London was cold compared to the south. No fire in the air. No warmth in the rain. Everything was dark grey stone. Sharp. Silent. Stiff.

The coach came to a stop at the steps of his ancestral estate—Norman Manor.

Siya stepped down first, followed by their sons—Conrad running off to explore the manicured lawn and Dev still holding fast to her hip.

Theodore followed last.

He'd sent a rider ahead—one letter warning them of their arrival.

Now a butler waited at the door. And behind him...

His parents. He felt his heart skip a beat.

His father, still a broad-shouldered man despite his age, walked first. His mother followed—pale, slender, looking every bit the cold noble lady she was. The years had added a few silver strands to her blonde hair, but her sharp blue eyes were still sharp. Her voice was still cold.

"Theodore. So you're alive after all."

"How have you been, Mother?" Siya asked politely after all, she saw her last when she was pregnant with Conrad

His mother stiffened. Her eyes flicked between Siya and their sons, taking in her sari and dark hair, the boys' faces and wide eyes.

"Well enough," she said after a moment. "The years have been... quiet."

Her expression was taut. Like she was biting back words.

His father spoke instead.

"And your sons? Healthy?" He nodded.

"Both as strong as bulls."

Conrad, hearing the praise, stopped short of the top step—beaming up at his grandfather.

"Hullo!"

His father stared down at the child. The boy was a tangle of arms and legs, all wild energy and laughter and dimples under dark curls.

For the first time all day, his father smiled.

"Hello, young man."

As the evening unfolded, they gathered for dinner, the atmosphere thick with formality and an unspoken tension. The dining hall stood majestic, its cold marble floor reflecting the soft glow of candlelight, casting flickering shadows against the walls.

Every clink and scrape of silverware against fine porcelain reverberated through the silence, making the air feel even heavier, as if the weight of their unshared thoughts hung like a fog around them.

Siya sat beside Theodore, Dev in a high chair at her side, spooning soft rice into his mouth while Conrad fidgeted beside them in a starched little collar.

His parents watched—quietly judging. His mother's eyes lingered too long on Siya's hands, the way she ate with grace yet without knife and fork. The way she hummed to Dev when he whined.

But no one said a word.

Until halfway through the main course—a hushed moment broken only by clinking cutlery—

Conrad piped up:

"Appa? When do we go home?"

Theodore nearly dropped his wine glass.

His mother stiffened.

His father looked up sharply.

And Siya?

She kept her eyes down—but her fingers curled tightly around her napkin.

Home wasn't this stone-cold manor with its portraits of dead lords and silent servants bowing like ghosts.

Home was jasmine vines climbing sea-walls.

Bare feet on warm earth.

A rebel lullaby sung under the stars.

But then—

Theodore cleared his throat... placed his hand gently over Siya's beneath the table...

And said quietly:

"We are home."

Then he looked at his son—not correcting him—for daring to speak truth so freely.

And for the first time...

His father didn't scowl.

He just watched them all—with something softer in his gaze now—

As if realising:

This wasn't just the return of an heir...

It was a transformation.

A couple of months later, they started adjusting to the English weather. The English chill no longer bit as sharply.

Siya had learned to wrap herself in thicker shawls, her cotton saris traded for wool-lined silks. The garden—once stiff with hedges and silence—now bloomed with marigolds and jasmine she'd begged Theodore to import.

"For the gods," she said. "And for home."

Conrad started school nearby—uniform, neat, voice bright even among posh accents. He stumbled through "Long Live the King" at assembly but proudly sang it anyway.

When asked where he was from—

He stood tall.

"India," he said.

"And London too."

No one corrected him twice.

In the cosy living room, young Dev joyfully uttered his first words—"Maa"—his face glowing with excitement. Mimicking Conrad's playful mispronunciation, he added "papa." Theodore laughed heartily, causing his teacup to slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor.

One evening, standing by the study window watching rain fall across the manor lawns, His mother came up beside Siya, not speaking at first.

Then:

"...I thought you'd be unhappy here."

