I’ve Decided to Let You Go - Chapter 43

By the time her conversation with the steward ended, the sun had already begun to set. If she remembered correctly, Sieghart was staying late at the training grounds with the knights today.

After enjoying an early dinner, Natasha returned to her room. She intended to get the bothersome task over with quickly.

First, she cut the drawing paper down to the size of a handkerchief. She needed to choose a design and do some practice, so she made sure to prepare plenty of sheets.

With a small knife, she shaved the wood around a pencil until the graphite tip was exposed. Then she pulled over one of the sheets.

“What kind of pattern should I draw?”

With no ideas coming to mind, she absentmindedly tapped the paper with her pencil. Each tap left behind a trace of black dust, collecting like specks on the clean surface.

“I can’t just sketch something random.”

This was a gift representing the House of Aschart. It was bound to attract attention. If she embroidered something lazy or poorly drawn, it would only give her critics more fuel to attack her.

“The family crest? No, too obvious. Then maybe something more abstract, like a moon? No, that’s too cliché too. A sword, as a knight’s symbol… Wait—that’s redundant. The gift is going on a sword.”

As she sank deeper into thought, her hand continued to move on its own.

When she finally snapped out of her daze and looked down, she saw what she’d been unconsciously sketching.

Sharp features, drawn in rough lines—an annoyingly familiar face.

“I can’t embroider Sieghart’s face, am I crazy?”

The subconscious really was a strange thing.

She had once drawn that man’s face over and over again, to the point her hands had memorized it. Somehow, even after returning to the past, her muscle memory hadn’t forgotten.

The bold strokes outlined his chiseled jaw, thick neck, and broad shoulders. With every connecting line, the intensity of his expression took shape. Even the play of light and shadow had found its place naturally, without effort.

Staring at the sketch, Natasha leaned back in her chair. It wasn’t like her to slouch, but in that moment, she did—welcoming the intrusive memories like unwelcome guests.

One day, Kayeina had come to her with news: the ducal house was searching for an artist to paint Sieghart’s portrait.

“…A portrait?”

“Yes. They’re looking for a skilled painter to do the Duke’s portrait.”

“Could—could I do it? Could I try?”

At the suggestion, Natasha immediately volunteered herself. She wanted that role—because it meant she’d get to see Sieghart up close.

“Um… you, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I really want to try. Is there any way I can apply?”

Although she was fairly skilled at drawing, Natasha was still just an amateur. Compared to professionals, her ability had its limits.

After thinking it over, Kayeina suggested she spend a few days practicing by drawing Sieghart’s portrait in secret. Then, she could submit the pieces under a fake name. If the ducal house liked the work, they’d hire her—no questions asked.

Encouraged, Natasha poured all her hope into those sketches. Day and night, she drew him—recalling every detail of his face from memory. Dozens of portraits filled her desk.

A few days after submitting her work under an alias, Kayeina had come running into her room, bursting with joy.

“Your Grace! They want to hire you as the portrait artist!”

“Really?”

“Yes! They did wonder how you managed to capture His Grace’s features so well, but I dodged the question. Ha! Anyway, is next week okay for the sitting?”

“Of course!”

Kayeina had joked that hard work was the best solution, and maybe Natasha should put the same effort into her husband going forward.

A week later, Natasha met Sieghart in an empty room for the sitting.

To hide her identity, she had worn heavy makeup to alter her features and draped a veil over her face. She stopped in front of the prepared white curtain—a large fabric barrier that would keep their faces hidden from one another during the session.

To the ducal house, she had introduced herself as a widow. She claimed she could not face another man directly for a full year after losing her husband.

He seemed to think it was a strange belief, but perhaps he understood her circumstances, because he didn’t question her odd requests and agreed to them without much trouble.

Through the white curtain, his figure faintly came into view. The man on the other side showed no sign of interest, unaware that the painter was his very own wife.

“Then I’ll begin the portrait now.”

She lowered her voice and picked up her pencil, sketching the rough outline.

