Chapter 53
The Bird’s Master

“Every time I see this, my heart aches, Matthias.”

Riette clicked his tongue as he opened the cabinet. Matthias wasn’t much of a drinker, but the cabinet in his room was always stocked with fine liquor.

“Leaving good bottles neglected like this… that’s an insult to the drink.”

Grinning, Riette plucked out a bottle and sauntered back to the table. As always, Matthias didn’t so much as bat an eye at what he did.

The gramophone played softly in the corner, mingling oddly well with the crackle of the fireplace. Riette poured the decanter into a glass and offered it across. The way Matthias accepted it, his movements were like the flowing notes of the piano piece that filled the room.

Sprawled lazily against the sofa, Riette studied him as though looking at a stranger. Matthias, his face deep in thought, was staring absently at the rim of the glass in his hand. At his side, a small canary—now as much a fixture of this bedroom as the furnishings—fluttered about happily.

Your cousin was a gentleman devil.

That was what they said of Captain Herhardt at the social club.

Matthias had never spoken of his time on the foreign front. Not out of modesty, but as though the whole thing held no meaning to him at all. Instead, his reputation traveled back through the lips of fellow noble officers who had served alongside him.

Riette hadn’t fought in that war, but from their words, he could picture Matthias clearly: neither drunk on bloodlust like the young hotheads, nor boredly going through the motions like others. He carried out his duties with precise order, didn’t deny himself the satisfaction of success—but didn’t seem to assign it any meaning either.

Those who spoke of him all arrived at the same conclusion in the end.

“So… honestly, I just don’t know.”

It sounded absurd, but Riette knew better than anyone that those words described Matthias von Herhardt most perfectly.

“I really don’t know.”

They would mutter that, and sigh. Just as Riette was sighing now.

He didn’t know.

He had watched Matthias his entire life, and yet the conclusion was the same. Like colors mixed together until they became pure white—Matthias was like that.

A noble heir. A fine successor. A good cousin. An honorable soldier. Each trait, distinct and sharp. But when put together, they blurred into nothing.

Some praised the Duke for his restraint, for suppressing himself in order to fulfill his duty. But Riette had his doubts. From what he knew, there had never been anything in Matthias that needed suppressing.

And now—Matthias von Herhardt and Layla Llewellyn.

Riette let out a short, tipsy laugh. Matthias finally looked at him. The canary had perched on his shoulder now, gently nuzzling at his suspender. Matthias, unbothered, didn’t so much as flinch.

“How long are you going to play master to that bird?”

“As long as I want to.”

The reply came without a flicker of hesitation. He raised the glass and took a sip. The bird, startled into flight, fluttered up before returning to his shoulder again.

“And when will that be?”

“Who knows.”

Setting the glass down, Matthias leaned back against the armrest. The onyx cufflinks at his wrist caught the glow of the fire.

“Aren’t you curious at all? Why I came to Arvis, what I plan to do, that sort of thing.”

“No.”

The answer was flat, almost bored. Riette visiting Arvis for weeks at a time was nothing new.

“Unbelievable. You really are unbearable.”

Riette laughed loudly and drained his glass.

Is it just desire, then?

He studied Matthias, considering. That seemed the most reasonable guess. A man’s desire to have a pretty woman. A base instinct, after all. Lack of feeling didn’t erase instinct.

But why that orphan girl? He had never so much as twitched at noblewomen more beautiful, more exalted. Why her?

The more he thought about it, the more it felt like a maze with no way out. So he dropped it.

The canary darted across the table, but when Matthias gave a short whistle, it flew straight back into his hand.

Riette tried too, pursing his lips to whistle longer, clearer, even sweeter. The bird only tilted its head at him, then turned away.

“What the hell. Even birds know their master?”

He chuckled under his breath. He thought of the girl then, glaring at him through her glasses with suspicion.

But it didn’t seem all that hard. She had been pliable to the doctor’s son, pliable to Matthias. Why would she be difficult for him? And Matthias—Matthias would never stoop to fighting his cousin over a woman. He’d discard her first. Just as Claudine expected him to.

“How about a hunt this weekend?”

Riette refilled his glass as he spoke. Matthias, after a moment of thought, gave an answer Riette had not expected.

