Chapter 4 - The Storm That Left the Youngest Heir Speaking for the First Time in Three Years
A violent thunderstorm swept over Fairhaven in early December, knocking out power grids across the coastal ridge. The manor plunged into pitch darkness, the howling wind rattling the stained glass windows like skeletal fingers.
Storms were a nightmare for Toby. The night our mother died, lightning had split the ancient oak tree outside our front gates just as the police cruisers arrived with the tragic news. Since then, thunder meant disaster.
Ethan and I rushed to Toby’s bedroom on the second floor, but his bed was empty. The sheets were thrown back, and his favorite wooden toy car lay discarded on the rug.
“Toby!” Ethan yelled over the roar of thunder. “Toby, where are you?!”
We tore through the mansion, checking every closet, bathroom, and storage nook. Panic seized my chest. Mason checked the security cameras via backup battery, his fingers flying across the tablet.
“He’s not in the house,” Mason shouted, his voice cracking with terror. “The terrace doors in the conservatory are unlatched!”
We bolted down the spiral stairs toward the gardens. Outside, freezing rain pelted the stone walkways like needles. The wind was so ferocious it bent the cypress trees double.
In the middle of the rose garden, huddled beneath a stone bench in the pouring rain, was Toby. He was curled into a ball, soaked to the bone, shaking violently while covering his ears.
Before I could leap down the stone steps into the storm, a figure dashed past me.
It was Eleanor. She had run out into the freezing deluge without a coat, her hair instantly plastered to her skin. She reached the stone bench, dropped to her knees in the mud, and gathered Toby into her arms.
A blinding flash of lightning cracked across the sky, followed by a deafening boom of thunder that shook the earth beneath us.
Toby screamed into Eleanor’s shoulder, his little body rigid with absolute terror.
Eleanor pulled him tighter, wrapping her own body around him like a fortress against the storm. She didn't try to drag him inside by force. Instead, in the roaring tempest, she began to sing.
It was a gentle, ancient lullaby about starlight and quiet rivers. Her voice was trembling from the cold, but her tone was steady, carrying through the wind.
Ethan, Mason, and I stood at the edge of the terrace, completely frozen in place.
Under the pouring rain, Toby’s rigid hands slowly unclenched. He lifted his small, mud-streaked face from Eleanor’s chest. His lips parted, trembling against the cold rain.
“...El-nor,” a tiny, raspy voice broke through the storm.
Mason gasped. Ethan grabbed my arm so hard his fingernails dug through my jacket.
Toby buried his face back into her neck and whispered, clear as the rain: “Eleanor... stay.”
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Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears as she smiled through the downpour. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She carried him up the steps, her arms holding him with absolute devotion. As she passed us, the four of us stood shoulder to shoulder—no longer masters of the house, but four boys who had just witnessed a miracle.
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