The Arrow That Ruined a Perfect Day

Grand Duchess Laila Esdelheim carried a single secret — the very secret that had earned her the epithet of "the Perfect Grand Duchess Laila."

'My hand slipped, and I dropped the bouquet Countess Hanero had given me. How rude that must have looked.'

On any night following a less-than-perfect day, Laila used her "secret." She turned back time and began the day anew with every memory intact, rewinding it over and over until it became a flawless one.

And today was a day on which not only Laila, but every lady in attendance, wished for a "perfect day."

"It's the hunting contest, held only once a year — how fortunate that the weather is so fine."

"I was just thinking the same. I wonder which young lord will take the championship this year?"

"Young Master Felix was last year's champion, wasn't he? I expect it will be him again this year..."

Beneath a lavishly embroidered awning, the ladies chattered gaily over their teacups.

Among them, one figure outshone all the rest — Laila, beyond any doubt.

The angle at which she tilted her cup, the way her lashes lowered just so as she sipped, even the curve of her graceful smile — every detail was immaculate. She was the very image of a noble daughter, perfect beyond reproach.

'Good. This much has been perfect.'

And behind that flawless facade lay the quiet labor of a girl who had rehearsed each gesture thousands of times, unseen by anyone.

"Isn't the weather so lovely today precisely because Lady Laila is with us? She is beloved by the gods — surely heaven arranged it all for her sake."

A voice cut abruptly into the ladies' chatter, heaping praise on Laila out of nowhere.

Laila flinched inwardly.

'As if the gods would schedule fair weather just because they liked the look of me.'

For someone who was, at that very moment, putting a god-given power to thoroughly private use, the phrase beloved by the gods pricked like a tiny thorn lodged beneath a fingernail.

Keeping her face perfectly composed, Laila turned the topic with practiced ease.

"Lady Vena, surely you're the one favored by the gods — just look at that blonde hair of yours. It's simply gorgeous. What's your secret?"

"Oh my, I could never outdo Lady Laila's eye! I have only just started using a new hair oil, you know."

"Which salon is it from?"

"I'd been thinking for some time that your scent was lovely, Lady Vena."

Having steered the conversation so smoothly away, Laila stole a discreet glance around her.

While every eye remained fixed on Lady Vena's hair oil, a single lady sat unable to squeeze into the discussion.

It was Lady Della, betrothed to Young Master Felix. Laila took in the situation at a glance.

Lady Vena — famously Della's bitter rival — had made a swift retreat from the subject the moment Felix's name came up as a favorite to win the contest.

Lady Vena's face flushed crimson, and her gaze swung abruptly toward Laila.

'This is bad.'

Laila sighed to herself. It smelled like trouble — the sort that called for turning back time.

"Lady Laila, I have admired you for so long, and I'm truly delighted to share the hunting contest with you like this."

Lady Vena raised her voice. The ladies, who had been deep in animated talk of hair oils, turned their eyes to Laila once more.

"We owe it all to His Majesty the Emperor, don't we? In hosting such a splendid contest, he has given the young lords a stage for their hunting prowess, and us ladies an occasion for society."

At this show of modesty, Lady Della — who had been waiting for her opening — pounced, lifting Laila up in praise as though she had waited all day for the chance.

"How is it that even your words are pretty? No wonder the gods love you so."

Lady Vena and Lady Della began to glare at each other. Laila, wearing a faint smile, thought to herself that she would rewind time the very moment she got home.

'Why must they drag me into it, of all people!'

Laila resolved that once she rewound, she would seize the reins of the conversation and never let go, so that the two of them could never lock horns again.

"My mother says, every single time she scolds me, that she wishes I were even half the lady Lady Laila is."

"My father says he wishes Lady Laila were his daughter instead of me!"

As the two raised their voices, not only the ladies nearby but even the noble matrons seated behind them began to take notice.

It was uncomfortable, hearing her name repeated in a quarrel whose cause she couldn't fathom. But it didn't matter.

'I'll be rewinding it all anyway. Let them fight to their hearts' content.'

'If only night would come sooner.'

'And if only I could turn back time on the spot, whenever I pleased.'