Siya smiled softly. "I am happy where my children laugh."

A pause.

"And your husband?"

She turned slightly—the glow of lamplight on her face—and found Theodore inside, crouched low on the floor playing soldiers with Conrad in front of a crackling fire...

"Oh... him?"

Her voice dropped—a whisper full of warmth and mischief—

"He still calls me 'rebel queen' when we're alone."

His mother blinked. Then looked away quickly—as if hiding a smile.

Conrad slept in his room, but Dev was still young and slept between them. The nights were quiet now—London's winter humming through the cracks of old stone walls.

Dev, still small and clinging to warmth, slept nestled between them every night—his tiny body curled into Siya's chest, one hand fisted in her nightgown.

Theodore lay on the other side—watching them both for a long moment before blowing out the candle.

Sometimes, he'd pull her closer from behind—arm slung low around her waist—his palm resting gently on Dev's back as they all sank into sleep together.

Safe.

Warm.

Whole.

And though the manor echoed with memories of lords and lineage...

It no longer belonged to ghosts.

It belonged to them.

A British lord who chose love.

An Indian Girl who forgave the empire.

and little ones still dreaming between their parents,

His father had gotten better after their return. Spring came in slow and quiet—gentle sun, longer mornings, rain-soaked earth.

His father, despite his old age, had recovered after his illness. He still moved a little slow, a little stiff.

But he took walks around the manor, around the estates, sometimes even to the village market—with a cane and a smile.

"For the exercise," he said. "For the fresh air."

And maybe—if he admitted it—because he'd missed this.

It was Conrad's 5th birthday

Conrad's birthday was a proper English affair.

The manor's ballroom—cold stone walls draped with flowers, bright sunlight through tall windows—was a hive of activity.

Servants bustled back and forth with food. Cooks shouted across the kitchen, preparing all of Conrad's favourites. The boy himself sat in his favourite corner by the piano—dressed in his finest suit and tie (and still looking more comfortable with messy hair and mud on his shoes).

Siya, for the first time, wore a silk dress. The dress was soft against her skin—light blue silk with golden stitching along the collar.

She had never owned such finery.

Not in India, not even in her first days here.

It fell just to her ankles, the skirt full and flowy. Her hair—her wild dark hair—was tucked into a braided bun.

And when Theodore came to find her—

She was beautiful. He stood in the doorway, watching her. The late afternoon sunlight turned her gown a deeper shade of blue.

Her back was to him, shoulders straight and slender beneath the silk...

But when she felt his gaze, she turned.

And his mouth went dry at the sight of her smile.

Her eyes were bright, her skin warm, and her cheeks flushed.

It should have felt strange. To see his Indian rebel girl in silk and high heels.

But it didn't.

It just reminded him...

She'd become her own kind of English rose.

" Do you remember that party where you wanted me to wear that gown?"

He chuckled—low and soft—and came to stand before her, hands slipping around her waist like they always did.

"Of course I remember."

He leaned down - brushing her earlobe with his lips - to whisper,

"You refused me, as I recall."

"Well, I didn't refuse. I just provoked you, saying, What if other men look at me?"

His mouth curved up against her skin. She loved doing that—provoking him. Getting under his skin. And he always took the bait...

"Yes. I remember how you teased. How you smiled, knowing full well exactly what it would do to me."

His fingers played lightly at her lower back, toying with the edge of the silk skirt.

"It seemed very unfair to me."

"Today too people can look at me".

His hand tightened at her waist—just slightly—and he pulled her flush against him, voice dropping to a rough whisper.

"Let them look."

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"They'll see what I see. A queen. My wife."

Then—louder, just enough for the nearest servant passing by to hear—

"But if any man so much as lingers... he'll answer to me."

And then—he kissed her neck.

Slow. Claiming. Like always.

Because she was his.

Silk and fire.

Thorn and bloom.

And every man in England could look...

But only one could touch. 

"He carries the air of duty again, but his hand never leaves hers."

Can love survive the weight of duty... again?