“Go by yourself. I’ll have the preparations made.”

“What?”

Riette blinked. Matthias had never once refused a hunting invitation. Not once.

“You’re serious?”

Before Matthias could reply, a knock came at the door. It was Hessen, the butler.

“Today’s post has arrived, Your Grace.”

He stepped forward with a tray, a package and letters upon it.

At this hour? For something so trivial?

Riette watched with faint amusement. But in the butler’s tight-lipped expression, he caught the unmistakable cue meant for third parties: Leave us.

“Well then, until tomorrow, Your Grace.”

Riette raised his glass in a casual wave and sauntered out. Only when his steps had faded did Hessen speak again.

“The package has been returned.”

“Returned?”

Matthias accepted the small box. The sender’s name was the same false one Hessen had used at his master’s command.

“Who is it from?”

“A cousin of mine, Your Grace. I used this name and address as you instructed.”

“Ah.”

Matthias remembered. Last week, he had ordered Hessen to send Layla Llewellyn a fine pen.

Now it all made sense.

“My lord…”

“I understand.”

His voice cut the butler off, calm as ever.

“You may go.”

Hessen obeyed without another word.

When the door shut, Matthias rose, the package still in hand. He tore off the wrapping and tossed it into the fire. The flames devoured it.

Inside lay a pen, gleaming with the shine of something untouched, and a single folded note. Matthias held the slip of paper between his fingers and read.

It was my own fault for losing the pen.
It was my fault for falling, for failing to pick up what I dropped, for not retrieving it in time. None of this is your responsibility.
This is something I have no reason to accept. So I am returning it.

That was all. A curt notice, without even her name.

Matthias read it again. Then again. His brows lifted, his lips curling in a dry laugh.

The flames licked greedily at the crumpled note, then the box, then the brand-new pen.

As they burned, his face shifted—scorn, rage, humiliation, bitter amusement. Each surfaced, each tangled, until they vanished.

Only the mask remained. Serene, quiet, even tranquil. With the firelight dancing in his shadowed expression.

Classes ended early that day, but Layla found herself busier than ever.

It was the day of the school council meeting. The building was small and old; expansions were needed, and today’s gathering was to discuss it.

Layla was tasked with preparing the meeting room. Chairs, tables, note pads, pens—all in place for the guests.

“Miss Llewellyn, are you finished?”

Miss Greber came bustling over. Layla gave the room one last look, then nodded with a smile.

“Yes, all ready.”

“Then let’s go quickly. The patrons are arriving.”

“Already?”

Layla straightened her appearance in haste and followed her colleague. Outside, carriages and automobiles rolled through the gates in a line.

A chill prickled her skin. She shook her head. The guest list had been checked and double-checked—no Herhardt names. She was being foolish. It was just her nerves, stirred by recent events.

Days had passed since she had returned the pen. The Duke had said nothing, had done nothing. No visits, no questions, no torment. For all her fear, he had left her alone. Perhaps she had bruised his pride, but it was a blow that needed to be struck.

She wasn’t a child. She understood enough of men and women to sense what danger lurked in his desires. And she wanted no part of it. She wanted no part of him.

She had sent back the gift, and with it, her refusal. Surely he understood. Surely his silence meant acceptance.

Breathing deeply, she joined the other teachers to greet the line of patrons. The autumn rain chilled the air, but attendance was good. Every promised guest had come.

Layla smiled brightly, bowed politely, did her duty. Tea would be served during the meeting, farewells offered at the end. Her first council duty would go smoothly.

At last, the final lady entered, and the headmaster turned back. Just then, another automobile rolled up, its tires splashing in the rain.

Layla froze. The headmaster’s expression shifted, wide-eyed—then blooming with delight.

“My word! Your Grace!”

Layla’s lips trembled.

No.

She shook her head, denial quivering in her eyes. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.

And there he was. Matthias von Herhardt, unmistakable beneath the umbrella held by his attendant. His posture as straight, as composed as ever.

His eyes passed over the teachers lined in welcome. And stopped on her pale, stricken face.

When their gazes met, the Duke smiled. A smile that seemed, impossibly, gentle.