Chapter 49
Like Wings

“That hairstyle doesn’t suit you.”

The Duke’s sudden remark was so absurd Layla didn’t even know how to respond. By the time she grasped what he meant, confusion only deepened. What kind of ridiculous conversation was this supposed to be?

“I know. It’s… a little clumsy.”

Her voice came out sharper than she intended.

“A little?”

He studied her intently, then repeated the word with a mocking twist.

Layla tightened her grip on her bicycle handlebar, fighting the urge to bolt. But she couldn’t stop the heat rushing to her face. Her cheeks must have gone red again. I don’t want to look ridiculous.

“You should just let it down.”

“I would, but they say it’s not proper for a teacher.”

“Who says?”

“The headmaster.”

Her face grew hotter as his eyes stayed on her. Unable to endure it, she turned her gaze away.

“He said if I look too young, it undermines my authority as a teacher. So I shouldn’t style my hair like a student’s.”

Filling the silence with awkward words, she rambled on. The faint sound of the Duke’s laugh brushed her ears like the breeze, but she didn’t look back. Her ears were burning now—how foolish she must look.

“So that sloppy bun is a teacher’s authority…”

Matthias looked down at the small woman trudging beside him, her prim face stiff with pride. Amusing.

“I’ve been practicing. It’ll get better soon.”

So stubborn—you can’t stand to lose, can you.

Her defiant tone made him smirk again.

“Will it? Truly?”

“I believe so. If not, I’ll cut it short.”

“Cut it?”

His smile vanished, eyes narrowing. Was that insolence? But she nodded seriously.

“Yes. It would make me look more mature, and…”

“Don’t cut it.”

His calm command startled her. She looked back at him, bewildered.

“You can’t possibly mean I need your permission even to grow or cut my own hair, do you?”

“It’s beautiful. Your hair.”

Her indignant question was met with a reply far too untroubled—and utterly nonsensical.

Layla stared, disbelieving. But he only met her gaze with the same unflinching calm.

“Like wings.”

His voice was as soft as ever—just as soft as when he insulted and wounded her.

Even then… even when he said the cruelest things, his voice was always gentle.

Realization struck. She remembered that day: the summer she first saw the Duke of Herhardt, when she had nearly been shot. Even in her terror, she had heard that voice—low, soft, the same as now.

Running frantically from the tree back to Uncle Bill’s cabin, she had gasped out words:

‘There’s someone in the forest! A tall man!’

‘His hair was black and his eyes were so blue, and his voice—it was like the feathers of a waterbird.’

Of course she had thought of feathers then. The treasures she had gathered by the Schulte River, shimmering, delicate.

Layla quickly turned away from his gaze. She almost wished he’d just wound her with cruel words, the way he always did. Then he could remain what she knew: frightening, uncomfortable, hateful. That was the Duke of Herhardt she understood.

But no harsh words came. He only walked, looking ahead at the leaf-strewn path. Perhaps those strange words had been a trick of her imagination.

She brushed at the hair that had slipped over her shoulder, frowning hard. Shaking her head, she lost her grip on the handlebar. The bicycle tipped, and though she tried to catch it, she went down with it.

The crash of metal and her own cry echoed down the lonely road.

Matthias looked down at the sight, lips twitching. She had toppled herself, tangled beneath the bicycle—so absurd he couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re always falling, aren’t you?”

He chuckled, and humiliation burned Layla’s lips as she bit them. But oddly, she felt relief too. Better this. Better that he mock and torment her, then leave. That was all she wanted.

But instead, Matthias quietly set the bicycle upright. He fetched her bag, which had flown some distance, and came back to crouch beside her.

“…It’s mine. I’ll do it.”

She snatched the bag from him as he reached for her things, panic in her eyes. His brows furrowed at her blunt rejection.

“I… I’ll do it.”

Head lowered, she muttered, gathering her scattered belongings. Her voice trembled, and even her hands shook. He hadn’t done a thing to frighten her this time.