Thinking this, Laila reached for a macaron on the table. A far more natural, easy smile settled on her lips than the serene one she had worn while performing perfection a moment before.

"Um, ex-cuse me... Lady Laila!"

"Yes?"

Just as Laila was about to take her first bite, one of the ladies who had been watching the quarrel called out to her.

"I-I heard you learned archery at the Academy. Might we see it, just once?"

When the nameless lady met Laila's eyes, she began mouthing an apology — I'm sorry — her lips working soundlessly.

She seemed firmly convinced that Laila alone could untangle this situation.

Laila lowered her eyes slowly and set down the macaron in her hand.

'Why does everyone keep latching onto me?'

Lady Laila, perfect in all things — the lady of ladies, kind to everyone, without a single rough edge.

This was the self Laila had built through thousands of turns of time.

So however tiresome it was, she could not, at this late hour, go marring the image she had labored so long to pile up.

"A bow, please."

At the coldness of Laila's voice, the face of the lady who had begged her to shoot crumpled as though she were about to cry. Laila paid it no mind.

'None of you will remember it, after all.'

A servant of some household or other fetched a bow and arrows and presented them to her. Laila gave the bowstring a light, testing pull.

The truth was, she had never once handled a bow in her life. At the Academy, she had learned theory and nothing more.

"A lady, with a bow."

"Exactly what I was thinking. Say what you will about the times changing — in our day, it would have been unthinkable."

"Lady Laila has always been different, I suppose. But Grand Duchess or no, as a match for my own child, she is a bit..."

"Daughters simply must not be sent to the Academy. I knew it."

Taking the matrons' clucking as a cheer, Laila hauled back on the nocked arrow with all her strength.

The arrow clove through the air and flew true, straight toward the forest into which the young lords of the hunting contest had vanished.

Then it happened. From a forest that should have held no one, a horse's scream suddenly tore through the air.

Ne-e-eigh!

Scattered hoofbeats began to swell.

The arrow had flown farther than she had reckoned, coming down near a hunting party on its way back from the chase.

She could see the panicked horses, control lost, careening madly between the trees.

And one horse — one that had finally succeeded in throwing its rider — came charging straight for the awning where the ladies and matrons were gathered.

"I-It's coming this way!"

"Move! Get clear!"

"It's running right at us! Wh-what do we do?!"

Screams burst out at the sudden commotion. Most of the ladies and matrons were frozen where they stood, too terrified to do anything but shriek. Only Laila — the author of the entire disaster — remained perfectly calm.

'This day is far too long.'

Laila's eyes picked out a single black horse bearing down on them from the distance.

Catching up with the panicked animal mere paces from the awning, the black horse cut across its path. In the next instant, the man astride it snatched up the runaway's reins as though plucking them out of the air.

As the man's thick forearms knotted with strength, the frenzied horse at last stopped its frantic plunging.

The rearing animal's hind hooves skidded back through the dirt, kicking up a heavy cloud of dust.

"Viscount Ervan."

Laila murmured the words to herself, brief and quiet.

Black hair, rare enough in aristocratic society to be remarkable; golden eyes that shone with singular clarity; a presence that crushed the very air around him — and yet, to Laila, a complete stranger.

It was unmistakably Viscount Ervan, the commoner-born hero who had lately returned from the battlefield to be granted his title.

Silence settled over the scene. Even the maddened horse calmed, standing with only an uneasy snort, and the man vaulted lightly down from his black steed. Then, before anyone else, he looked at Laila.

"Are you hurt?"

It was the first time Laila had ever heard Ervan's voice. At the low, pleasing timbre of it, her heart began to pound.

'Why now, of all times?'

Her heart had been perfectly still only moments before, when a panicked horse had come charging at the awning. And now a single sentence from an unfamiliar voice had set it racing. Laila could not make sense of it.

Composed as ever, she raised a hand to her chest and pressed down, gently but firmly. Quieting her thundering heart, she gave the man before her a short answer.

"No."

"Then I'm glad to hear it."

Between strands of his tousled hair, gleaming golden eyes traveled over her, unhurried.

The man spoke again.