Prologue #3
It turned out that her stern and proper grandmother had been utterly horrified when a group of performers dramatically invaded afternoon tea at The Charmed Leaf, announcing they were the ‘Court of Vegetable Justice’ and that they were holding an emergency session to try Lady Rivenna Rowanwood for ‘egregious discrimination against the noble parsnip family.’
After recovering from her coughing fit, Aurelise had to bite her lip to keep from dissolving into helpless laughter, her cheeks flushed and her heart pounding as she realized her mysterious correspondent was undeniably, extravagantly real.
She could hardly wait to retire to her chambers that night to write to him.
Dear Conspirator in Scandal,
A ‘Court of Vegetable Justice’ summoning Lady Rivenna Rowanwood to trial? You have exceeded my wildest expectations. I don’t believe anyone has ever dared perpetrate such an outrageous prank at The Charmed Leaf in all its storied history.
Consider me thoroughly convinced of your existence.
With astonished regards,
No Longer Skeptical
P.S. I’m glad you are real.
My dear No Longer Skeptical,
I find myself disproportionately pleased by those five simple words—‘I’m glad you are real.’ It leaves me wondering whether you think of me at odd moments throughout your day, as I find myself thinking of you.
I imagine you’ll be discussing all of this with those ever-blooming roses you prefer over the company of people. No doubt they’ll be quite scandalized to hear you’re corresponding with a REAL gentleman orchestrating vegetable-themed chaos across the realm instead of merely enchanted paper.
Victoriously yours,
The Very Real Correspondent
Dear Very Real Correspondent,
I feel I must correct a misunderstanding.
I never claimed to TALK to the roses—merely that I prefer their company to that of most people.
Though now that you’ve suggested it, I believe I might try it.
I imagine they are excellent listeners, and unlike certain correspondents, they are unlikely to make remarks specifically designed to bring color to my cheeks.
If I WERE to discuss you with them (which I absolutely have not done and would never consider doing), I’m certain they would say you are a terrible influence.
Reproachfully yours,
The Rose Companion
Dear Definitely Talking to the Roses,
Ah, my remarks make you BLUSH, do they? That is dangerously endearing information to share. You realize, of course, that I must now slip something into every letter specifically designed to set your cheeks aflame?
Though you strike me as someone who blushes at everything. Compliments, embarrassment, strong breezes, letters from devastatingly charming correspondents …
Am I warm? (The answer is yes, you are definitely pink right now.)
Incorrigibly yours,
Devastatingly Charming
Dear Audaciously Presumptuous,
I do NOT blush at strong breezes. That’s absurd. I blush at perfectly reasonable things like … well, certainly not at letters, anyway.
Since you are so insistent, however, I feel compelled to tell you that I DID, in fact, attempt a conversation with the roses. They informed me—very solemnly—that you are unnecessarily provocative, prone to mischief, and in dire need of proper supervision.
I am inclined to agree with them.
With botanical disapproval,
The Rose Companion
Dear Co-Conspirator of the Roses,
Your roses sound like elderly chaperones. Do they also disapprove of uncovered ankles and dancing too close to one’s partner?
Not that you, of course, would ever be guilty of such shocking behavior.
No, I picture you perfectly poised, proper to the last fingertip.
Right now, you are sitting straight and elegant while reading this, perhaps smoothing your hair, most certainly blushing as your eyes move over this very sentence.
Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong. (But do it convincingly this time.)
Scandalously yours until the roses faint,
Your Devoted Tormentor
Dear Devoted Tormentor,
You grow bolder with every letter!
Fine. I will concede that I sit up straight while writing, though it is due more to the unyielding back of my chair than to my own poise.
I will also admit that I did smooth my hair while reading your letter, though only because a most unruly strand had fallen out of its arrangement and across my cheek.
But as for blushing—absolutely not. My complexion remains perfectly serene and untroubled.
If you could see me now, you would find me cool, composed, and perhaps even faintly disdainful at your outrageous presumptions.
With unblushing dignity (and the faintest suspicion that you will not believe me),
Your Entirely Composed Correspondent
P.S. The roses ARE elderly chaperones. They’ve been growing in that garden for almost forty years. They probably have opinions about everything.
The weeks that followed blurred together in a flutter of letters.
Aurelise found herself checking the box multiple times each day, her heart performing that same peculiar skip whenever a new folded paper appeared.
Sometimes she and her unknown correspondent fell into a rhythm so swift and immediate it seemed impossible they weren’t sitting across from one another.
His hastily scrawled replies would appear less than a minute after she closed the lid on her own letters.
At other times, silence stretched between them, hours turning to days before his familiar handwriting appeared again.
During these lapses, Aurelise caught herself composing questions about his absence—what obligations had pulled him away, what duties demanded his attention—only to discard them.
She had no right to such curiosities when she herself refused to share the particulars of her own life.
Their delicate balance depended on this mutual mystery, however much she sometimes longed to breach it.
Sometimes they exchanged letters about delightfully trivial matters—debating the proper way to eat scones (cream first, then jam, he insisted, while she maintained the opposite), or crafting increasingly elaborate excuses one might use to escape the most tedious social obligations.
On other days, their correspondence delved into more significant terrain.
They spoke of loneliness (his), of overwhelm (hers), and of fear (vague, yet shared between them like a bridge connecting their separate worlds).
She told him about her daily practice with her newly manifested magic.
The hours spent in solitude mastering its nuances, the small victories as unpredictable surges became controlled expressions.
