Page 42 of Love & Letter Charms
Your friend who is apparently very good at frightening people,
L
Dearest L,
I’ve just had the most undignified fit of laughter at your story. Horatio, naturally, observed the scene with grave disapproval. (I’m beginning to think he may be related to your elderly ever-blooming roses.) I must, however, take issue with your interpretation of events.
This gentleman—whoever he is—either possesses exceptionally poor taste, monumentally poor judgment, or something else entirely unrelated occurred that had nothing whatsoever to do with you or your perfectly reasonable question about plants.
I have an alternative theory that might spare your ego (and mine, since I suggested the strategy). What if he wasn’t fleeing from your question at all? What if, at that precise moment, he was stung by a spite gnat?
These are minuscule creatures, barely visible to the naked eye, known for their vindictive nature and poor timing. A spite gnat sting causes an immediate and overwhelming compulsion to flee the area while simultaneously developing an irrational fear of whatever one was looking at when stung. The effectslast approximately three hours, during which the victim experiences an inexplicable craving for fermented acorn paste.
So you see, it likely had nothing to do with your brilliant conversational gambit and everything to do with aggressive insects with personality disorders. The gentleman is probably sitting somewhere right now, confused about why he suddenly fled, embarrassed by his behavior, and wondering why he can’t stop thinking about fermented acorn paste.
I maintain that my strategy was flawless. The spite gnat was simply jealous of your wit.
Furthermore, the fact that you laugh-sobbed (a term which, I confess, is new to me but conveys a most exquisite degree of emotional chaos) when my letter arrived has made my day. Possibly my entire month. Horatio is once again scandalized. I regret nothing.
Incorrigibly yours,
R
P.S. I’ve been wondering, L … do you have the courage to play a game with me? I won’t say what it is yet. Mystery is half the fun. You may, of course, decline … though I’ll take that as an admission that you frighten easily.
Dear R,
A spite gnat? REALLY? That is the most absurd thing you’ve ever written to me, and that’s saying something considering you once devoted an entire letter to the rumored political ambitions of gossip birds.
Though I must admit, the image of that poor gentleman sitting somewhere, inexplicably craving fermented acorn paste, does bring me considerable comfort. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it wasn’t my catastrophically awkward question after all, but rather a vindictive insect with unfortunate timing.
(You absolutely made up spite gnats. But I’m choosing to believe in them anyway because the alternative is too mortifying.)
As for your game … I should tell you no. I’m not the competitive one in my family. That honor belongs to two of my older siblings who turn EVERYTHING into a contest. I prefer to observe from a safe distance where no one expects me to participate, let alone excel.
I’m also terribly suspicious of games proposed by people who have demonstrated a concerning fondness for vegetable-related chaos. What exactly are you planning?
Though I suppose … how frightening can a game conducted entirely through letters actually be? It is not as if you can make me do anything truly mortifying. The worst that could happen is I’d have to write something embarrassing, and I’ve already done that countless times in our correspondence.
So yes. Fine. I’ll play your mysterious game. But only because I refuse to give you the satisfaction of thinking I frighten easily.
(I do frighten easily. But you do not need to know that.)
Cautiously intrigued,
L
Chapter Twelve
The ballroomat Solstice Hall glittered like a galaxy brought to earth. Light spilled across marble floors polished to mirror perfection, laughter sparkled brighter than jewels, and distinguished guests streamed through the grand double doors as heralds announced their names, their voices melding with the hum of dozens of animated conversations.
Prince Ryden registered none of it.
His gaze swept the room in careful arcs, searching the sea of faces with singular purpose. The room might have been entirely empty for all the attention he paid to the assembled nobility of Bloomhaven. Every flash of dark hair, every glimpse of rose silk drew his eye, only to disappoint him moments later when they belonged to someone else.
Tonight marked the first official Crown Court Ball, an occasion of such magnitude that no one of consequence would dare to miss it. There had not been a Crown Court in generations, and curiosity burned bright among the gathered elite. All wished to witness firsthand the young ladies who might one day become their princess, the future Crown Consort to the High Lord.
Every glance, every subtle exchange between him and his potential brides would be dissected and discussed before the night was through. Even the gossip birds were no doubt hiding somewhere amid the towering plants and glittering floral displays, listening with rapt attention and preparing to scatter their embellished reports across Bloomhaven by morning.
