Chapter 7 #3
Spark’s eyes narrowed to golden slits. Oh, it most certainly is, my lady. It is nothing less than full-scale tactical warfare. Lady Ellowa’s companions have already secured information about the prince’s favorite desserts and plan to have them ‘coincidentally’ served whenever she dines with him.
Oh goodness, Thimble moaned, clutching her tiny paws to her chest. We’re already BEHIND! We need a plan, a strategy, a—
What we do not need, Spark interrupted, is panic.
Wars are won through superior intelligence and ruthless efficiency, not hysterics.
He turned his penetrating gaze to Aurelise.
If necessary, I am prepared to sabotage Lady Ellowa’s wardrobe.
One small ember in the right place would be most … effective.
“No!” Aurelise gasped, genuinely alarmed. “No sabotage! No warfare! No … embers! Please, I just want to survive this Season with as little attention as possible.”
Thimble’s wings drooped even further. But … Her tiny voice wavered with confusion. Don’t you want to fall in LOVE? To find your TRUE HAPPINESS?
Aurelise’s expression softened. “I can assure you, my true happiness does not reside within these palace walls. I’m simply not interested in becoming a princess or a Crown Consort or whatever the title would be.”
Precisely why you’d be excellent at it, Spark muttered, then added in a darker tone, The ones who hunger for power are invariably the ones who abuse it.
Oh! Thimble suddenly perked up, her wings fluttering back to life. I understand now! You’re playing hard to get! That’s brILLIANT! The prince will be absolutely fascinated by your indifference! She zoomed upward in renewed excitement. This is an even better strategy than I’d imagined!
Aurelise opened her mouth, then closed it again, realizing the futility of further protest. “I think,” she said carefully, “that I might need to rest before dinner.”
Of course, of course! Thimble chirped. Beauty sleep is ESSENTIAL! We’ll reorganize your bath oils and bubble enchantments. I’m almost certain one of those bottles claims to inspire everlasting devotion—or at least a very enthusiastic infatuation.
Spark sighed, the glittery smoke forming a small cloud around his head. If we must. Though I reserve the right to implement more … direct measures should our competition grow too aggressive.
“No direct measures,” Aurelise insisted firmly.
As you wish. Spark inclined his head in a gesture that somehow managed to convey both agreement and the clear intention to ignore her wishes the moment it became expedient to do so. Rest well, my lady. The battle begins at dinner.
Aurelise slumped back with a breath of laughter. Too tired to argue, she could only concede that Spark was right—dinner did feel a little bit like going to war.
Thimble launched herself from the table in a blur of pink and purple.
Spark spread his wings and followed in a far more dignified manner.
Do try not to get lost among the ferns again, he muttered, his voice still present inside Aurelise’s mind.
I can’t spend hours extricating you every time you get yourself trapped inside a sun-eater.
That happened ONCE!
You must admit you have a remarkable tendency to get lost inside small spaces.
And YOU have a remarkable tendency to eat too many of those silly little custard kisses.
How dare you mock that most magnificent of culinary masterpieces! Your blasphemy shall not stand, Thimble!
Still bickering, the two companions disappeared into the bathing chamber, leaving Aurelise alone once more. The silence felt different now, tinged with the lingering warmth of their bizarre conversation.
Her eyes drifted back to the dressing table, to the wooden box that sat there like a silent accusation.
A familiar tightness gathered in her chest, that same anxious knot that had refused to ease all week.
She should open it. Should read whatever new letter R might have sent. Should finally, finally respond.
She rose from the chaise and crossed to the dressing table, her fingers hovering over the box’s carved surface. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifted the lid.
Inside lay a single sheet of paper, folded once. Just one word written in his familiar, bold handwriting:
Please.
The music burst from her before she could contain it—a single violin playing a melancholy melody that filled the room with sweet sorrow. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to push back the sound, but it only shifted to something more plaintive, more desperate.
How could one word hold so much pain? How could he convey such longing in just six letters?
She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on transforming the music into something calming, something gentle, something that would soothe her churning emotions.
Her hands moved absently through the air, conducting the sound.
Two compositions battled for dominance—the sorrowful violin weaving between a gentler countermelody she was trying to coax forth.
For several moments, the sounds tangled around each other, notes clashing as neither would yield.
She breathed deeply, her wrists turning in slow, fluid circles. Gradually, the violent strings softened, the jarring notes smoothed, and a tender, lilting melody emerged, not erasing the emotions but transforming them into something bearable.
It wasn’t quite enough though. She longed for her pianoforte.
She longed to lose herself in the sacred stillness that existed only between musician and instrument.
That perfect void where time dissolved, where thought ceased, where nothing existed but vibration and breath and the seamless flow between finger and key, heart and sound.
But there was no pianoforte here. Only the enchanted box and the man waiting for her answer on the other side.
With sudden decision, Aurelise yanked open the dressing table drawers, searching for paper.
The steward had mentioned her belongings had been unpacked, and she distinctly remembered tucking a sheaf of—Ah.
There. The second drawer revealed her writing supplies, neatly arranged.
The stack of paper and beside it, her preferred self-inking quill with its delicate pink feather.
She sat and began to write before courage could desert her again.
Dear R,
Please forgive my silence. I never intended to cause you distress or pain, but I simply did not know how to respond to your letter. In truth, I still don’t.
She paused, the pen hovering over the page. The music around her had settled into something softer, a tentative melody seeking resolution.
I miss you. More than I thought possible. I miss your humor, your observations about the world, the way you tease me. I miss feeling understood without having to explain myself. I miss the safety of our correspondence.
She stopped. She couldn’t tell him any of that. It was far too honest. She crumpled the letter and began again.
Dear R,
Please forgive my silence. I never intended to cause you distress or pain, but I simply did not know how to respond to your letter. In truth, I still don’t. All I know is this: I want to keep writing to you.
Is there any way we might return to what we had before? Because certain events are unfolding in my life, events that require me to be brave, day after day, and I don’t know how I am to endure it without the comfort of your words when night finally comes and I can breathe again.
I realize how selfish this is of me. I’m asking you to be what I need, even though I cannot give you what you have asked for.
I understand if you do not want to continue as we were.
After all, you have a life to live away from these pages, and I have no right to ask that any part of you remain bound to this unnameable thing that has grown between us.
But if you can accept this—if you can continue as we were—please write back.
Still yours, in the only way I know how to be,
L