Chapter 28
Chapter 28
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 28
Chapter Title: Chasing the Pigeon
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I turned my head reflexively, and my eyes landed on a pigeon perched atop a tree branch, cooing softly as it preened its feathers.
Given its unusually pristine and docile appearance, was this one another carrier pigeon?
Chicks and pigeons everywhere—this place felt more like a birdhouse than a home for people.
'Huh? Come to think of it... pigeons are birds, and chicks are birds too?'
The moment I spotted something tied to its ankle, a lightning bolt of realization flashed through my mind.
'Chicks love cookie crumbs.'
So if I dangled some cookies or bread, maybe I could snag that pigeon—no, that carrier pigeon?
Images surfaced from my past life in Seoul: plump pigeons waddling around.
And those folks doggedly scattering bread crumbs or snacks, thumbing their noses at the "Do not feed the pigeons" signs.
"Laura! Laura!"
"What's the matter, miss?"
Heart racing at the thought of the carrier pigeon flying off, I grabbed Laura's skirt and shook it wildly.
"Go get one piece of bread, quick!"
"Pardon? Bread?"
"Yeah! The soft kind that puffs up all nice!"
Laura blinked in confusion but, prodded by my frantic urging, darted into the nearby kitchen.
'Carrier pigeon, you little punk—you're mine today.'
I'll grab you myself and figure out exactly who the main estate servants have been swapping letters with!
Everyone's been acting so damn shady; I can't just let it slide!
If the servants really leaked house secrets, Dad wouldn't have bothered auditing every document and ledger the second he got back.
Betraying the master? That's instant dismissal.
"Miss, here's the bread. But... what do you need it for? Hungry?"
"Not me—the pigeon hungry."
"Goodness, our miss is such a kind soul."
Laura beamed in admiration, but I turned away with a shadowed gaze.
Yeah, sure...
Thanks for thinking I'm sweet, I guess...
The white bread Laura brought was a bit stale—perfect for tossing to a bird.
I tore off pieces the size of my fingernail and scattered a few under the tree.
"Coo coo! Eat this!"
I waved and winked desperately, but the haughty bird stayed put on its branch, fussing over its feathers.
Was I too close?
Carrier pigeons ought to be used to handouts from humans.
"Bread! Bread eat! Hey, bird!"
Not like it was mocking me or anything, but there it was, just bobbing its head on that branch!
My neck was starting to ache from craning up, yet the pigeon refused to come down.
'Is this bread no good?'
Should I tempt it with cookie crumbs like the chicks?
"Laura, go get cookies too?"
"Cookies?"
"Yeah. Bird no like bread. Picky, so cookies need."
"Alright, I'll fetch some right away—but promise me you'll stay right here. No wandering off, okay?"
The knight training grounds were nearby, with people bustling about more than usual.
No chance of getting lost, but Laura fussed over it several times before finally heading to the kitchen.
I squatted down a short distance from the crumb-strewn tree.
Out of habit, I tore off more bread and tossed it under the tree—when suddenly, with a soft flap flap, the pigeon landed lightly on the ground.
Whoa! It worked!
It cooed a few steps, then started pecking at the crumbs on the ground. I slapped a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp of delight.
'This is it—I can catch that pigeon!'
Easy does it. Sidle up nice and slow.
Birds with wings bolt at the slightest whiff of trouble, so hold out the bread ahead, muffle my footsteps, creep to the side...
"Ack."
I nearly tumbled over.
The quick-witted carrier pigeon had dodged my hand and scampered off elsewhere.
I froze like a statue, waiting for it to drop its guard again.
Soon enough, it paused amid the scattered crumbs, dipped its head to the dirt, and pecked away busily.
'Now!'
I inched closer until I was in grabbing range, then shot out my arm at top baby speed.
And right then—as if mocking me—the pigeon flapped its wings a couple times and hopped lightly onto the tree's lowest branch.
Eh?
So what happens to me, hurling my whole body forward to catch it?
Seeing the ground rushing up in real time, I squeezed my eyes shut tight.
"Gotcha."
If it was the pigeon, I missed—but?
No expected jolt to my face. I cracked my eyes open cautiously.
My legs dangled helplessly in midair.
"Why is my daughter trying to scavenge bread crumbs off the ground?"
The voice from behind revealed who'd grabbed me. I froze solid in the air.
That tone—equal parts baffled and exasperated—was unmistakably Dad's.
Only one person calls me his daughter.
Suddenly painted as the crumb-munching fool, I felt my whole face burn scarlet.
I slapped my palms over it and whispered:
"Put down pwease."
"Promise you won't pick up food from the floor."
"Not eat! ...No!"
So mortified I nearly overcame my gut-level dread of Dad.
I flinched, bracing for anger—but Dad just let out a light chuckle, no big reaction, and set me down gently.
The pigeon had already retreated to a branch well out of my reach.
All that for nothing—just made an ass of myself?
"You were copying that bird, weren't you."
Dad's gentle, understanding tone—trying so hard to make sense of the kid—only amplified my humiliation.
Writhing in shame and self-reproach, one thought popped into my head.
'Dad can use Divine Grace.'
So couldn't he snag a bird up high, no problem?
"Ah..."
I faltered, then bit my lip hard.
Calling him Dad is seriously tough.
"Pigeon, pwease gibe."
"You want to keep it?"
"Yes. Pigeon pwetty. House keep pigeons too."
"The butler?"
Dad's brow furrowed faintly. I backpedaled two steps on reflex.
...Scary.
But snitching on the butler and the main estate servants' shady pigeon antics to Dad? This was the perfect in.
'Why didn't I think of this sooner?'
Just dropping that the butler flies pigeons—Dad would've pieced it together himself.
To a battlefield vet like him, carrier pigeons were old hat.
But I'd dodged him out of pure terror, blind to the obvious play.
"How'd you know?"
"Butler do this—fly pigeon. Pigeon foot tied pwetty pwetty."
As I babbled, Dad's expression chilled in real time.
Scary as hell!
I know Dad's not some monster—especially not to a little kid like me—but still.
Fear's just wired into the body; can't help it.
For a modern Korean like me, unused to witnessing murder firsthand, that coachman's death hit hard.
"Guess I need to see what those rat bastards are scheming."
Dad's voice cut colder than the ice shards sprouting rapidly across the tree.
The pigeon, caged in a lattice of crossed ice, tumbled to the ground.
A paper was tied to its ankle with string.
Anyone could tell it was a carrier pigeon. Dad's face iced over even more.
"...Only Dominique would bother with crap like this."
Dominique who?
Dad spat the name like bile, then glanced down at me as if just remembering I was there.
His face shifted in an instant.
He flashed a playful grin, extending the letter slowly so as not to startle me.
'...Why does that smile look so phony?'
But that wasn't the point right now—not how Dad could fake delight when he felt none.
My eyes locked instinctively on the letter in his hand.
What did it say?