Page 33 of Love & Letter Charms
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 jokeabout? 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.
Chapter Nine
Onyx’s wingscut through the cool morning air with steady rhythm, carrying Ryden high above Bloomhaven as the town began its slow awakening beneath them. Sunrise painted the world in shades of rose and amber, transforming the landscape into something ethereal, and Ryden drew in a deep, bracing breath as the air rushed past his face.
He leaned forward slightly, feeling the familiar bunch and release of Onyx’s shoulder muscles, the warmth radiating through the creature’s glossy black coat despite the cool morning air. This was freedom—just the wind, the sky, and the steady beat of powerful wings.
