WYRS 2

Chapter 2

Joyce greeted Freya with a face blooming with laughter.

“Lady Freya! You shine as brightly as ever today. How are you feeling?”

“Other than a little sore throat, I’m perfectly fine.”

Even her voice was beautiful. Atul thought Freya’s voice resembled the silver chime his mother used to shake from time to time.

Joyce began introducing the servants one by one to the countess. As the introductions of those in the front row were nearly finished, Elena quietly asked,

“By the way, where is the gardener? The garden has become so much lovelier than before. I’d like to give my thanks…”

“Ah…”

Joyce hesitated for a moment before reluctantly pointing at Sanchez.

“That man over there. He’s the new gardener we hired this year.”

At Joyce’s words, Sanchez gave a start, gripped his hat, and quickly bowed.

“M-my name is Sanchez Federico. I tend the garden together with my son.”

Atul hurriedly bowed his head, following his father’s lead. Elena widened her eyes in slight surprise at their appearance.

Most immigrants looked similar to the people of the Kingdom of Elvador, but those from the Duchy of Abbas were different.

The people of Abbas had sharply defined features—high-bridged noses and deep-set eyes—that set them apart from other nations.

Their uncommon black hair and thick eyebrows were traits that made it easy to recognize them as foreigners. Sanchez and Atul bore all the hallmarks of the Abbas duchy.

Overcome with tension, Sanchez’s hands trembled without him realizing it. Just one word from Elena, and he and Atul could be thrown out onto the streets.

Atul watched his father’s quivering hands and lowered his head even further. But contrary to his fears, Elena smoothed the surprise off her face and gave them a gentle smile.

“This estate is a precious gift from my family. Thank you for tending so carefully to a place I cherish, Mr. Federico. I hope I can rely on you from here on.”

“P-please don’t worry. I’ll do my utmost!”

Atul was just as overjoyed as his father. He had braced himself for a cutting remark, only to be met with words as soft as a butterfly’s wings.

In that tender reality, Atul lifted his head with a bright smile—only to see Freya Swan, her brows furrowed as though she’d seen something filthy.

She gave them both a disdainful once-over from head to toe, then primly turned away to trail after her mother.

Atul’s face flushed red in an instant. Shame pooled into his tightly clenched fists, and at the sharp sound of the girl’s voice that followed, he struck his thigh with his knuckles.

“Mother, if Father were to see those people, wouldn’t he drive them out at once?”

The pounding in Atul’s chest, which had beat so wildly at Freya’s beautiful face, was now filled with fury.

Freya Swan was, to put it kindly, naïve—and to put it bluntly, insufferable.

In truth, compared to other noble children her age, Freya’s disposition wasn’t all that bad. But Atul had no way of knowing that—nor did he care to.

To him, she was nothing more than a pampered noble girl.

Though said to be recuperating from congenital tuberculosis, she roamed the estate so energetically it was hard to believe she was ill at all.

Freya had already begun her bridal training. But since the lessons didn’t seem too rigorous, she would always wander about the mansion after her morning studies, poking her nose into everything.

The servants seemed to enjoy the curious questions of the pretty young lady. But Atul, who had already decided to dislike her, could only see her questions as rude nitpicking.

Who was she to meddle in something as trivial as the oven temperature for baking cakes? She should just lock herself in her room and read her fancy books.

So before Freya could catch him, Atul slipped out of the mansion.

After thoroughly poking around the house to her satisfaction, Freya would always come find him—as though performing some final ritual.

Though she looked down on him like dirt, she trailed after him everywhere, interfering with him at every turn.

Atul! Why do roses have thorns? Have you ever been pricked by one?
Atul! Look over there. A bird built a nest! It must be about to lay eggs!
They say this pudding is newly made—want to try it?
Atul! …Atul…! Atul!

Relentless, Freya tormented him with her endless chatter.

Sanchez urged his son to be kind, saying she had no one else her age to spend time with. But Atul had no desire whatsoever to be friends with Freya.

