Chapter 29
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The hair he had smoothed back refused to stay in place, constantly spilling over his forehead. Yuls found himself marveling at the patience required for such a mane; his respect for the female gender was reaching new heights. He was just debating whether to gather the strands into a tie when a servant’s muffled announcement drifted through the heavy wood. Before the formal introduction for Marchioness Connolly could even conclude, the door swung wide. She stepped inside, her voice sharp with irritation.
“Cat! What possessed you to relocate? I was waiting in the other drawing room like a fool…”
Her sentence died in her throat.
Confusion clouded her features as she struggled to identify the figure before her. The fiery hair and those unmistakable, crimson eyes were there, yet they didn’t align with the image of the Duke Woodpecker she expected. In truth, the man did remind her of a Duke Woodpecker—just not the current one.
She felt as though she were staring at the previous Duke in the prime of his youth, a man defined by that same golden-red hair and piercing gaze. The boy who had once barely reached her shoulder had undergone a staggering transformation; he now stood tall enough to cast a shadow over her.
“Have you arrived, Aunt?”
“Cat?”
“Indeed.”
The Marchioness’s pupils trembled. Her initial thought of the former Duke had been fleeting, but as she looked closer, she realized this face didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t the Duchess’s likeness either.
“Standing there must be tiresome. Won’t you sit?”
Yuls gestured toward the furniture across from him. The Marchioness let her eyes drift over the elegantly arranged tea service and delicacies before returning her focus to him. As she took in his features—now bearing a haunting resemblance to the cold, perpetually grinning visage of that woman—she forced her mouth into a stiff smile. Yuls noticed the slight twitch at the edge of her lips, though neither voiced the observation.
She took her seat, followed by a retinue of maids who positioned themselves behind her like silent statues. Despite their outward composure, the air crackled with their suppressed excitement; Yuls knew the palace would be buzzing with this news within the hour.
“How is this possible…?”
“Ah, that.”
Yuls offered the explanation with an air of boredom.
“A killer paid me a visit. He carried a toxin.”
He raised his porcelain cup, his eyes catching hers with a mocking glint.
“The poison broke my skin. I suspect something in its composition acted as an antidote to the hex.”
He watched her carefully, wondering if she had been the one to send the blade. While they were currently allies of convenience, her loyalty was a fickle thing. The Marchioness’s hand shook as she reached for her own tea. Her current state was too frantic to draw any solid conclusions.
“The old saying suggests using one poison to kill another,” Yuls remarked. “I’ve always viewed a curse as a biological contaminant, and it seems my hypothesis held water. Does the result startle you, Aunt?”
“You… you were targeted by an assassin?”
“When did this happen?”
“Only a few days ago.”
“Who would dare commission such a thing?”
“The mastermind remains a mystery. The executioner’s tongue had been removed.”
He wasn’t worried about the identity remaining hidden for long. Bert possessed a particular set of skills, and his informants were rarely empty-handed. Professional guilds that maimed their own agents were a specific breed; Yuls was confident the trail would lead somewhere soon.
“Putting that aside, why the urgency for dinner? You were quite insistent on this meeting despite my earlier cancellations. I assume you have something of gravity to discuss.”
“It was significant, yes, but it pales in comparison to the Duke’s affliction being cured…”
The Marchioness set her cup down, the porcelain clinking rhythmically against the saucer as her tremors continued. Yuls found her terror fascinating. Her current subservience was a far cry from the way she had looked down on his smaller self. He let out a soft, dark laugh.
“It isn’t entirely resolved,” he corrected. “Look at me. I hardly look like a man of twenty-six.”
She glanced at his face and immediately looked away. His beauty was a painful reminder of that other woman, and by extension, a reminder of the Marchioness’s own past transgressions.
“The shadow hasn’t fully lifted. However, I have a feeling I can finish what started.”
Silence followed. Sensing her desperation to flee the room, Yuls decided to twist the knife.
“Is this not a better arrangement? A man of this stature commands more confidence than a mere child. No one can dismiss my authority based on my age anymore.”
His voice took on a bitter, self-mocking edge.
“Too young—even though I have already lived twenty-six years.”
His mind had always matured at the proper rate; it was only his flesh that had been anchored to his thirteenth year.
“Now, what was the reason for your visit?”
“…Perhaps another time,” she stammered.
