Page 54 of Love & Letter Charms
Horror flooded through her. Had everyone heard? She glanced back at the other ladies, but they remained absorbed in the magical display, apparently oblivious.
The prince’s mouth curved in a teasing half smile. “If you’d like, I could spirit you away from all of this. I have the perfect place in mind.”
“I cannot simply leave,” she hissed. “What would people think?”
“They would think nothing,” he said, leaning slightly closer, “because they would not even notice.” His lips quirked higher, his eyes dancing across her face with an almost searching curiosity. “Come. I want to show you something.”
“I cannot go somewhere with youalone,” she protested, even as she found herself glancing back at the overwhelming scene behind her. “It would be most improper.”
“Lady Aurelise, this palace employs hundreds of staff. There is bustling activity around every corner. We could hardly be considered alone even if we tried. Besides,” he added, his expression shifting to something of a challenge, “if you truly consider this improper—and I maintain that it is anything but—then you get to cross something else of your charming little list.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have no intention of completing the rest of that list.”
Mischief danced in his expression as he tilted his head, pretending to listen to some distant echo. “I hear words ringing faintly in the distance. What are they again? Ah yes—lamentable liar.”
Her lips parted in indignation, though the corners trembled with the effort of suppressing a smile. “You are incorrigible!”
Apparently delighted by this assessment, he said, “Thank you.”
She looked back once more. Willow was deep in conversation with Lady Floravine. The High Lady had moved to speak with Lady Coravelle near the window. No one was paying her the slightest attention. And so, against every proper instinct she possessed, Aurelise slipped through the doorway and followed Prince Ryden.
He led her through the palace with the confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime memorizing its maze of corridors. At first, they passed servants carrying linens, footmen adjusting flower arrangements, and the occasional courtier hurrying to some appointment. But as they ventured deeper into the palace’s heart, the hallways grew quieter. The decorations became less ostentatious, the faelights dimmer and spaced farther apart.
“Where exactly,” Aurelise ventured as they turned down yet another deserted corridor, “is all this bustling activity you mentioned?”
“Did I say bustling?” He glanced back at her with mock innocence. “I meant to say that the palace has thepotentialfor bustling activity. An important distinction.”
“That’s not—you deliberately misled me!”
“I offered you escape from an overwhelming situation. The specifics of palace population density seemed less relevant than your immediate comfort. And believe me, when you see our destination, you’ll forgive my creative phrasing.”
She wanted to argue, but they’d stopped before an unremarkable door in a hallway that felt older than the rest of the palace. The wood was darker here, the air holding a quality oflongtime stillness. Prince Ryden turned the handle and stepped back, gesturing for her to enter first.
Every proper instinct screamed at her to refuse. Entering a private room, alone with him, without even Thimble or Spark as the pretense of supervision—it was beyond improper. It was the sort of behavior that could ruin a lady’s reputation entirely.
But then she glimpsed what lay beyond the doorway, and every objection evaporated.
A pianoforte. Not just any pianoforte, but a beautiful instrument crafted from what could only be elderfae wood, its surface aglow with a soft inner luster, the grain seeming to shift gently in the light like ripples on still water. The sight of it caught her completely, stealing the air from her lungs and the ground from beneath her thoughts. For a moment, there was nothing else—no prince, no impropriety, no world beyond the gleam of polished wood and promise of music and stillness.
“Oh,” she breathed, already moving forward as though drawn by invisible threads.
The room embraced her with immediate comfort. It was smaller than most of the palace’s grand chambers, more intimate, with mismatched furniture that somehow created perfect harmony. A settee in faded sapphire, wingback chairs in worn burgundy leather, overlapping rugs in soft, earthy tones. Bookshelves against the walls overflowed with sheet music and volumes whose spines suggested years of loving use. Tall arched windows lined one wall, their panes dappled with the shadows of overgrown vines and clusters of pale blossoms. The afternoon light filtered through in a gentle, honeyed glow, as though the world beyond existed only to soften this space.
She moved toward the pianoforte with slow, reverent steps. Not a trace of dust dulled its polished surface. Either the instrument was still cherished and played, or the room had been blessed with a high quality ever-clean enchantment.
“May I?” she asked without looking back at the prince, her fingers already moving to the delicate buttons at her wrists to loosen her gloves.
“Of course. That’s why I brought you here.”
Aurelise slipped the gloves off almost without thought, draping them neatly over the back of a nearby chair, as she moved closer to the instrument. She sank onto the bench, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the lid. The keys gleamed in the filtered light, and she let her hands rest upon them for a moment, not yet playing, simply feeling the potential beneath her fingertips. The familiar calm that came only from this—from the promise of music about to be born—settled over her like a beloved blanket.
She pressed one finger down, then another. The notes rang clear and true, the elderfae wood giving the instrument a resonance that seemed to reach into her very bones.
Then she began to play, instinctively choosing something gentle, a piece she’d learned as a child but which had grown with her over the years, becoming more complex as her skills developed. Around her, the room itself seemed to sigh in contentment.
As her fingers found their rhythm, the world beyond the keys ceased to exist. There was only the music, flowing through her and from her, each note a small release of the tension she carried. The overwhelming tea, Lady Ellowa’s sharp looks, the pressure of the Season’s remaining events, the terrifying prospect of hosting her own tea—all of it dissolved into the space between one measure and the next.
She moved from the first piece into another, barely conscious of the transition, letting muscle memory and instinct guide her. This was where she belonged, where she could breathe, where the person she was expected to be and the person she actually was could exist in perfect harmony.
