Chapter 50
For My Precious Cousin

Arvis was bustling with noise and light. Tonight was the great dinner gathering of the Herhardt family and their relatives.

After work, Layla wheeled her bicycle slowly along the edge of the crowded drive. Carriages and motorcars alike streamed toward the mansion. Uncle Bill had been frantic these past few days, preparing flowers to decorate the house. With the gardens now bare for the season, blossoms from the greenhouse had been pressed into service, while rarer flowers had to be sourced from town.

Layla had helped. It kept her busy, mercifully so—gave her an excuse to forget the missing pen, and the Duke’s unanswered letter. But that work was finished now. And she had to return to Arvis.

The closer she drew to the mansion gates, the slower her steps became.

Thankfully, the Duke hadn’t mentioned it again. Perhaps he hadn’t had the chance. He had been occupied all week, and Phoebe—the pigeon who betrayed her, ferrying his letters—was now confined to the backyard cage.

“This is impossible. Truly impossible.”

Layla muttered for what must have been the hundredth time since that night.

How had he even thought to tame Phoebe, to use her as his courier?

She hadn’t lived long, nor met many people, but within the narrow span of her world, Matthias von Herhardt was the strangest, most unfathomable of them all.

And why did he keep stealing her things?

“At this point, isn’t it just kleptomania?”

Scowling, Layla kicked a loose stone from the road.

She wanted her pen back—but she wanted even less to face the Duke. Stranger still, the gentler he acted, the more desperately she wanted to avoid him.

She sighed and tried to shake off the thoughts, just as she was about to slip through the side gate. A sharp horn blared. Startled, she turned—and saw the Brandt family’s car.

Walking stiffly closer, she stopped when the back window slid down.

“It’s been a while, Layla.”

The familiar face of Claudine Brandt smiled brightly at her.

“How have you been?”

Claudine’s eyes swept quickly from head to toe, her smile growing even more radiant.

Layla instinctively held her breath. That feeling again—that of a child caught in wrongdoing. It wasn’t unfamiliar. She’d felt it the previous summer, standing before Claudine at the Duke’s betrothal ceremony. Her first kiss stolen by Claudine’s fiancé, Matthias—the memory still made her feel small, shabby, humiliated.

In Claudine’s gaze, the Duke’s soft voice, his smile, his burning hands all returned to life in Layla’s memory.

Her hands stiff and cold, she clasped them before her and offered the only thing she could: a polite bow.

“Good evening, Lady Claudine.”

The Herhardt banquet was flawless. No one was surprised. In the Empire of Berck, Herhardt meant perfection. Had the dinner been lacking in any way, that alone would have been the greater scandal.

“Would it be all right if we took a short walk in the greenhouse?”

When conversation shifted from the parlor, Claudine asked with proper grace. Beside her stood the two included in her “we”: her fiancé, Matthias, and her cousin Riette.

“Of course. Do enjoy yourselves.”

Elise von Herhardt agreed warmly.

“Young people need their own time, after all.”

Her gentle tone drew laughter from the surrounding ladies, who quickly turned the topic to youthful romances.

Leaving them behind, Claudine departed the parlor with Matthias and Riette.

“By the way, Lord Herhardt. When I become Duchess, Dowager Duchess Katharina said I may expand this greenhouse.”

Claudine’s cheerful voice filled the quiet glasshouse.

“I see.”

Matthias’s lips curved faintly.

“And what do you think of it?”

“Do as you wish.”

It was the expected answer, but Claudine still beamed.

“You may look forward to it. I’ll tend this paradise of Arvis with love and care.”

She strolled lightly down the garden path. Though escorted by her betrothed, most of her chatter flowed toward Riette. It had always been this way.

“Master.”

As Claudine launched into details of exotic flowers she wished to import, a servant came for Matthias—someone requested a private business word.

“Go on, then.”

Claudine smiled, releasing his arm.

“I’ll walk with cousin Riette in the meantime.”

“I’m always a stand-in for Lord Herhardt, aren’t I?”

Riette grumbled, but still offered her his arm.

When Matthias left with the servant, only Claudine and Riette remained. The fountain’s spray chimed sweetly in the stillness.

Their talk resumed, weaving around Claudine’s elaborate greenhouse plans.

“You already sound more in love with Arvis than with your fiancé.”

Riette teased, grinning. Claudine, without the slightest embarrassment, nodded.

“Either way, it’s all love for Herhardt.”

“You’re both remarkable. Matthias has always been that way, but you—are you truly all right with this?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Matthias will never love you. Not before, not now, not ever.”

“And since when do noble marriages require love?”

