The Barclay House
The stale scent of ale clung to the air like a curse, thick and suffocating. It wove through the dimly lit Barclay household, settling into the cracks of the wooden walls, lingering in the fabric of the threadbare curtains. The house bore the weight of silence, a silence not of peace but of endurance—of waiting.
The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving only cold ashes, but no one dared to rekindle it without permission. The Barclay women sat stiffly at the dining table, backs straight, hands folded, eyes downcast. The only sound was the occasional crackling of the old wooden beams and the slow, deliberate turning of parchment as the man of the house read.
The master of the house, Thomas Barclay, reeked of cheap ale and sweat, his unshaven face contorted in a familiar scowl. The heavy newspaper crinkled under his thick fingers as he scanned the words, his jaw tightening with each line.
Then, a scoff. Low at first, then louder.
“The gall of these wenches.” His voice slashed through the silence like a blade, making his wife flinch. His daughters sat still, eyes trained on the table.
His eldest daughter, Rubiella, moved carefully, setting his plate before him with a precision she had mastered over the years. A single mistake—one too many crumbs on the table, a spoon out of place—could set him off.
“A disgrace!” he bellowed, slamming a fist against the wood, rattling the plates. His youngest son, perched in his highchair, gave a startled whimper before falling silent again. The boy had already learned: noise invited attention.
Thomas’ glare remained fixed on the paper in his hands, his grip tightening. “Duke Rainecourt’s twin daughters. Two miserable lasses, twenty-six, who think they can do as they please.” He spat the words as if they tasted foul. “They have stolen their father’s house, thrown him into prison, and now they parade about as if they are kings.”
Rubiella refilled his cup with steady hands. The bitter scent of ale rose as she poured. One drop spilled onto the table.
A heavy silence followed.
Thomas’ eyes flicked toward the tiny mistake, his fingers twitching at his side. Rubiella braced herself, fingers tightening around the handle of the jug, but she did not speak.
Her mother coughed lightly into her hand—a frail, scratchy sound. Rubiella knew it was not a real cough. It was a warning, a plea.
Be careful.
The air in the room thickened, each heartbeat dragging painfully slow. Thomas’ gaze lingered a moment longer before he scoffed, picking up his cup.
“Mind your hands, girl,” he muttered before taking a swig.
Rubiella’s shoulders eased, though the knot in her stomach remained. This time, she had been lucky.
His rant continued.
“They’ll ruin the Rainecourt name, mark my words,” he growled. “Women have no place managing estates, leading households. A woman’s duty is to bear sons and tend to her home, not meddle in matters beyond her feeble mind.”
No one responded. No one ever did.
His wife, hunched and withered, remained quiet. Once, she had tried to voice her thoughts, to argue, to reason. Years ago, before her body had grown frail and her voice weaker than a whisper. Now, she merely pressed her lips together, her fingers trembling slightly in her lap.
Rubiella felt a warm little hand clutch at the sleeve of her dress. Her youngest sister, barely ten, had curled into herself, eyes wide, fearful. Rubiella subtly squeezed her hand beneath the table, a quiet reassurance.
She had seen this before. The slow simmer of her father’s anger, the way his scowl deepened as his cup emptied. It would build and build until it boiled over, finding an excuse to land on one of them.
Perhaps today, it would be her.
Thomas shook the newspaper violently, the parchment crumpling in his grip. “Look at this filth! They own towns now. Estates, businesses! As if a woman could manage such things without tearing everything apart.”
He snorted, grabbing a chunk of bread and tearing into it with his teeth.
Rubiella stood at his side, waiting. Her duty was to serve, to clear plates the moment he was done, to keep the peace. If she moved too soon, it would be a sign of impatience. If she moved too slow, it would be a sign of defiance.
“Do you know why women should not rule, Rubiella?” Thomas’ voice was casual, almost lazy, but Rubiella’s pulse quickened.
She knew better than to answer.
He slammed his cup onto the table. “Because women destroy their own homes. They forget their place, and everything crumbles beneath them.”
He slammed the rolled newspaper onto the table.
Then, in a flash, he grabbed it again—this time, swinging it hard.
The folded parchment struck Rubiella across the face.
Her head snapped to the side, a sharp sting blooming across her cheek. The force wasn’t enough to truly hurt, but it was enough to make a point.
She did not react.
She never did.
The paper slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor beside her feet. For a moment, there was silence. Then, Thomas huffed, reaching for his ale once more.
Rubiella slowly lowered her gaze to the newspaper.
The front page was crumpled, but the images remained clear.
Two women stared back at her.
Identical, yet starkly different.
Both had jet-black hair and dark, piercing green eyes. Their skin was pale, almost ghostly against their dark clothing.
One had a small mole beneath her left eye. Her expression danced somewhere between mischief and observation—like she knew all your secrets and hadn’t yet decided whether to use them for comfort or chaos. Her short black hair curled slightly at the ends, always just enough to frame a smirk.
The other lacked the mole, her features sharper, colder. There was no warmth in her gaze, only ice and fire, an unyielding storm beneath her skin.
Rubiella’s breath caught.
These were the women who had taken over the Rainecourt estate. The ones who had fought against a world that told them no.
Her eyes skimmed the text beneath the portraits.
{The Rainecourt twins now controlled vast swaths of land, their influence stretching far beyond what any woman had held before.
Rainecourt Keep: Their ancestral home, now fully under their rule.
Ravenshire and Blackthorne: Two prosperous towns known for their bustling trade routes and ironworks.
Westmere Dockyards: A major port, bringing in wealth from merchants and sailors.
The Grand Textile Mills: One of the largest suppliers of fine fabrics in the kingdom.
Silverbrook Mines: A source of great fortune, the mines producing iron, coal, and silver.}
They owned wealth. Power. Influence.
And the world was watching.
Rubiella’s fingers twitched at her sides.
Rubiella swallowed. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides.
He turned his gaze to her fully, and for the first time that morning, he truly looked at her. His dark eyes raked over her like she was a puzzle he had yet to solve.
“You understand your place, don’t you?”
A loaded question. One that demanded a single answer.
“Yes, Father.” Her voice was quiet, steady.
He leaned back in his chair, satisfied.
Outside, the sky remained dull and gray.
And so, the morning continued as it always did.
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Hello,
I am Lilliana, new to Inkitt and this writing style. I used to write stories on wattpad but it hasn't been kind and I just...sort of stopped writing. I'm back with a lesbian romance haha.
My aim in writing this story is to learn to be better at writing long parts. Any feedback is appreciated.
With Love,
Lilliana
