YWPWYLFDM 70

Chapter 70

“Have you returned, miss?”

“Yeah, I’m back.”

He didn’t say much, but watching Gerald head toward the main house, Cloud scrutinized Ayla’s face as if to make sure the fellow hadn’t done anything to her. He looked genuinely worried — or at least pretending to be.

“What’s wrong, Cloud?”

She deliberately tilted her head with an innocent look. Cloud’s concern felt hypocritical to her — he only ever intended to use her, after all.

“…It’s nothing. Let’s go inside. The master is waiting for you, miss.”

He shook his head and hurried her toward the annex.

As soon as they arrived at the annex, she was escorted not to her own room but to Byron’s.

“Come in, my daughter.”

Byron tried to look relaxed, sprawled crookedly in a comfortable armchair, but his expression betrayed him. He’d allowed her to go out with a bravado, but now that she’d returned he was worried.

Ayla inwardly snorted at his petty display and hurried to kneel before him in a natural, practiced way.

“So, did you enjoy being outside?”

He reached for her head, then withdrew his hand and asked. As obsessed as he was with her Ophelia-like silver hair, he didn’t seem keen to touch hair that had been stuffed under a hat all day.

In that instant she thought fast. What answer would satisfy Byron’s twisted mood?

If she said “It was fun,” he’d start complaining — did she like Gerald? — and make some ridiculous fuss about feeling slighted. Saying it was boring might be safer. A little truth mixed with a white lie would avoid needless suspicion or nitpicking.

Still, he had been kind enough to let her go out; if she only said it was boring, he would likely call her ungrateful. So she decided to add a small positive detail.

“…No. It wasn’t very fun. We only stayed at a café all day.”

“A café? Didn’t you go to the festival?”

Byron asked, puzzled by her answer.

“He didn’t want to mingle with lowly commoners, so he took me to a café.”

She pouted while answering. It wasn’t a lie — Gerald had indeed said something like that.

“I see.”

Byron made a baffled face but nodded. He must have expected Gerald to act that way.

“But the cake was tasty, and—oh! I tried a fruit tea I’d never seen before.”

Ayla chattered brightly as she remembered what she’d had at the café. Her cutesy tone worked: Byron nodded, satisfied.

“I’ve heard they preserve grapefruit in honey around here. I’m glad the cake was good.”

‘Phew, that did it.’

Ayla silently exhaled. She felt like she’d passed Byron’s test.

Now that he was mollified, a mischievous idea crossed her mind and she pursed one corner of her mouth. She wasn’t ready to let that outrageously rude Gerald off easily.

“Ah, Father… he called me a ‘lowly thing.’ What does that mean? I’m your noble daughter, aren’t I?”

With eyes on the verge of tears, she looked up at Byron and asked. How could Gerald possibly have known she wasn’t Byron’s real daughter? The secret must have gone from Byron to his father, then to Gerald.

And Byron wouldn’t have told such a secret lightly; he must have made them promise to keep it. Whoever had dared to speak of her as “lowly” had broken that trust — Byron certainly wouldn’t leave Gerald unpunished.

Just as she expected, Byron’s brows twitched unpleasantly when he heard that. A signal that he was deeply irritated.

“What did you say? That wretch dared call you that? That’s an insult to me. I’ll teach that fellow a lesson — don’t worry about it. Go wash up and rest. You must be tired.”

He smiled kindly as he spoke, but his mouth trembled. He looked like he might storm off to see the count and Gerald and make a scene at any moment.

It would hardly be sufficient punishment for what Gerald had planned, but at least it would ease Byron’s anger a bit.

“Yes, Father.”

Ayla nodded cheerfully. Despite everything, she’d enjoyed the festival, met someone she’d missed, and felt unbelievably lucky that day.

Gerald, avoiding his father’s questions — “You were so stubborn; did you have fun?” — was shut up in his room.

He was furious and could hardly stand it. How could a mere girl act so pleased with herself?

She’d dodged his trap as if she knew his every thought, left him sleeping in his own bed, then had the nerve to calmly eat cake afterward.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He’d tried to indulge someone who wasn’t even a guest’s real daughter — a low-born girl — but she’d taken advantage of him and toyed with him instead.

Recalling her prim face as she quietly ate cake made his blood boil.

What upset him most, though, was himself.

‘After all that, and I think she looks cute eating cake. Am I insane?’

No sane person would think that. He’d been well and truly bewitched.

‘Yes, bewitched. That girl must have used some cowardly trick.’

If he could blame someone else, even partly, it made him feel a little better. Escaping into that denial, Gerald finally realized he was starving. He hadn’t eaten all day.

Of course he’d been sleeping off sedatives while she ate cake alone; no wonder he felt hollow.

“Hey! Is anyone out there? Bring something to eat. I’m starving!”

He snapped at the rope and shouted, ready to pillage the food stores just to fill his belly.

A moment later the door was flung open. It was a rude entrance — no knock — but Gerald, who felt he could eat even his shoes, didn’t care and stared at the newcomer.

But it wasn’t a servant bearing food. It was his father, Count Ernes Senospon, his face red with fury.

“You! I heard you called that wench a ‘lowly thing.’ Is that true?”

“Huh? What do you mean…?”

The count grabbed his son by the collar and shouted; Gerald blinked, bewildered.

“Don’t you dare lie and say you didn’t. The guest is absolutely furious and came running here! She trusted me and told me the secret, and you’re making a mockery of me!”

Gerald pictured Byron’s cold, mocking face and felt a chill run through him; he shivered all over.

He felt as if all the favors he’d buttered Byron up for — even the throne — were slipping away.

“….”

Gerald fell silent. Now that he thought about it, he had muttered something like that on their way out of the café. It hadn’t been said with any particular malice — he’d been so furious he’d blurted the first thing that came to mind.

At the sight of his son suddenly speechless, the count raised a hand as if to strike. He regained his composure at the last second and didn’t hit him, but the very motion shocked Gerald deeply.

The thought that the father who had spoiled him might actually hit him was earth-shattering.

“You’re grounded. No allowance.”

“What? No—!”

The count’s decree crashed down like thunder. Gerald thought he might have preferred a beating; at least if he’d been roughed up and had a swollen cheek, his father’s anger might have softened out of pity.

“…Until when?”

Gerald asked timidly, glancing at the count. He knew he’d done wrong, at least in part. But at least he deserved to know for how long. Arbitrary grounding and a withdrawn allowance felt unbearably harsh.

The count looked at his son as if incredulous: the length mattered more than anything?

“Until the guest’s anger cools.”

The count answered with a stern, threatening expression. If Byron didn’t calm down, it might be forever.

Realizing that, Gerald lost his temper.

“That’s insane! It’s unfair! I’m innocent! That wench started it—!”

But he stopped himself. If he explained the whole situation now, it would only get him in more trouble.

“Started what? Finish your story. Let’s hear it.”