Chapter 78
The Four

The room, lit only by a single lamp on the desk, was filled with a softened shade of darkness.

Layla sat curled on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees, staring blankly into the light. Night had long since fallen, but sleep wouldn’t come. The more she tossed and turned, forcing herself to rest, the clearer her thoughts became.

A sudden rattle of the window under the gusting wind made her flinch and turn her head.

Though she herself had locked Phoebe’s cage door, for a moment she thought the bird might have come with another letter. Even though she knew Phoebe no longer flew to the Etman house, and that the Duke who had tamed the bird was not in Arvis.

Breathing out in relief, Layla rose from the bed and pulled on a shawl. She hadn’t meant to do anything in particular—only that the silence, the memories of wandering her childhood alone, the loneliness and fear creeping back into the present, had become unbearable.

She wandered the room, then went into the kitchen for a glass of water. But her lips soon grew dry again, trembling. She tried to steady herself by counting the days until Uncle Bill’s return, but it only made the emptiness more suffocating. Ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he’d just left yesterday or the day before. Why, then, did the fact of being alone feel so raw now?

After checking the locks on the doors and windows once more, Layla sat at the kitchen table with a cup of hot tea.

Poor thing.

Claudine’s words echoed in her head, twined with the whistle of the wind, buzzing like tinnitus. One sip, another sip—the warmth did nothing. The cold inside her only grew sharper until she set the cup down weakly.

Once, she could have kicked stones and branches along the roadside, let her anger fly, and forgotten. But tonight, she had walked home with her head bent low, staring at her moonlit shadow.

Shame burned in her chest.

It felt as though she had no right to feel hurt, no matter what insult Claudine threw at her. Not when she had stolen Claudine’s betrothed. Even if she hadn’t chosen it, in the end she was still guilty. Still disgraceful.

So this is what I’ve become. Someone who can’t even call herself a decent adult anymore.

The realization made her loathe him all the more. The only small comfort was that she’d been spared the humiliation of serving as Claudine’s maid before his eyes. Of course, he would be disappointed. He had lost a spectacle he would have relished.

Pouring another cup of tea, Layla set her glasses aside on the table. She pressed her aching eyelids hard with her fingertips and let out a long sigh.

Now she understood what she was to Matthias von Herhardt. To everyone else, he remained flawless. Only to her did he pour out the dark, twisted scraps of emotion he never showed another soul.

He will never show that face to Claudine.

Her lips tightened. With a firm shake of her head, she stood, checked the locks one last time, and looked out the window. The woods outside lay in utter blackness.

She hated him.

All the tangled emotions that had tormented her through the day finally hardened into hatred for the Duke. Even the wound she’d given Kyle, and the wound she carried from giving it, Layla folded into her hatred of him. It wasn’t entirely fair—she knew that. Not everything could be laid at his feet. But still, she wanted to hate him. That much, at least, she could allow herself.

Should I thank you for that, then?

Curling into the bed at last, Layla thought, fleetingly, that she almost wished for his return. So she could hate him fully, without this sadness, without this grief.

“You’ve grown, Kyle. You look like a young man now.”

Katharina von Herhardt smiled warmly at the boy standing beside his father, the family doctor. Kyle smiled back, that same gentle, open face that had always endeared him to her.

“Thank you, Dr. Etman, for bringing him.”

“Not at all. It is our pleasure to come and pay our respects. Isn’t it, Kyle?”

At his father’s prompting, Kyle nodded gladly, his easy smile widening. It brought another smile to the Dowager Duchess’s face.

Ever since hearing he had returned home, she had thought to see him. And as it happened, Dr. Etman had a house call today—so she asked him to bring his son along. The two had readily agreed.

It was only a mild cold, so the examination was brief. Most of the visit was filled with warm conversation and laughter. Knowing how much she had always cared for him, Kyle did his best to appear bright and healthy.

Layla.

Every time her name flickered across his mind, his gaze wavered. He managed to hide it, barely.

Layla had lied.

No matter how many times he replayed their meeting, Kyle could reach no other conclusion. When the house call ended, he meant to slip away at the first chance and find her, to learn why she had lied. He had to.

