Chapter 9: Layla’s past

“A peculiar tale, indeed, a truly bizarre one.”

A single bead of perspiration traced a path down Olivia’s temple, a silent testament to the bewildering labyrinth into which Layla’s disjointed words were plunging her. She felt herself sinking, much like a shipwrecked sailor, into a vortex of narrative with no visible coastline. Every nerve ending was taut, every sense strained to make meaning of the unfolding enigma.

“So, Lady Layla,” Olivia began, her voice an anchor of forced composure against the rising tide of confusion. “This gentleman… he is your husband, correct?”

Layla’s gaze lifted slowly, calmly, yet her expression was shrouded in an almost preternatural reserve. A strange, knowing shadow flickered in her eyes.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Olivia’s features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated perplexity. She stared across the small, mahogany table, her mind utterly failing to reconcile the answer with reality.

“In a manner of speaking? My dear woman, what on earth does that mean? He either is your husband, or he is not! There is no third state of matrimony!”

Layla drew a long, measured breath, a theatrical pause that felt less like hesitation and more like preparation for the detonation of yet another conversational bomb.

“I do have a husband, yes… a perfectly legitimate one. But I do not, strictly speaking, consider this man to be my husband. It is… how shall I put it? My second husband.”

The air left Olivia’s lungs in a sharp, audible gasp. Her jaw dropped, and the dainty, porcelain teacup she held tilted precariously, threatening to spill its amber contents onto the Turkish rug. The sheer audacity of the revelation was staggering.

“Lady Layla, I must insist. Are you mocking me?”

Layla shook her head, the movement slow and deliberate, accompanied by a faint, wistful smile that held a deep, lingering trace of pain—a subtle laceration beneath the surface calm.

“I assure you, I am deadly serious, sister-in-law.”

Olivia continued to stare, her entire being suspended in a state of shock, her thoughts an unholy tangle of incredulity and disbelief.

“You… you are married to two men? How… how has this come to pass? This must be some sort of cruel jest, surely?”

Layla did not respond immediately. Instead, a peculiar, almost mischievous gleam danced in her eyes, as if she were deriving a perverse enjoyment from the dramatic impact of her confession on Olivia’s well-ordered world.

Olivia swallowed hard, the effort a painful rasp in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“Well? If you intend to drive me to the brink of hysteria, perhaps you should at least provide the particulars. How did this happen? And who is this… second husband?”

Layla sighed, a long, drawn-out sound, as if she were unwinding a complicated, tangled skein of memories.

“I do not know.”

Olivia’s stupefaction deepened, her eyes locked on Layla’s face as though she were confronting a vision of glorious madness.

“You do not know?”

“No, I do not know. And that, dear Olivia, is precisely why I have made this arduous journey to the Dukedom. I am here… in search of my husband, the father of my child.”

A flicker of doubt—the first insidious tendril of suspicion—crept into Olivia’s mind. Was Layla merely teasing her, or, perhaps, was she utterly unhinged? Yet, she could not entirely dismiss the unsettling ring of sincerity in the woman’s voice, nor the earnest, tormented look in her gaze.

“You are jesting with me… are you not?”

Layla chuckled softly, a quiet, resonant sound that left one hopelessly stranded between enigma and truth.

“Your expression, dear sister-in-law, is truly priceless. But do not fret. I shall explain everything. I must.”

Layla took another deep, restorative breath, preparing for a confession that promised to be as long as it was devastatingly complex.

“You are aware, of course, that I am the same age as your brother, Mathias.”

Olivia gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “You are twenty-seven, then.”

“Indeed. Which, as you know, is considered somewhat long in the tooth for a woman who has yet to be properly settled.”

Olivia hesitated for a moment, then conceded with a slight dip of her head. “Well… I cannot deny the prevailing sentiment.”

Layla offered a faint, melancholy smile, a fragile crescent that held the bitter tang of cynicism and the wry resignation of a woman who had fought a lonely war.

“That, dear Olivia, was my truth. I was an unmarried woman—not for want of opportunity, but by deliberate design. I could not endure the notion of binding myself to a man who saw me merely as a vessel for his desires, or an ornamental fixture in his drawing-room. Thus, I rejected every suitor who darkened our door. My focus shifted, became singularly devoted to my craft: medicine.”

Her eyes glazed over slightly, imbued with the sharp, painful sheen of distant, arduous memories.

“In that era, our society viewed women’s work with unconcealed disdain. Even the women themselves often scorned the idea of a female laboring outside the home, to say nothing of the men. I met with fierce, cutting opposition when I declared my intention to study medicine. Everyone was arrayed against me. Everyone, save for Mathias.”

“He, as I told you, paid my academy fees in secret, shielded from Father’s wrath—the late Duke, that is, whose ties with us had already frayed to nothing.”

Layla paused, a deep, restorative sigh escaping her. “Naturally, I persevered. I studied, I burned the midnight oil, and, in spite of them all, I graduated at the top of my class. Mathias’s unwavering faith was my constant engine, my propellant.”