That day, he swore he would not let himself be toyed with. He rushed to finish his work and ran to the one place Freya could not follow.

His refuge was a small hill that only he and his father knew of, a clearing reached by following a hidden path through the woods around the mansion.

Wildflowers clustered thickly there, and at its crest stood a great plane tree with wide-spreading branches.

Whenever he had time, Atul would come to this hill. Here, where only birdsong and the whisper of wind in the grass could be heard, he could briefly forget the misery of reality.

He climbed the hill, keeping watch from behind the tree in case Freya came searching. But long minutes passed with no sign of her—not even the hem of her dress. With a victorious smile, he stretched out beneath the tree.

Though the hilltop blazed with sun, the shade beneath the tree was pleasantly cool.

All he had to do was enjoy this peace until the church bells tolled five times in the distance. Yet strangely, drowsiness did not come over him as it usually did.

Instead, the longer he lay there, the clearer his mind became, restless with a strange unease. He could not understand why, and stared blankly at the clouds drifting between thick leaves.

Atul!

Freya’s clear voice suddenly rang in his ears. Atul sprang up and glanced around in a panic, but there was no sign of her—not even a glimpse of her skirts.

Meow—.

Only a cat, a silver bell tied at its neck, sat leisurely by, licking his hand.

“Spots?”

It was the cat Freya had brought from the Swan estate. With its sleek brown fur and bold black markings, she had given it the humble name Spots. Hardly a noble name for a pedigree cat.

Spots sauntered up and rubbed his face against Atul’s knee. When Atul scratched under its chin, the cat purred contentedly before turning its attention to a passing insect.

Every time Spots leapt after a bug, the bell chimed brightly. Had he mistaken that sound for Freya’s voice?

Atul let out a long sigh. To think Freya Swan would even enlist a cat to make her presence felt—she was truly an insufferable girl.

Atul’s peace lasted exactly three days. He had managed to avoid Freya, who grew increasingly irritable from not being able to find him.

Atul knew the layout of the mansion perfectly, and he always overheard bits of conversation about Elena and Freya. So keeping track of Freya’s whereabouts was easy.

Lately, a foal had been born, and after her lessons Freya ran straight to the stables. Only after playing there for a long while did she begin her search for Atul.

So when she was distracted at the stables, that was his chance. Hearing she had gone there today as well, Atul made his way up the hill at a leisurely pace.

‘What’s so great about a foal anyway…’

No matter how well kept, a stable reeked of manure. Was dung bearable to her while immigrants like him weren’t?

Or perhaps she thought of him as lower than horse droppings. Irritated by the thought, Atul snatched up a twig and swung it about.

“What do I care what she thinks of me.”

Reaching the top, he shouted the words as though to remind himself.

Yes—no matter how hard he tried, to the people of Elvador he would always be an outsider.

It was easier not to expect anything in the first place. If he neither sought nor gave kindness, then there would be no disappointment.

Reaffirming his creed, Atul slumped beneath the tree once more.

“Atul!”

There it was again—the hallucination. Spots must have followed him here, just as persistent as its mistress.

He turned his head half-heartedly, expecting the cat. But what filled his vision wasn’t a mischievous feline face.

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere.”

Freya was climbing the hill, breathless. When her eyes landed on Atul, a smile slowly spread across her face.

“Wow! This place is amazing!”

The mirrored mansion and lake spread out below, and Freya cried out in awe. Atul could only stare blankly as she drew nearer, not even thinking to get up.

The hem of her pale green dress—exactly the shade of his eyes—was streaked with dirt. Yet Freya paid it no mind as she hurried up the slope.

“Is this your hideout? I heard boys often make such secret places.”

She stopped directly before him. As she leaned down toward him, her long hair tumbled forward, nearly brushing his head.

A faint scent of lavender—whether perfume or simply her own fragrance—brushed the bridge of Atul’s nose.