Chapter 12
The Gentleman Crow

When he turned the dial, music filled the air.

The gramophone on the mahogany cabinet drove out the silence in the pavilion’s parlor with the soaring aria of an opera.

Matthias flipped through the frequencies until a waltz came on, then leaned back against the sofa. The melody was bright, cheerful. His long fingers tapped lazily against the armrest in time with the beat. The small clock on the console opposite pointed to five.

His gaze lingered briefly on the pitiful vase of roses beside it before drifting toward the window. Evening approached, and the breeze had grown cooler. Wind rising from the river stirred his robe before sweeping on toward the forest.

Matthias reached across the table, opened a small silver case, and drew out a cigarette. Lighting it, he inhaled slowly while the waltz ended. A clamor of strings followed, and he smoked in languid rhythm with the noisy tune. Late summer afternoons were always tedious, always quiet.

When that piece ended as well, Matthias reached for Layla’s glasses, tossed carelessly beside the tray. Through the lenses, the world warped and blurred—her eyes must be terribly poor.

So that’s why she always frowned.

He recalled the little girl who had glared at him with narrowed eyes—plain, unimpressive, except for the way her gaze had burned so fiercely.

The child who was supposed to pass briefly through his world had stayed long enough to grow into a woman.

He saw her again—those green eyes gleaming unnaturally bright behind delicate gold rims. Her presence carried the fresh, sweet fragrance of roses in Arvis’s summer gardens.

Matthias exhaled smoke in a slow stream and played idly with the glasses, tossing and catching them in one hand as he stepped out to the balcony overlooking the river. His shadow stretched longer as the sun fell.

“Layla.”

He whispered the name, hot on his tongue like the heat of midsummer.

“Layla Llewellyn.”

The syllables rolled reluctantly from his lips, as if they irritated him by their very sweetness.

When he returned to the parlor, he tucked the glasses into the console drawer. As the drawer closed, so too did the memory of those green eyes fade from sight.

He went to the bath, showered long, dressed afresh, and groomed himself. By the time he stepped out of the pavilion, Matthias von Herhardt was once again the picture of a perfect duke.

It was just another unremarkable summer evening.

“Think the crows took it again?”

Bill’s tone was half-jest. At the table, Layla flinched at the question.

“Um… I hope not.”

“Never know. Those birds will snatch anything shiny. Remember your hairpin?”

He laughed, booming. Layla, recalling the memory, allowed a small smile to break her stiff face.

For her thirteenth birthday, Bill had bought her a hairpin—something shiny and delicate, after noticing that girls her age always wore such things. He’d even enlisted Mrs. Mona’s help to pick it out.

Layla had treasured it, keeping it tucked away rather than wearing it. Bill had threatened to throw it out unless she used it. So she wore it once—only for a crow to swoop down and steal it while she worked in the garden. Since then, her fondness for crows had been… complicated.

“If you don’t find it, tell me,” Bill said more firmly this time.

“We’ll just buy another. No reason to look like that. Understand?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

She nodded obediently.

“I will.”

She said it lightly because she was sure her glasses were still waiting on the dock, right where she had left them.

But at dawn the next morning, despair awaited her. She searched the dock, the pavilion grounds, the riverbank—nothing. The apron she’d left was still there. The glasses, gone.

Blown away by the wind? Impossible. She had taken them off first, then laid the apron over them. The apron remained. Only the glasses had vanished.

Unthinkable.

Still, as she lingered outside the pavilion, she shook her head. Matthias couldn’t have taken them. There was no reason.

Shoulders slumped, Layla turned back. She should have come sooner. Fear of running into the duke had made her delay, and that was her mistake.

“Was it really you?”

She muttered, glaring at a crow perched on a branch. The bird cocked its head, feigned innocence, then took flight toward the woods.

Balling her fists, Layla set her jaw and lengthened her stride. She would return home, eat breakfast, and think with a clearer head.

The culprit could only be one of two things.

A crow—or the duke.