The intense joy of reclaiming something that had seemed, at first, as though it might be lost forever.
I can breathe again, she told him one day. I am not broken. I did not shatter. I am … happy.
It brings me more gladness than I can properly express to know that you have come to appreciate your manifested magic, he replied.
It is more than that, she wrote back. I feel as though nothing else in life will ever compare to this. It is so precious, so perfectly suited to who I am, that I believe all other joys will pale beside it.
Do you not think there might be space in your life for different kinds of joy? he asked. Not greater or lesser, but simply different colors of the same light?
Perhaps … though I struggle to imagine what could shine as brightly as the feeling of creation flowing through me. I don’t believe I could ever love anything as completely or as wholly as I love this.
You cannot imagine loving anything else as completely? he teased. What about ANYONE?
She deftly changed the subject then, not entirely sure how to share the truth that lingered in her heart.
How could she explain that the very thought of loving someone with the same intensity she felt for her music filled her with quiet terror?
Her soul already overflowed with emotions that threatened to consume her daily—every feeling amplified beyond what others seemed to experience.
Love—true, passionate love—would surely be the most overwhelming of all.
She had witnessed its effects on Jasvian and Evryn, her two older brothers who had been fortunate enough to find love matches.
They appeared transformed by it, utterly and completely happy in a way that most people could only ever dream of.
But Aurelise was not built as they were.
Such all-consuming emotion would wash away whatever fragile boundaries she had managed to construct around her too-sensitive heart.
Better to find a gentle companion who would give her space for her music than to risk drowning in the depths of a love she could neither control nor contain.
More weeks passed, filled with letters about everything and nothing.
Complex theories about what really happened to all the missing left gloves in the world, increasingly ridiculous guesses about what Aurelise’s manifested magic might be (I’ve got it!
You can communicate telepathically, but exclusively with parsnips!
This would explain your amusement at my vegetable vendetta, as the parsnips have surely been complaining about me for years.), and the occasional confession that he still struggled with control over his manifested ability, even years after it appeared.
And then, after three months of letters, her mystery correspondent asked:
Dear Friend Who Remains Nameless,
We have now written for the length of a full season, and I still don’t know what to call you in my thoughts. Would you tell me your name? Or at least something I might call you that’s shorter than ‘Person Who Writes Lovely Letters and Makes Me Laugh’?
Hopefully yours,
Still Just a Mystery
P.S. Have I asked yet what season you prefer? Where I live, beyond the United Fae Isles, the seasonal transitions are less defined. More a gentle blending rather than a dramatic transformation.
She stared at his letter until the words blurred before her eyes, recognizing that she stood at the edge of dangerous territory.
Their correspondence had come to mean more to her than she knew how to express.
She cared for him—there was no use denying that to herself anymore.
Aside from her music, his letters had become the bright points around which her days orbited, each one treasured and reread.
But it was the distance between them that made caring for him safe.
He existed only in ink and paper, in words she kept bundled with silk ribbon in the secret compartment at the base of her dressing table drawer, cleverly concealed beneath a false panel.
Words on a page were safe, she told herself repeatedly.
They remained contained, controlled, unable to flood her world unexpectedly as real emotions so often did.
But to know his name, to give him hers—these were steps toward a reality she could not allow herself to contemplate.
She needed him to remain at arm’s length.
Or rather, at continent’s length, as he apparently resided somewhere beyond the boundaries of the United Fae Isles.
The very notion of what lay beyond those borders was hazy in her mind.
Distant lands described in geography lessons, places of strange customs and unfamiliar magic that seemed more legend than reality.
Yet she couldn’t simply ignore his request. To offer nothing felt unkind after all they had shared. But what? Even just the initial ‘A’ seemed as though it were revealing too much. But a random name or letter felt dishonest, a betrayal of the authenticity that had defined their correspondence.
She closed her eyes, considering, until her thoughts settled on the name her siblings still called her on occasion. The name Kazrian had first given her when they were small and his toddler tongue couldn’t manage all the syllables of her full name.
Lise.
Dear Mystery,
You may call me L.
I know that’s not very satisfying, but I must be honest and admit that I prefer our established anonymity. I hope you understand my caution. It is not a lack of trust in you specifically, but rather a shield I find I cannot set aside.
Mysteriously yours,
L
Dear L,
L! How delightfully enigmatic. Let me guess what it stands for: Ludicrous? Luminous? Loquacious? (Though given your admitted fear of crowds, perhaps not that last one.) Lamentable? Luxurious? Lexicographer? (I’m particularly proud of that one.)
Oh! I know. Librarian. You’re secretly a librarian who’s been studying ancient texts about mysterious letter enchantments this entire time.
Since you’ve given me a letter, I suppose it’s only fair I return the favor. You may call me R.
Riddlingly yours,
R
Dear R,
R for Ridiculous, I assume, given that list of increasingly absurd suggestions. Lexicographer, honestly. As if I spend my days compiling dictionaries. (Though words ARE rather beautiful, aren’t they?)
Mysteriously yours,
L (for none of the above)
P.S. I was relieved to see your reply in my box this morning.
I feared my insistence on anonymity might have tried your patience beyond repair, that you might decide our correspondence was no longer worth pursuing.
Thank you for understanding my need for this particular boundary, strange as it may seem.
Dear L (for Definitely Lying About the Lexicography),
Fine, you’ve caught me. R does indeed stand for Ridiculous. Also Remarkable, Ravishing, and almost always Right About Things.
Ridiculously yours,
R
P.S. As if I could ever cease writing to you.