To Lord Guillaume Reeves,
Baron,
Permit me to speak frankly. Brief though our meetings have been, I find conversation with you to be easier and more genuine than any I have found before or since. Your brothers are charming and good-hearted, and I suspect both traits originated in or were at least encouraged by you.
At your estate, I requested the aid of a Caster, something I admit I still require. What I now realize is that I failed to say other things. I failed to request your aid—the man behind the mark. I failed to thank you again for a timely cup of tea which gave relief when needed. I failed to mention the beauty of Reeves Manor, painted in warm yellow tones and surrounded by creeping ivies. Was the house decorated to match the orchard or do you favor yellow?
I should like to know your thoughts, Baron. On estate colors, on Casting abilities, and on a great deal of other topics. If you’ll count me worthy of them.
With hope,
Her Royal Highness, Aria
P.S. I should also like to know if Leon is properly aerating his dough. While I have no notion what such a thing means, Cook was most upset I did not inquire when I had the chance.
She creased the parchment and rolled it tightly, then tied it with a thin string. As she did, she glanced at her father, the lamplight reflecting softly against his gold circlet, which he still wore even in sleep.
Something inside told Aria the letter she held was as dangerous as a weapon. In sending it, something would break. Her curse, perhaps.
Perhaps something deeper.
Aria sent the letter anyway.
It was early morning when the falcon tapped at his bedroom window. Baron had never seen the bird before, but Corvin trained dozens under Mr. Shaw, and he always tested them first with deliveries to the Reeves estate, though he usually sent them to badger Leon.
When Baron opened the window, the falcon walked gracefully inside, turning to present her message canister. She was a sleek thing, certainly expensive. Corvin must be training her for a duke’s household. Baron expected a scrap of parchment at most, marked with a few words on how next to guide her. But it was a fully bound message.
One addressed toGuillaume Reeves.
He stood there for a full minute, frowning, before he shook himself. He fastened the canister’s top before touching the falcon’s head. She took the signal for flight. Fully trained, then. A real message, not practice.
It wasn’t from Sarah. He’d not forgotten her handwriting. An invitation from Widow Morton? He should have considered ahead of time how to diplomatically reject that inevitable message.
He tugged the string loose, carefully unrolling the tight bundle.
And his heart began to pound.
He read the letter. Twice. He stared at the princess’s name onthe parchment for a long time, and then, realizing it was not going to disappear, he tucked it in a pocket and carefully readied for the day. After reviewing the hiring list for the harvest—and reluctantly surrendering it to Huxley—Baron read the letter again. He fidgeted with his gloves.
He went to the kitchen to make tea. As soon as he settled a kettle over the fire, Leon eyed him.
“Brewing it long-hand? What’s wrong?”
The boy was the only one in the kitchen. Helen had left to visit her daughter and grandchild, a luxury she could often afford since Leon ran the kitchen anyway.
“Trouble in the hamlet,” Baron said. The kettle’s whistle screamed at his deflection; he removed it from the heat. “Widow Fletcher’s taken ill.”
Leon wiped his floured hands across his apron. “I’ll make leek soup.”
Baron touched his pocket, ensuring the letter was still real. He checked the cupboards and pantry for tea bundles.
“What are you doing, idiot? You won’t find anything better than what you can make.”
I should like to know your thoughts, she’d written. To what end? And why him? She could write to anyone in the kingdom, so whyhim?
Baron finally set a bundle of tea leaves to steep with vanilla bean. Leon re-sorted the cupboards to his liking—glaring at Baron as he did so—then returned to chopping leeks and gathering ingredients in a soup pot.
Once the tea had steeped, Baron poured himself a cup, not bothering to ask if Leon wanted any since the boy always preferred straight milk. Baron stirred in a generous helping of lemon and cream.