A dove, white as snow, perched on the window ledge. Kyle, glancing up, smiled and pushed the window open.

“Hello, Phoebe.”

The bird didn’t shy away from his hand. Kyle deftly untied the note fastened to its leg.

Phoebe was Layla Llewellyn’s messenger. Always fascinated by birds, one day she had read about carrier pigeons and declared she would train one herself.

Sure, go ahead, Kyle had said, laughing. He never imagined he’d one day have a dove at his window bearing her letters. But Layla, stubborn as ever, had succeeded. After countless failures, she had finally trained Phoebe to deliver her notes.

The first time Phoebe had flown to his window—two springs ago—Kyle had opened it in disbelief. A pretty bird with shining white feathers and dark eyes had stared back, a folded note tied neatly to her leg.

Hello, Mr. Etman.

That was all it had said. But Kyle had read much more between the lines—Layla’s triumph, her sparkling eyes, her mischievous smile. His dear friend, Layla.

A dove in the age of telephones. Absurd, and yet fitting. To Layla, Phoebe was her telephone. At the cottage, where no line existed, a bird was an efficient enough substitute.

Today’s letter brought grim news: she had lost her glasses. Without them, she couldn’t keep their plan to go to the library. She was truly sorry.

Phoebe, duty done, fluttered away. Kyle slipped the letter between the pages of a thick book on his desk and hurried out.

“Kyle Etman! Off to Layla again?”

His mother frowned as he barreled down the stairs. He smoothed it over with his usual disarming grin.

“Go study, Kyle!”

“I’ll study at Layla’s!”

He bounded out the door, leaving only that cheerful reply.

The silver bicycle flashed in the sun as he sped away. Entering Arvis, Kyle pedaled faster and faster, breathless with urgency. The library didn’t matter. What mattered was Layla.

Those glasses—she worked so hard for them.

He thought of the foolish girl making jam alone, refusing to trouble Bill, saving coin by coin until she could buy them. His chest ached.

“Oh—Kyle?”

Startled, Layla turned, a basket of laundry in her arms.

“Did you find them?” he asked, breathless.

“No. Not yet.”

Her expression fell.

“I’ll buy you a new pair!”

The words tumbled out before he could stop himself. He hated the sight of her downcast face.

“…You?” Layla blinked, quiet. Kyle realized his mistake too late.

“Thank you, but no, Kyle. I can’t let you.”

She smiled, gentle, sparing him embarrassment.

“And besides—I want to find my glasses. I will.”

Her lips curved, but her eyes were resolute. Kyle knew that look—Layla Llewellyn’s stubbornness, immovable once set.

“I’ll find them.”

For days she combed the woods, Kyle by her side.

It was pitiful, and endearing. Matthias almost pitied her. Almost. He let it go on, amused by the sight of them disturbing bird nests in vain.

Do they really not know? Or do they simply not want to know?

Pausing at the pavilion steps, Matthias turned his gaze to the broad sweep of forest by the river. Their little charade was wearing thin. His patience too.

He ran a hand through hair ruffled by the river breeze and climbed the stairs. Behind him, Hessen opened the door and quietly withdrew.

Matthias went straight to the parlor. This time, instead of the sofa, he leaned against the window that faced the forest.

“Marquis Lindmann is expected around noon today,” Hessen reported.

“Riette? Earlier than planned,” Matthias remarked.

“My lady requested particular care for the luncheon. She hopes you will attend as well, if you have no prior engagements.”

“Very well.”

The chiffon curtains billowed softly in the breeze, then fell still again. Matthias’s eyes narrowed. On the sunlit path beneath the trees stood Layla, turning circles with her hands clasped tight.

So she isn’t entirely witless after all.

He smirked faintly, then gave his attention back to Hessen’s report. When the butler and maid withdrew, leaving behind chilled lemonade, Matthias sipped from the tall glass and looked once more through the window.

Only when the servants had fully vanished did Layla creep toward the river.

Moments later, the doorbell rang through the quiet pavilion.

Matthias rose unhurriedly from his seat.