Annoyance flickered—but he held it back, watching instead. Her flushed cheeks and reddened nape suggested shyness rather than fear. If that was it, he didn’t mind.

Straightening, he stood over her. Under his long shadow, she fumbled with her bag, even scooping up pebbles and leaves as if dazed. The sight wiped away his irritation.

Finally, she stuffed everything into the bag and sprang upright, facing him. Dirt clung to her hands and clothes, but she seemed oblivious.

“Forgive me, Your Grace…”

She hesitated, glancing from the villa gates down the path to his face.

“If it’s improper for me to walk ahead of you, I’ll wait until you return first.”

Her words were bold enough—I don’t want to walk with you anymore—but her eyes were restless, anxious.

Annoying, yes. But Matthias let it pass. He knew too he couldn’t walk with her beyond those gates.

“Go on.”

She blinked, surprised.

“I may go first?”

He only tilted his chin. Relieved, she bowed.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

That polite gratitude felt almost like mockery.

She scurried ahead, pausing before mounting her bicycle to glance back. Her eyes held doubt, suspicion. She tilted her head, frowned, tilted it again, and finally rode off.

Perhaps I should have made her cry instead.

The thought came too late, but it didn’t trouble him much. As he resumed his walk, something caught his eye—a pen, gleaming.

He bent, lifted it gracefully. Layla’s pen. The girl who fell, who always lost her belongings. She was still close enough to hear him call—but he didn’t.

Turning the pen between his fingers, Matthias walked on. Layla pedaled hard, soon vanishing through Arvis’s gates.

“That bird’s here again.”

Mark Evers’s voice, tinged with laughter. Matthias didn’t bother glancing at the window; he knew who it was. Phoebe. The gentle, clever pigeon.

Later, seated by the fireplace, he signed the last document of the day. When his attendant carried it off, he was left alone. He capped his fountain pen, then looked out the window. As always, Phoebe sat on the rail, pecking at feed.

His eyes shifted to the slim pen in his hand. On its cap, a name was engraved in gold.

“Layla Llewellyn.”

It was new. She would never buy such a thing herself. Likely a gift from the gardener.

Matthias almost hoped it was. If it were Bill Remmer’s gift, Layla would fight tooth and nail to reclaim it.

By now, would she have noticed?

He uncapped the pen again, thoughtful. Perhaps he could humor the woman who had once dared to call him a gentleman. After all, it was about time her pigeon earned its keep.

On a slip of paper, he wrote a single short line. Folding it, he fastened it to Phoebe’s leg. The pigeon stayed docile, letting him bind the note. The memory of Layla fleeing on her bicycle made him laugh softly.

Then he released the bird. Phoebe soared, wings sure, straight toward the cottage.

Phoebe returned with the night.

Layla sat staring blankly at her empty desk until the tapping of a beak on the glass startled her.

“Phoebe!”

She pulled her shawl tight and hurried to the window. A chill breeze swept in as she opened it.

“Were you hungry? Just a moment… oh?”

Her eyes widened. A letter was tied to Phoebe’s leg. She rubbed her eyes, certain she imagined it—but it was there. A letter. Since Kyle left, there had never been one. Could never be one.

“…Kyle?”

She whispered his name, knowing it was impossible.

Trembling, she untied the note. One line. As she read, her expression twisted from disbelief to horror.

She gasped, dropping the paper. It fluttered down to the floor.

Staring, blinking rapidly, she staggered back until she struck the wardrobe. Reality jolted through her.

“This… this can’t be.”

She muttered as she frantically searched her bag. But the pen was gone. Only stones and leaves remained—when had those gotten in? The absurdity left her reeling.

Unable to deny it now, she crept back to the window. Picking up the note, her hands were as pale as moonlight.

Where do you suppose your pen is, Layla?

Reading the words again, she clutched her head with a groan.

“This can’t be happening.”

Over and over, she muttered—but nothing changed.

Coo, coo.

Under the white autumn moonlight, Phoebe—the pigeon the Duke had fattened—cooed serenely.