Unable to endure his presence a moment longer, she rose and looked down at him. The boy from a few days ago was gone. That child didn’t possess these predatory eyes. Caught in that blood-red stare—the exact eyes of the Witch—Marchioness Connolly turned toward the exit.
“I will have the staff arrange a proper time for our next discussion.”
“As you wish, Aunt.”
She paused, throwing a sharp look over her shoulder.
“Do not call me that,” she said, her voice tight with restraint. “Address me as Marchioness Connolly, Duke.”
Yuls found it hysterical. When he looked like a boy, she had been obsessed with the familiar title, yet now she couldn’t stand the sound of it. Even as she hurried away without a backward glance, her maids couldn’t help but steal lingering looks at him.
Yuls flashed the servants a charming smile.
The Marchioness vanished from the room, the doors swinging wide as if the house itself were eager for her to leave. The frantic energy of the departing maids was palpable. He knew the domestic staff would be feasting on this scandal by dinner.
“Bert, do you want to place a wager?”
“On the speed of the rumors, My Lord?”
“It seems we are of one mind. That ruins the fun of a bet, doesn’t it?”
“…”
“Regardless, that isn’t the priority.”
Yuls leaned back. The Marchioness’s hysterics were irrelevant. What truly mattered was the catalyst for his sudden growth, which still eluded him.
“You recall the specifics of my mother’s spell, don’t you?”
“Vividly, sir.”
“A kiss from a person who loves me.”
The condition had always seemed like a sick joke. A fairy-tale solution to a grim reality. To Yuls, it was the most malicious requirement she could have devised.
Wrestling a dragon would have been a simple task by comparison. But love? He doubted such a thing existed in their world.
“Adi kissed the back of my hand.”
Yet, he had seen proof of it. Adi Grimaldi clearly harbored a profound affection for his twin.
“…I beg your pardon?”
“He was crying out for his sister.”
Yuls had been a witness to that noble, irrational force. It wasn’t the romantic passion of lovers, but the fierce devotion of blood.
“He pressed his lips to my hand repeatedly, promising protection and escape. He was begging me—her—not to vanish.”
The memory of those falling tears was etched into his mind. The depth of Adi’s grief for his sister was something Yuls couldn’t comprehend. He hadn’t shed a single tear for his father, his siblings, or even the Witch when they passed.
“The phrasing ‘a kiss from a loved one’ is ambiguous.”
“Does it require someone who loves me, or simply someone who is currently in love?”
“…Knowing her nature, she surely intended the former.”
“And yet, with Adrian, the latter occurred.”
The idea that the curse could be bypassed by a third party’s unrelated love felt too simple. The Witch was many things, but she wasn’t careless with her magic.
“I am certain the spell requires a kiss from someone who loves me specifically. Adrian does not.”
“…That is true.”
“Then how do you explain this?”
He gestured to his matured body. It was a paradox. Neither he nor Adrian felt anything but suspicion for the other. The logic failed.
Bert hesitated before speaking. “Perhaps…”
“If the threads of fate are already woven—”
“You’re suggesting that Adrian Grimaldi and I are destined to fall in love? And that by kissing me before that love bloomed, he accidentally triggered a loophole?”
Bert went silent. Yuls let out a sharp laugh.
The curse was flawed. Causality was a messy thing, and encounters rarely followed a script. Even the Witch couldn’t have accounted for every variable.
“Does this mean I am fated to love Adrian?” Yuls mused, though he wasn’t looking for a confirmation.
“Maybe my mother’s madness went beyond stunted growth. Perhaps she intended to trap me in a destiny with a man.”
“The twins,” Bert interrupted.
He didn’t think the Witch would have designed such a specific fate for her son.
“They say twins are two halves of a single destiny.”
Adrian was born as part of a pair.
“Perhaps the one intended for you…”
If their souls were truly intertwined from the womb…
“Could it have been the late Adrina Grimaldi?”
The thought was macabre. A ghost. If she looked like Adrian, she would have been a beauty, but she was currently nothing more than rotting flesh or sun-bleached bone.
“I can’t say,” Yuls replied.
“But how can I be kissed by a woman who is already in the ground?”
If Adrina was the key, the curse should have been permanent.
“However, if Adi Grimaldi is the vessel for that shared destiny…”
He looked down at his hands. A portion of the spell had shattered.
“It means I cannot let him go.”
