Page 26 of Love & Letter Charms
“And you will.” Kazrian reached over and tugged gently on her braid. “You can do this. You areLadyAurelise Rowanwood, and you’ve been doing impossible things while terrified your entire life.”
She let out a laugh that caught on the remnants of her tears. “I suppose I have.”
Kazrian stretched his arms above his head, stifling another yawn behind his hand before asking, “Will you be able to sleep?”
“Maybe.” The bone-deep exhaustion that followed panic was already creeping through her limbs. “Probably.”
He stood, stretched, and moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at her. “Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He slipped out as quietly as he’d entered, leaving her alone with moonlight and the ghost of R’s desperate words. Speaking with her brother might have helped her feel marginally less apprehensive about the Crown Court, but it did nothing to ease the turmoil R’s letter had left behind. She still had no words for him.
So in the end, she didn’t write at all. She slipped beneath her covers, turned her face to the pillow, and tried to ignore the intense ache of guilt at leaving R waiting for an answer she didn’t know how to give.
~
Dear L,
I told myself I would wait at least three days before writing again. A reasonable interval, I thought, to allow you time to process my rather … overwhelming previous letter. Yet here I am, barely twenty-four hours later, unable to keep myself from writing to you again.
I am choosing to believe you haven’t responded yet because you’re crafting the perfect reply. Perhaps you are on your fifth draft, searching for precisely the right words to gently let me down. Or maybe—and I prefer this theory—you’re composing an epic response, a novel-length letter that requires considerable time and thought.
Other possibilities I’ve considered:
You’ve been kidnapped by a roving band of theatrical squirrels who demand you write, direct, and stage an original production before they’ll release you.
Your enchanted letter box has developed sentience and is now holding my letters hostage, demanding better working conditions and possibly a small salary.
A jealous parsnip has intercepted my letter, finally taking revenge for my years of vegetable slander.
I realize I’m being ridiculous. You’re probably just thinking. I know you like to do that.
Hopefully still yours,
R
Dear L,
Something amusing happened today that I immediately wanted to tell you about, and then I remembered—I can. Even if you are not responding, I can still write. That is allowed, isn’t it? Please tell me that’s allowed.
A staff member cast a charm meant to freshen the draperies in my mother’s favorite drawing room and instead made them whisper polite compliments to everyone who walked past. They called me ‘Your Most Distinguished Eyebrows,’ which I have a sneaking suspicion was the draperies’ way of mocking me with excessive courtesy.
I couldn’t help wondering what compliment they might whisper to you if you walked past. Probably something truly flattering, as I doubt there exists a single aspect of you the draperies could bring themselves to ridicule.
Still thinking of you,