“Sometimes they do. You could marry Marquis Lindmann instead, for example.”

His voice was light, flippant as ever. Claudine matched it with her usual smile.

“Riette, I’ve been coming to Arvis with my mother for ten years.”

She turned, facing him squarely.

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

“That for ten years, every noble in the Empire has known Lady Brandt would one day be Duchess of Herhardt.”

“Exactly. And that’s why I like you, cousin.”

She laughed softly and once again took his arm. The odd tension between them dissolved into casual conversation.

“I’d like to keep birds here too, once the greenhouse is expanded.”

She admired the brilliant plumage of the caged exotics.

“A pair of avian connoisseurs, then—the perfect Duke and Duchess.”

Riette’s sarcasm cut sharper than usual.

“Cousin.”

“There’s still that little bird, isn’t there? The pretty one that lives in his chambers.”

“I don’t mind. His Grace is entitled to small pleasures.”

“Let’s hope it remains only that—a small pleasure.”

“There’s no need to hope. No matter how fond he is, he can’t seat a bird on the Duchess’s throne, can he?”

“True enough.”

Even Riette had to concede. No matter how he doted on that canary, it would never be more than a bird.

“But how long do canaries live? I wonder.”

Claudine tilted her head, then gave a bright, cruel smile.

“Hopefully not too long. That noisy creature shouldn’t outstay its welcome.”

“Didn’t you just say you respected his little pleasures?”

“And I do. But if that one dies, another bird will amuse him soon enough.”

Riette sighed, half-laughing.

“It’s moments like this I almost want to bless your union sincerely. You and Matthias are… perfectly matched. Horribly so.”

He thought suddenly of the Duke’s little bird. Pity stirred in him, born of a strange kinship—an unwanted creature orbiting a terrible, well-matched pair.

Claudine only smiled, cold and flawless. Riette, gazing at that cruelly beautiful face, spoke on impulse.

“For my precious cousin’s sake, perhaps I’ll try to befriend that little bird myself.”

“I didn’t know you shared such hobbies.”

“It’s not my taste. But she is pretty.”

“You’ll find it harder than you think.”

Claudine laughed brightly now.

“That bird is proud—like a little princess.”

“Then you underestimate me, cousin.”

“No. I only wonder if you can truly win her over.”

Her laughter faded. Her face, under the glass and moonlight, was as cold and smooth as ice.

“If you succeed, I’ll send you a gift. My thanks… and perhaps my love.”

Her hand tightened faintly on his arm. Their eyes locked, their masks dropping for a breath.

“Not a bad bargain,” Riette murmured.

The greenhouse doors swung open again. Together, they walked back toward Matthias.

But neither Layla nor her pigeon came. Nearly a week had passed since Matthias sent the letter, and still—nothing.

He looked up at the sky where the white bird had flown and laughed, but there was no warmth in it. His derision was closer to rage.

“You may leave now,” he told the waiting valet at the door.

“Then I’ll have the car prepared before the departure time, Your Grace.”

Mark Evers bowed and left with the other servants.

Alone on the balcony, Matthias stared down at the river, its surface darkening toward night. For a while he had told himself she was only busy, helping the gardener, that she would respond. No longer.

Checking his watch, he crossed the balcony in long strides. He still had hours before his afternoon engagement. It was the weekend—Layla would be at the cottage.

And there was only one conclusion to draw. He didn’t hesitate to act on it.

The riverbank slipped behind him; the forest path, carpeted in autumn leaves, swallowed his stride.

He thought again, with rising heat: I should have made her cry. I should have wounded her.

At last, he found her.

In the cottage yard, Layla was hanging laundry, stretching linens taut across the line. She fussed with it until it was perfect, then smiled in satisfaction.

Matthias stared, incredulous. Look at her.

That thought—so often these days—returned again. Infuriating and insolent… and yet strangely entertaining. Until, in the end, it was he himself who felt the irritation.

She turned. Saw him. And froze stiff as a post. At first he almost thought it endearing. But then she spun and ran.

He stood, momentarily taken aback, before realization struck. She was fleeing him.

“…Ha.”

As though she’d seen a ghost. As though she could possibly escape.

He started after her. She ran not toward the river, but into the open fields beyond—the harvested meadows and shallow streams.

The distance between them shrank quickly. He lengthened his stride, swift and relentless, while she stumbled glancing back in terror.

At last, beneath the willow by the stream, he caught her. One strong hand seized her shoulder, pulling her hard against the tree trunk, caging her small body between bark and his frame. His grip tangled in her disheveled hair, hot and unyielding.

Looking down at her tearful eyes, Matthias smiled.

“Where are you going, Layla?”