WYRS 6

Chapter 6

“What? What are you suddenly talking about?”

“When Father arrives, you’d better stay as far away from the mansion as possible.”

“Freya!”

“Don’t call me that anymore. Call me my lady. You’re the gardener’s son.”

It was absurd. She should be thanking him, not suddenly playing the lady. Atul grabbed Freya’s arm and pulled her back.

“Have you lost your mind or something?”

Freya shook off his hand without meeting his eyes. Looking down toward the slope, she said firmly,

“It won’t be good if we’re caught being alone together. I’ll go down first.”

“You’ve never cared about that before. Freya!”

“Goodbye, Atul.”

She walked slowly down the hill without turning back. He had braced himself for parting, but not like this.

“Freya!”

Unable to believe it, he called her name once more. But his voice was swallowed up by the many others shouting for her.

“Freya…”

It felt as though dark waves surged beneath his feet. When Freya shook off his hand, Atul was thrown back to that moment in the darkness—when molten lava had devoured his home in an instant and he could do nothing but watch.

Once again, he was powerless.

Snap— a small root broke. The thread that connected him to Elvador snapped as well. His beautiful sanctuary was collapsing.

Atul pulled from his pocket a half-carved block of wood. He raised it high, ready to smash it on the ground. What use was any of this?

But the figure had already begun to take the shape of a person. Just as he could never bring himself to hate Freya, he couldn’t throw it away.

He stood rooted in place, arm raised, a sob leaking between clenched teeth.

Half a year passed, as though everything had been a dream. Life returned to the way it had been. Freya shut herself inside the mansion, never coming out, and Atul never sought her again.

A noble lady and a gardener’s son—the distance between them was that wide. Sanchez even seemed relieved at their change.

“A wise young lady.”

With those words from his father, Atul finally let go of his regrets. He became once more the quiet boy with shadowed eyes.

Then, along with the skin-stinging cold, Count Lancelot Swan arrived at the Mirror Mansion.

“Welcome, my lord.”

His carriage was twice the size of the one Freya had ridden. A man with sharp eyes and a perfectly trimmed mustache stepped out—bearing no resemblance to Freya whatsoever.

“Don’t you dare lift your head, Atul.”

Sanchez pressed Atul’s head down as the boy tried to steal a glance at the Count with burning eyes.

“Stay out of sight as much as possible.”

That was the order while the Swan Count was in residence. Since winter preparations were already complete, they only had to tend the greenhouse, which wasn’t difficult. Still, it was degrading.

Count Swan loathed immigrants—or rather, he didn’t see anyone without noble blood as human.

It was said that to work for House Swan, one had to submit proof of lineage. Anyone without even a drop of noble blood was cast out immediately.

The Mirror Mansion, used as a holiday retreat every few years, had been spared that strict standard—until now.

With the Count himself present, small changes were inevitable. The staff were all given paid leave—though only half their wages. Only Sanchez and Atul were permitted daily entry to care for the greenhouse.

It was blatant discrimination. Yet with nowhere else to go, the servants accepted the Countess’s decree without complaint.

Keeping his head lowered, Atul’s eyes shifted to the carriages arriving behind. Dozens of servants poured out—retainers from the Swan estate.

The gap between them felt like an iron fortress towering over him.

His fists trembled with anger. Someday, he swore, he would land a punch on that arrogant face.

“Father, it has been too long.”

Freya’s voice cut through the winter air. Atul’s neck stiffened at the sound—so long since he had heard it.

“Finally, you breathe properly before me again.”

“Thanks to your consideration, Father. The air here was good for my recovery.”

“I’m glad. Let us go inside.”

They looked the perfect family: a strict yet capable father, a gentle and beautiful mother, and a polite, clever daughter.

The Swans were the model family the Kingdom of Elvador aspired to. Atul could see no place for himself among them.

He lowered his eyes again. His worn shoes, now riddled with small holes from chasing after Freya, came into view.

Wiggling his big toe, he widened the hole. If the shoes broke, would he be able to throw away his feelings as well?

“Let’s go home, Atul.”

When the Swans and their entourage disappeared into the mansion, Sanchez straightened his back.

Atul gave a resigned smile and shook his head. Yes, this wasn’t his home. It wasn’t difficult. He only had to return to where he belonged. He told himself that over and over.

It was nothing more than a fond childhood memory…

But the human heart is fickle—what you try not to think of only comes to mind more strongly.

To drive away thoughts of Freya, Atul buried himself in carving. Yet in the end, he completed a statue of a girl who looked just like her.

He sighed at the polished walnut figure in his hands. Then he remembered—it was Freya’s birthday.

“Since I’ve made it anyway…”

He wrapped the statue in paper and tucked it into his worn brown leather bag. Bundling his coat, he stepped outside. A rush of cold air filled his lungs.

Sanchez rubbed his frozen hands together as he locked the door. It was 1:30 p.m.—if they walked steadily, they would reach the Mirror Mansion exactly at 2.

Count Lancelot Swan was like a clock. He lived by a strict schedule and tolerated not a second of wasted time.

That personality drained those around him, but for Atul and Sanchez it was a blessing: from 2 to 3, when the Count took his nap, they had the freedom to work without interference.

The time was short, but the greenhouse wasn’t large, and for two weeks things had passed without incident.

They thought today would be the same—until they saw the long procession of carriages pulling up to the mansion.

“Oh dear. We’ll have to use the back gate today.”

Carriages emblazoned with the crests of great houses streamed in. Among them was even one of the new automobiles Atul had only seen in newspapers.

“There must be a party for Lady Freya’s birthday. We’d better finish work even quicker today.”

They slipped into the greenhouse, avoiding attention. The noise from the rear garden told them the party was being held there.

“A bouquet of pink roses, please.”

A maid hesitantly stepped into the greenhouse.

“Of course, just a moment.”

While Sanchez prepared the bouquet, Atul kept his eyes on the maid, who glanced nervously around.

“Nancy, wasn’t it…?”

She was one of the maids Freya had brought from her estate.

Atul took out the statue from his bag. After hesitating several times, he finally approached her. The tall boy made Nancy’s eyes go wide.

“Um… could you give this to Lady Freya for me?”

“…What?”

“If it’s troublesome, you don’t have to say it’s from me. Say you found it on the floor, anything. Just… please, could you pass it to her?”

Nancy blinked at him, staring at his flushed face, red as a roasted sweet potato. His hands were damp with desperation.

Atul clenched and unclenched his fists, eyes fixed on her lips like a prisoner awaiting sentence. At last, she delivered her verdict.

“All right. I can’t promise she’ll answer, but I’ll give it to her. If I slip it among the pile of gifts, it should be fine.”

“Thank you!”

Like an out-of-season flower blooming, a smile lit Atul’s face. Nancy’s eyes widened in surprise.

“So that’s why the young lady…”

She stared, dazed, at his radiant smile. His clear blue eyes, his sharp features… she couldn’t help but be struck. Most of all, the deep dimple in his left cheek caught her gaze.

He was still a boy, but in a few years he would surely grow into the kind of man who turned heads in the street.

But then another thought struck her, and she shook her head quickly, thrusting out the bundle she carried.

“This is a gift for Lady Freya’s birthday, but everyone’s been given one. Please, don’t feel burdened—just take it.”

Atul accepted it reluctantly. Unwrapping the pink handkerchief, he found five chocolate cookies inside, fragrant with buttery sweetness.