Chapter One A Changed Woman #2
Her fingers brushed over the word retirement once more.
For years, she had pictured her father exactly as he’d been the day he’d bid her farewell at the Marnapur docks so long ago: sharp, indomitable, a man in his prime.
The man in this letter—planning for retirement, adjusting to a mobility aid—was not the same man who’d clenched Poppy’s hands between his own until the last minute before her departure.
The terrifying reality hit her. Her father was old. No longer an invincible ruler but a mere mortal. It hadn’t occurred to her that while she was here, growing, changing, her father was also undergoing a transformation of his own. Who would she be without him?
The ugly truth came easily: no one.
Without the viceroy, she would have no status, no legacy to claim as her own.
She would not even have a title—the fact that her father’s own cousin was the king of Welkland and emperor of the Founder’s territories would mean nothing, not when the Imperial Family refused to acknowledge her.
Sure, she would have her mother, but she had no male next of kin.
When her father passed, her family would become her husband—and therein lay the problem.
Poppy had no husband. If her father dropped dead tomorrow, nothing would keep her secured in society. She’d be forgotten, relegated to some crumbling estate for the rest of her days.
The paper crackled in protest as Poppy’s fingers crushed the edge.
Once, the idea of a life outside the nobility would have appealed to her.
But now, after seven years of laboring to transform into the epitome of a Welkish lady in all but skin, Poppy would not be erased so easily.
She had mastered watercolor painting, embroidery, horseback riding, and piano.
She could treat minor injuries and could do sums in her head.
She spoke fluent Welkish, all traces of her Virian accent purged from her tongue.
She had changed, despite whatever lies Headmistress Thornhaven tried to feed her. Her father had promised Poppy that a Welkish education would earn her a place in society, and she would be damned if she was going to lose it now.
She could write to her father and ask him to ask the headmistress to release her from Thornhaven.
But that process would take time—time he might not have.
It would be at least two more months, months that would occur in the scorching Virian summer, where he could easily fall prey to numerous ailments.
She could not send him a telegram, for Saltcrest was a full day’s travel away from the nearest telegraph office, in Cloudcliff.
She would never get permission to leave the school grounds, especially not to send a telegram.
When Poppy had been in first year, one of the other girls had asked, and the Hawk had chastised her so thoroughly, Poppy had never forgotten it.
“Ladies do not send telegrams,” the Hawk had declared.
“Telegrams are so . . . mercenary. The shorthand strips messages of character and integrity. A lady’s word means nothing if it is not written in her own hand and sealed with the stamp of her family crest. Indeed, ladies, the art of the handwritten letter is irreplaceable. ”
Poppy’s gaze fell to the ducal seal stamped on the torn envelope, the crossed scepters still intact in crimson wax.
The pieces of a plan began to stitch themselves together.
Her fingers curled around the handle of her letter opener.
She reached slowly for the discarded envelope.
For a moment, she hesitated—forgery is unladylike—but then she pushed forward, sliding her letter opener between the wax and the paper, gently prying it free.
Then Poppy selected her cherished fountain pen and the best sheet of paper from her lettering kit.
Headmistress Thornhaven was familiar with her father’s penmanship, so the letter must be delivered from Demetria.
She flattened out her mother’s letter beside the blank page and put the tip of the pen to paper.
Dear Headmistress Thornhaven, she began, doing her best to imitate her mother’s thin, curling letters. His Grace, my husband, has taken ill . . .
When Poppy finished the letter, she folded it twice along crisp lines and put it aside. She then took up her mother’s envelope, considering the way it had been addressed:
POPPY SUTHERLAND
Thornhaven College for Fine Ladies
1 College Court, Saltcrest, Welkland
There was nothing she could do about her name on the envelope; however, she had to use this one if she wanted to retain the authentic postmarks. In the same forged script, she made her own additions to the envelope:
HEADMISTRESS N. THORNHAVEN
RE: POPPY SUTHERLAND
Thornhaven College for Fine Ladies
1 College Court, Saltcrest, Welkland
There. Now the envelope looked genuine. Retrieving her forged letter, she slid it inside the tampered envelope.
She lit a candle and heated the seal over it until it was tacky.
Then she pressed it against the envelope firmly, holding her breath as the wax cooled.
When she lifted her trembling fingers away, the flap stayed shut.
The sight of the forged letter sent electricity through Poppy’s veins, thrilling and uncomfortable all at once.
She swept it into her purse before she could lose her nerve and toss it in the waste bin.
She would give the letter to the headmistress tomorrow with a story about their mail getting mixed up, which was not an uncommon occurrence given the number of girls and the sheer volume of correspondence that flowed through the school.
That sorted, Poppy picked up a fresh piece of paper and began a second note, this one intended for a much longer journey:
Dear Mother and Father,
While I am surprised and saddened to hear about Father’s ailment, I am relieved to know that his recovery has been swift.
Being away all these years has given me an education in not only manners but in perspective as well.
I have been away from home for too long.
I intend to return now, my education having achieved its purpose: I am prepared for my future in society.
Upon my return, given that Father has recovered well, I wish to select a husband and do my part to ease some of the burden from Father’s shoulders.
Your loving daughter,
Poppy
Poppy’s lips tugged up as she considered the irony of the situation. Her disregard for the rules had been the cause of her exile. Now, it would be the thing that brought her home.