The visit concluded only when the Dowager Duchess, heavy with drowsiness, bade them farewell. Kyle hurried into the hall—only for a waiting maid to approach at once.

“Lady Brandt requests the company of Dr. Etman and his son.”

Both father and son widened their eyes.

“Lady Brandt? You mean us?”

“Yes. She invites you to join her for tea.”

Even when Dr. Etman asked again, the maid’s answer was calm and firm.

“Let’s go, Father,” Kyle said quietly.

Her eyes made clear she would not take no for an answer.

The afternoon drawing room was quiet, the older ladies having gone into town with Elise von Herhardt. Winter sunlight slanted across the space where Claudine sat embroidering before the hearth, and across from her, Layla sat with a book in her lap.

By now it should be nearly time.

Glancing at the door, Claudine set aside her embroidery hoop. She looked at Layla, bent over her book, and her eyes were almost tender, like an adult watching a child.

Tomorrow Matthias would return. Claudine had no intention of showing her fiancé the humiliation of his mistress serving at her side.

If today was the last, then she ought to give a gift befitting it.

Her lips curved into a soft smile.

For the past few days, Layla had been dutiful. She still bore that ill-matched pride she’d had since childhood, but there was no trace of arrogance, no flaunting of Matthias’s favor. She was gentler, more courteous—an almost decent mistress.

A decent mistress.

As absurd as an honest thief, but perhaps the truest compliment Layla could be given. If she continued to behave so, even after marriage, Claudine thought she could endure her presence.

“Layla, I think it would have been better if you’d married Kyle Etman.”

Layla’s head snapped up, startled.

“…What?”

“Just as I said. Kyle, wasn’t it? To marry him, to study at a university in the capital—that would have been the best life for you.”

Confusion clouded Layla’s face, but Claudine went on.

“You two suited each other so well. He could have made you happy, more than anyone.”

“My lady…”

“Madam Etman was cruel. Why must she have torn you apart like that?”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but that’s the past. Kyle and I are no longer—”

“I know, Layla.”

Looking at her still-so-naïve expression, Claudine almost savored the faintly sadistic pleasure it gave her.

“You and Kyle Etman can never be again. It’s impossible now. That is what I regret most.”

Even if he returned for you, you could never go. Not now. Not with your wings broken by that man, not with your feet bound to him.

She didn’t speak the words aloud. Instead, she looked at Layla with eyes warm with pity.

Poor thing.

She could have whispered it over and over, so easily did the sympathy rise.

A mistress of the man who ruined her life—poor Layla indeed. Let this tea with the husband she might have had be my small gift to you.

Summoned by Hessen, the household staff hurried into the entrance hall. The Duke of Herhardt had returned earlier than expected—when he had said not before tomorrow evening.

“M-my lord, you’re home!”

Hessen, uncharacteristically flustered, bowed deeply. The other servants bent just as hastily.

Matthias crossed the hall with long, firm strides, acknowledging them only with a brief nod.

“My lady is out, and the Dowager Duchess is resting,” Hessen reported quickly.

“And Lady Brandt?”

“She is in the small drawing room on the second floor.”

At that, Matthias turned his steps. Hessen’s throat tightened—he knew Layla was there, serving as Claudine’s companion—but he dared not speak. He followed in silence.

They had just reached the corridor to the drawing room when they encountered the Etmans.

“Good day, Your Grace,” Dr. Etman greeted first. Kyle bowed at his side.

“Lady Brandt invited us for tea. We were just on our way.”

Reading the question in Matthias’s eyes, Dr. Etman explained respectfully.

“I see.”

Matthias’s smile was habitual, practiced. He gave a small nod.

“Then let’s go together.”

He cast a brief look at Kyle Etman, then strode toward the drawing room. Father and son followed at a careful distance.

Hessen’s face went ashen. This was unthinkable. He should stop it somehow—but what could he say? His lips only opened and closed soundlessly.

“M-my lord!”

He managed to call out just as Matthias opened the door.

And there, through the doorway, all four froze. Claudine, Layla, Matthias, and Kyle—each caught, rigid, staring at the others.

God above…

Hessen swallowed his despair and shut his eyes tight.