“Upon graduation, I secured a position at a hospital in the village of Latin. The reception was hardly a welcoming fanfare, yet my brother’s subtle influence ensured that no one dared to openly challenge me. Let them mutter their curses beneath their breath; I cared not. I labored ceaselessly, dividing my life between the wards and my meager lodgings. Even my own mother voiced her strong disapproval of my profession, but I simply closed my ears.”

Olivia listened, a thread of silent, sympathetic sorrow weaving through her own composure. She held her peace, sensing the importance of allowing Layla’s tide of recollection to flow uninterrupted.

“Then, last year, my mother’s health declined for a time. And Emilia, whose spirit has always been one for the fray, decided to enroll in the Military Academy—she wanted to be strong, always. I was compelled to relinquish my post in Latin and return home to tend to Mother.”

“I decided to seek employment at a new institution, and this time, I applied to the hospital in Akansi, the town where we resided.”

“But when I presented my application, it was dismissed out of hand. Rejected immediately.” A fresh surge of indignation flared in Layla’s eyes. “I couldn’t fathom it. So I sought an audience with the Hospital Director. ’Why was my application denied?’ I demanded. ’There is a documented shortage of physicians, and I am a graduate of a highly regarded academy.’ Instead of a straight answer, he posed a bizarre, insulting question: ’Do you possess permission from your husband?’”

A sharp, derisive sound escaped Olivia’s lips. “Typical of those narrow-minded simpletons!”

Layla nodded sadly. “Precisely. And when I informed him I was unmarried, he narrowed his eyes and regarded me with unmistakable contempt, saying, ’As long as you have no husband, or his explicit authorization, you cannot be employed here.’”

“I returned home utterly devastated. It felt as though everything I had labored for, every sleepless night and sacrifice, had been obliterated by a single piece of parchment… merely because I was not a woman supported by a man. That night, I truly shattered. A society that views a woman as a mere tool in a man’s hand—I despised it with every fiber of my being.”

A heavy silence descended upon the tea table. Olivia’s gaze softened with profound compassion, as if she recognized her own fierce, internal struggles mirrored in Layla’s narrative.

The impassivity that had previously veiled Olivia’s face now fractured, replaced by a recognizable shade of melancholy. A familiar, aching sense of injustice squeezed her heart as she absorbed Layla’s pain. It resurrected memories of her own treatment by her mother, the woman who had only ever acknowledged her son after the Emperor’s marriage, reserving all affection and attention for him alone.

Lost in her own brief reverie, Olivia barely registered Layla continuing her tale:

“That night, I was quite alone in the house; Mother had gone to visit Emilia. Not long after, I heard a loud, insistent knocking at the door. It was forceful, and a sudden wave of fear washed over me. I called out several times, ’Who is there?’”

Layla paused, her voice low, as if straining to recall the very resonance of that nocturnal sound.

“A voice, muffled and ragged, replied: ’I require a doctor. I was told there was a physician here.’ Then… I heard a heavy thud. Terror seized me, yet my medical training compelled me. I cautiously opened the door, only to be confronted by the shocking sight of a man sprawled across the threshold, slick with blood.”

“Thankfully, my mother was absent, or she would have collapsed in fright. I struggled to drag his heavy frame inside and quickly scrubbed the entrance hall of the crimson stains. I had no idea who he was, but his wound was plainly critical. I grabbed my medical satchel and my few remaining magical healing stones, and began to treat him.”

“I intended to remain awake, monitoring his vital signs, but the exhaustion, it seemed, was too potent. I drifted off without realizing it. Yes, I know what you are thinking—to fall asleep with a stranger in the house—but I had reached my limit.”

“When I opened my eyes in the morning, I was startled. It was I who was lying in my bed, while he was sitting upright in a chair beside me, watching my face. I have no idea when or how he managed to lift me and place me in the bed. It was a profoundly peculiar moment.”

Layla swallowed hard, the memory bringing a visible blush to her cheeks.

“I shot upright: ’You! Are you alright? Your wound was gravely serious!’

But he merely smiled, a slow, grateful curve of his lips, and inclined his head. ’Madam, I thank you profusely for your assistance. You saved my life. If there is anything, anything at all, I can do to repay your kindness, you have only to ask.’”

Layla stopped again, a private, amused smile playing on her lips at the recollection of her embarrassment.

“I told him, ’There is no need. You may leave when you are ready. I require nothing in return.’”

The man replied, “Very well, thank you once more. Could you direct me to a nearby hotel? I need lodgings for at least a month.”

“Certainly. There is one at the end of the main street, next to the grocer’s shop.”

The man smiled and extended his hand. “Then, farewell, Miss—?”

“Layla. My name is Layla.”

He returned the smile, his grip firm. “A beautiful name. I am Kyle, by the way.”

Olivia stared at her, her brows arched high in renewed astonishment. “And who, pray tell, was this man?”

Layla shrugged, a cryptic glint returning to her eyes. “In that moment, he was simply a person in desperate need of aid. I truly had no idea who he was.”

Layla sighed, a fresh resolve hardening her gaze. “Yet, I felt a strange, restorative surge of satisfaction at having practiced medicine again, even if only by sheer accident. It forced me to reconsider my situation. I decided that I would insist on resubmitting my application to the new hospital, no matter the cost. I had already resigned my old post; I had nothing left to lose.”

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