Chapter 46 Words and Mischief
Words and Mischief
Maridale returns not long after he leaves.
She carries a gown over one arm and a single envelope balanced carefully on top. “From Lady Nyara,” she says, placing it on the small writing table before withdrawing with studied composure.
I wait until the door closes before breaking the seal.
Nyara’s script is unmistakable. Bold. Slightly slanted. As if even her ink refuses to behave.
Asharin,
You and my excessively dramatic cousin vanish for days and return looking absolutely luminous, so the servants say. The palace has concluded this means I am to expect a small heir by winter. Kindly confirm whether I should begin knitting something offensive in advance.
I press my lips together, but the smile comes anyway.
The maids are taking bets. One claims you are glowing. Another insists it is simply improved sleep. I am choosing to believe the former because it irritates people more.
My shoulders relax without my permission.
If you have decided to behave like a proper princess, I will be devastated. If you have not, arrangements must be made for dinner, or perhaps something more scandalous involving ale and poor decisions. Until then, we must write regularly.
After the tavern, after that spectacle of a ball, you cannot possibly expect me to accept silence now.
Your favorite friend,
Nyara
I sit slowly at the desk, the morning light pooling across the paper.
I draw a fresh sheet toward me and dip the pen.
Nyara,
If I appear luminous, it is from fresh air and a regrettable amount of walking. We are married. The rest is invention.
The ink glides more easily than it should.
No heir is currently forming, to my knowledge. You may postpone your knitting. Though I would not object to something scandalous.
I hesitate only briefly before adding,
You are correct about one thing. I would hate to become a proper princess without informing you first.
The smallest laugh escapes me as I sign my name.
I fold the letter carefully and press my seal into wax that softens beneath the flame. When I stand, the room feels lighter than it did moments ago.
For so long, conversation has been negotiation or survival or measured words offered in exchange for peace.
Nyara writes as though none of that exists.
I carry the letter to the door myself and place it in the waiting servant’s hand, watching until he disappears down the corridor with the envelope tucked beneath his arm before turning back toward the quiet of the room.
The palace will gossip, of course. It always does.
By this afternoon the servants will have invented three different versions of my morning and improved each one beyond recognition.
But somewhere beyond these walls is a woman who will hear the same ridiculous stories and laugh with me about them later, who will exaggerate the details and ask questions not to wound or pry but simply because she wants to understand.
The realization comes slowly, and I remain by the door a moment longer before turning away.
I have a friend. The thought still feels unfamiliar, but the warmth that follows it does not.