Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Consciousness returned slowly, pulling Aurelise from dreams she couldn’t quite recall, leaving only the impression of ink-stained fingers and words she’d been trying to catch like butterflies.
The pillow beneath her cheek was softer than she remembered, and the air held a scent that didn’t belong to home.
Memory rose slowly through the fog of sleep, each detail finding its place. Solstice Hall. The Crown Court. Morning light that was somehow brighter, more golden, beyond her closed eyelids.
R.
The thought crystallized before she’d even opened her eyes, and her heart fluttered in its wake. Had he replied? Would there be a letter waiting in the box?
She pressed her face into the silk pillow, willing the sudden rush of feeling to settle.
The box had been empty last night when she’d checked after dinner, an event that had been mercifully uncomplicated.
While the gathering was small—only the High Lady, the prince, and the ten Crown Court ladies—they’d been seated around a table so vast that conversation across its width proved nearly impossible.
This arrangement, which some might have found frustrating, had been Aurelise’s salvation.
It allowed her to speak only with those seated directly beside her, while the prince remained a safe distance away at the table’s opposite end.
Nevertheless, she’d found her gaze straying toward him more than once during the meal.
Prince Ryden had devoted his attention primarily to the ladies seated on either side of him.
They were opposite ends of the same beautiful spectrum—Lady Coravelle with her warm cinnamon-brown skin and sparkling eyes, and Lady Olivienne, whose dramatic contrast of raven-black hair and alabaster complexion was matched only by the elegant arch of her brow, perpetually suggesting she found everyone else slightly disappointing.
The prince himself reclined in his chair with the air of a man well accustomed to being observed, his posture conveying casual ownership of the space around him.
Even while seemingly engaged with the beautiful women vying for his attention, a certain detachment lingered in his expression.
Strange, Aurelise mused, for every other time she’d seen him, he’d seemed to bask in the adoration surrounding him.
Later, when dinner was over and Marta had finished helping her into her nightgown, she had practically lunged for the wooden box.
The disappointment when she’d lifted the lid to find it empty had been crushing, though she’d immediately chastised herself for feeling it.
After a full week of silence on her part—a week of leaving R to wonder and worry—she had no right to expect an immediate response.
But that logic did nothing to quiet the desperate hope now thrumming through her veins.
She sat up, pushing her braid over her shoulder, and padded barefoot across the unfamiliar carpet to her dressing table. The enchanted box sat exactly where she’d left it, innocuous among her brushes and bottles, yet it seemed to pulse with possibility.
She reached for it, then hesitated, her fingers hovering above the carved roses.
There was something she hadn’t addressed in her letter last night. Something that lurked at the edges of every exchange they’d shared for months now. The question she could barely acknowledge even in the privacy of her own thoughts.
Where would this end?
Even if R accepted her terms—even if they could somehow recapture the easy rhythm of their correspondence before his confession had changed everything—it couldn’t last forever.
One day, perhaps soon, he would write to tell her he was courting someone.
Some brilliant, confident lady who could meet him in person without dissolving into panic.
Someone who could love him without drowning in the intensity of it.
He would find happiness in the real world, with a real person, and their letters would naturally, necessarily fade.
Or perhaps she would find her safe, undemanding gentleman first. Someone who would offer her the quiet life she wanted.
Her conscience would demand she cease writing to R then.
To continue their correspondence while pledged to another would feel too much like a betrayal, no matter how innocent their words might be.
The thought made her chest constrict painfully. How had she allowed herself to become so dependent on words from a stranger?
She drew in a shaking breath and placed her hand on the box’s lid, trying to gather her courage.
Perhaps R was wrestling with the same thoughts—that since she could not give him what he desired, this was the moment to end whatever existed between them.
She knew the logic of it, knew she had no right to expect him to live half a life in ink when he clearly yearned for more. But that didn’t stop her from hoping.
She lifted the lid and—
A folded sheet of paper lay inside.
A sudden, dizzying rush of sensation swept through her, as if the room had tilted beneath her feet. She sank onto the cushioned stool and lifted the letter from the box, unfolding it with shaking fingers.
Dearest L,
You wrote back. You wrote back! And you want to keep writing! Forgive me while I attempt to contain my enthusiasm—and fail entirely.
There. I’ve thrown my hands up in triumph and shouted YES at the ceiling, possibly frightening a nocturnal gossip bird who witnessed my celebration through the window.
You call yourself selfish for wanting to continue as we were, but darling L, there is nothing I want more than to be what you need.
If what you need is a friend who exists only in ink and paper, who makes you laugh when the world feels too heavy, who listens when you need to whisper your fears into the darkness—then that is what I’ll be.
Gladly. Gratefully. Without reservation.
Certain events are unfolding in your life that require you to be brave? Tell me everything. Or tell me nothing. Tell me only what feels safe to share. I’ll take whatever pieces of yourself you’re willing to offer.
I must confess, your mention of bravery made me curious.
You’ve always insisted you’re not brave, yet here you are, facing something that demands courage daily.
That sounds remarkably like bravery to me.
But then, we’ve discussed this before—you refuse to believe me when I point out your various excellences. Should I make a list? I have time.
Actually, let’s return to safer ground before I say something that sends you into another week of silence. (Too soon to joke about? Almost certainly. I’m leaving it in anyway because I’m still giddy with relief that you wrote back.)
Here’s what I propose: We pretend my mortifyingly desperate letter never happened.
We resume our correspondence exactly as it was before I temporarily lost my senses and demanded more than our enchanted boxes could provide.
You tell me about your roses (surely they have thoughts on these mysterious events requiring bravery?), I’ll mock vegetables and complain about excessive buttons, and we’ll both pretend that nothing has changed between us.
Can we do that? Can we be friends who’ve never met, who know each other’s souls but not each other’s faces? Can we exist in this strange, suspended space we’ve created?
Yes. I believe we can. Because the alternative—not having you in my life at all—is unthinkable.
Yours in whatever way you’ll have me,
R
P.S. The gossip bird that witnessed my celebration is definitely judging me. It’s now sitting on a branch, looking personally offended by my lack of dignity. I’ve named it Horatio. Horatio thinks I should have more self-respect. Horatio can mind his own business.
The laugh that escaped Aurelise was half-sob.
Tears she hadn’t realized were threatening spilled over onto her cheeks.
She pressed the letter to her chest, not caring if she wrinkled it, needing to hold something tangible that proved she hadn’t destroyed their connection forever by remaining silent for too long.
A soft melody began to spin through the air around her.
Something light and effervescent. Violin strings played a dancing tune that seemed to skip and twirl around the room, punctuated by the bright chime of bells.
The music circled her like an embrace, warm and joyful and absolutely inappropriate for the early morning hour, but she couldn’t bring herself to contain it.
With another laugh and a deep breath, she urged the music to quieten, but it was still drifting around her when a soft knock came at her door.
The melody vanished instantly, leaving only the faint echo of joy in its wake.
Was it already time for Marta to begin preparing her for the day?
Aurelise hastily wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and carefully tucked R’s letter into the drawer, feeling as though the heavy dread of the previous day had been replaced by something almost buoyant.
In the clear light of morning, with R’s words warming her heart, an idea began to take shape in her mind. Perhaps she didn’t have to endure an entire Season of this Crown Court after all.