her back against the wood until her breath came more evenly. She slid the booklet into a drawer and left it there, like a weapon she wasn’t sure she’d ever.use.
Next came the wardrobe session. The stylist was waiting with racks of perfectly categorized clothing—each tagged by time, purpose, and audience.
“Wear this at the luncheon with board members,” the woman said, holding up a cream blouse. “This for travel. This for garden photos.”
Each outfit was a costume. Each detail—buttons, shoes, earrings were dictated by occasion. Liana nodded. She took it all in. But a small part of her ached to choose a sweater simply because it felt like home. None of these clothes did.
By midday, she was seated across from a Holt family legal advisor on the garden terrace, eating salad from a porcelain plate. They discussed protocol, clauses, appearances. The man was courteous but mechanical. Beside them, roses bloomed. Beautiful, but lifeless.
She thought of wild roses—thorny, sprawling, unruly. She missed them like she missed a friend.
Her phone buzzed. One word lit the screen:
“Appearance.”
No context at all, but she knew what it meant. She wiped her mouth, stood, and made her way toward the gallery.
Inside, the private art collection stood silent behind museum glass. She walked beside the curator, nodding politely as he offered commentary on brushwork and auction value. But Liana’s mind drifted. She stared at each painting like she was looking for something behind it—some flaw, some crack in the surface. Something that was just real.
At three, she returned for more etiquette drills. This time, Madame Claridge stood behind a mirrored panel, watching unseen. Liana practiced movements—curtsies, head angles, hand placement. Her voice had to land at exactly eighty-two decibels every single sentence required a breath before the next.
She was being turned into a statue that could speak.
By late afternoon, even her thoughts felt choreographed. She left her suite and wandered into the ballroom. Staff were setting up for a charity auction—chairs, banners, soft lighting. She stood to the side, waiting to be useful in the way they wanted. A staff member placed a shawl over her shoulders, silent.
At six, the guests began arriving. She smiled and nodded. She held hands she didn’t want to touch and offered words she didn’t mean. She used the phrases her mother had taught her: “It’s such a pleasure.” “We’re so grateful for your support.”
They nodded, flattered. One woman looked at her too long and offered a look of something like pity. Liana turned away.
The auction was swift—paddles raised, bids shouted, luxury items claimed in a rhythm of wealth and polish. Liana watched the exchange like it was theatre. No one noticed how much it cost to be the one on display.
When it ended, Cassian appeared beside her.
He didn’t say hello or asked her how it went. He placed a firm hand on her elbow and guided her down the staircase, calm and assured. They moved like a shadow.
“The flight to Geneva is confirmed,” he said, glancing at his phone. “Tomorrow morning.”
She nodded and they kept walking.
Dinner followed, with the trustees seated in a golden dining room that glowed with too much light. She wore black velvet, and the gown skimmed the floor. The conversation was about numbers—grants, returns, public impact. She made herself useful, not insightful. Every comment was polished and every sentence ended where it should. She kept her voice low. Low voices don’t challenge, low voices also survive.
When it was over, she returned to her suite. She didn’t turn on the lights. She stood between the bed and the mirror, looking at the reflection that didn’t flinch anymore. That scared her more than anything.
She walked to the desk, opened the drawer and took out the etiquette booklet.
She stared at the first page, then tore it from the spine. Crumpled it tightly in her hand. The paper felt rough, almost sharp. It was the first thing all day that had texture.
She let it fall to the floor.
Then, without sitting, she opened her phone. She started typing a message:
“Jess. Can we meet? I need to remember my own voice.”
She hovered there.
Then she remembered the instructions from the first day:
“Emergency use only.”
She stared at the words, then erased them. Every letter disappeared like it had never been written.
She powered off the phone.
No signal, no light, no instructions.
She quietly stood in the dark.
And then, softly—barely a whisper—she said, “I will speak again.”
The words didn’t echo, they weren’t grand.
But they were hers.
She stepped toward the window and looked out across Holt Manor’s gardens, perfectly lit, perfectly controlled.
She pressed her forehead to the glass.
And for a second, she imagined what it would feel like to run barefoot through those perfect hedges, tearing them open with her hands.
Then she turned from the window and walked into the darkness of her suite, holding the silence like a secret.
- Writer