Scratch, scrape.
The soft, ticklish sound of pencil on paper filled the silence.

“How amusing.”

His cold voice came just as Natasha was deeply focused, her hand busy across the page.

Amusing? The sudden comment made her tense. Was he starting to suspect the mysterious artist?

‘Did he figure out who I am?’

Natasha had hidden her identity to make the situation bearable for them both. She wanted to see him, even if he refused to see her. But if he found out now, it was obvious he wouldn’t take it well.

He might think her behavior obsessive. He might say she had no right to paint his portrait and throw her out.

She swallowed hard before replying cautiously.

“…What do you mean?”

“You say you’re painting a portrait, yet you can’t even look directly at me. Isn’t that rather absurd? I wonder if you can paint anything worthwhile.”

“This is a rare opportunity, so I applied despite the unusual conditions. And yes, I believe I can do it. Please trust me.”

“Well, if your skill is as great as you say, I suppose I should.”

His brief chuckle gave her just enough room to breathe. She let out a quiet sigh of relief, then returned her focus to the drawing.

“How long will it take to finish?”

He asked as her hand began to slow, curiosity slipping into his voice.

“Longer than most artists, I imagine. Perhaps half a day or more…”

Even she knew it wasn’t ideal, so her tone came out more hesitant.

“That’s longer than I expected.”

“It takes time to observe, especially when I can’t see you clearly. I ask for your patience.”

“You really are a troublesome painter. I can’t imagine any other noble house would hire someone like you.”

That was just the kind of remark he would make.

Natasha started to wonder if the cold indifference he’d shown her was only the surface. Maybe Sieghart Aschart was more rude and arrogant than she had ever wanted to admit.

And yet, it didn’t matter. That rudeness—those thorns—were also part of the man she loved.

The breeze gently stirred the curtain, making it ripple between them. Even distorted through shifting fabric, his silhouette was striking. Something in her chest ached sharply. Maybe it was because the man before her—her once beloved—was just as beautiful as she remembered.

That’s why she couldn’t look away. That’s why her gaze lingered on the white curtain.

In her mind, she told herself it wasn’t entirely her fault.

The curtain dipped slightly toward her, then swayed the other way. Occasionally, it shifted just enough for her to glimpse the Duke’s shoes—and above them, the faint reflection of his face. She quietly stole those moments, capturing what she could.

By the time the sun was halfway down the sky, the sketch was finished.
She squeezed paint from the tubes.

“Can you see colors well through the curtain? Especially with the setting sun, the light must be distorting everything.”

It had been a while since he spoke again. His voice held a prickly curiosity.

Translated politely, it meant:
“Why are we painting in such an inconvenient place instead of a proper studio?”

When Natasha had negotiated with the ducal household, she had requested to work in a space with large windows. Without natural light, she feared her heartbeat and uneasy breathing might carry across the silence and reach him.

“It’s fine.”

“You really are a difficult artist.”

“You don’t seem happy with my process, Your Grace. If so, why did you choose me in the first place?”

It wasn’t an unfair question. After all, the one who approved her hire—despite her odd conditions and unknown background—had been Sieghart himself.

He didn’t respond.

Whether he couldn’t answer or simply didn’t want to, Natasha didn’t press. She knew his silence too well by now.

But after a while, something changed.

The silhouette of his shoes began to shift rhythmically—lifting and lowering slightly. His posture grew uneven.

She considered pointing it out, but held back. Instead, she busied herself mixing colors, starting with the base tones for his skin.

A shade just slightly darker than hers.

He had probably been pale once, but now, after years of training, his skin had darkened. It was warmer than hers.

Lips a little lighter than hers.

They held color and life, but were a bit paler—more of a soft rose tone.

Hair completely unlike hers.

Jet-black, not flashy, but elegant.

Her palette was now covered in different hues.

“Darker than me…”

As she dabbed paint onto the towel, her brush suddenly stopped.

Only one part of the face remained: the eyes.

“A little… darker…”

To get the right color, she would need to mix red, deep blue, and black.

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