For Ellanor – to open when I have Flown.
The words had practically been burnt into Ellanor’s retinas, the black ink stark on the crisp paper. Her aunt’s handwriting was neat and perfect – the way it had been before Lourelle had fallen sick, before her dark skin turned ashen and her body weak. The note was a harsh reminder of what Ellanor would never get back, as well as a warm memento of what had once been.
After one of the servants had found the Madam of Skyward dead early in the morning the family medic had been called on. The middle aged woman usually flew in, but this time she came by horse, followed by a black hearse carriage. Her blue wings were bound at her back – a sign of grief, of loss. When it is time for Her to Fly, she will spread her mighty wings and take to the final Sky, and Avvyr will watch as She goes, the people bound to the ground. The sentence from the Book of the Goddess was written in gold around the edge of the hearse’s roof. Ellanor, due to her lack of wings, had opted to bind a red sash tightly across her chest to restrict her breathing, also some tradition taken from the Goddess’ verses.
The sun had barely risen when the medic and her people left the property, riding down the mountain side. Skyward Manor was eerie quiet, the air heavy with mourning. Ellanor had given all the servants the day off – only her trusted handmaid remained, a comforting presence trailing behind her every step.
She sat down in the greeting room not wanting to face the emptiness of the living room, the happy memories that lived there. Tara dutifully stood by the wall behind the sofa, only moving once the doorbell rang, to let the awaited executor in.
The man kept his business quick but not without sympathy. He had worked for Lourelle since before Ellanor was born, and in her aunt’s final months he had been no stranger to the house. Now, as he sat in the manor of his dead client, the executor read the final will of Madam Lourelle Skyward of Skyward Manor.
Lourelle’s will was short and direct: Skyward was to be left to Ellanor, the new Madam of the house; the vacation home on Vita Isles shall continue to be tended by the Adger family; all servants’ and guards’ contracts were to be honoured for at least one human lifetime, et cetera. The requests were followed by a list of Lourelle’s belongings that were to be left to her friends and family – one of them a silver box with a hand written note attached.
For Ellanor – to open when I have Flown.
The executor had placed the box on the table in front of Ellanor before politely excusing himself, Tara showing him out of the manor. That was two hours ago and Ellanor’s chest was now aching, the sash the only thing keeping her together.
With a shaky breath Ellanor finally collected enough courage to reach for the box, the silver glinting in the light from the windows. The lid underneath the note had a doe carved into it and the box’s sides were covered in foliage and small flowers. It was of beautiful craftsmanship, not Avvyrian but further south, maybe Casan or Artárlian.
Inside the box a lilac envelope lay, the same kind Lourelle had used for her letters to friends. Ripping the letter open with a claw, a whiff of lavender perfume tickled Ellanor’s nose, coming from the bundle of scented stationery. This was odd, as her aunt had hated the smell of lavender, claiming it to be ‘unoriginal’ and ‘boring’. Ellanor could not agree less, finding the flower rather lovely.
Unfolding the stack Ellanor found the first paper to be of a different brand – the same lilac colour of the envelope – the words written in her aunt’s hand:
My Dear Ellanor–
The letter that follows was given to me by your father when he left you in my care, to keep safe until you were old enough to understand. Since you are reading this I passed away before I could explain myself, and for that I apologise – you deserved better.
First a word of advice: keep this to yourself. When I’m writing this you’re just a babe, but I know you’ll grow up to be smart, I can see it in your eyes. Burn these pages once you have read them, and bury the ashes with salt, so no magic can reconstruct the words. Trust your instincts.
–Your Great Aunt, Lourelle
Ellanor’s head was spinning. The letter was written by her aunt, that she was sure of, but the words made no sense. The way that first sentence was phrased – when he left you in my care – it was all wrong. Lourelle had never insinuated Ellanor’s father might still be alive. No, she had quite done the opposite, always speaking of the tragic death of her distant nephew and his wife, the child they had left behind.
“My, I was shocked when the black-winged investigator showed at my doorstep,” Lourelle would tell when Ellanor asked of her parents. “She had you in a blanket bundled up on her arm. The poor thing looked so uncomfortable – mustn’t have had children of her own, no more than a hundred, still so young. Told me I was the only next of kin still alive, asked if I were willing to take you in.” At this Lourelle had always smiled so warmly and gently taken Ellanor’s hands. “Of course I couldn’t say no. I had always wanted a daughter.”
It did not add up. And the warnings at the end, they sounded nothing like her aunt. Lourelle had never been superstitious, had only really believed in the Goddess because it was expected of her. Magic was practically banned from the house, even the lights were run on some new invention from Casanve called electricity. The only exception was the family medic with her healing magic.
Taking a breath Ellanor set the lilac letter aside and inspected the writing on the stack of lavender scented papers. The hand was unfamiliar and it lacked the neatness of Lourelle, the letters hurried and tilted. It was dated to the day after her birthday.
My Little Ellanor–
It pains me to write this letter as it forces me to say the truth out loud: I cannot keep you. I know Madam Lourelle will take good care of you and that she will give you my letter when you are old enough, when you are ready.
Let me begin with saying I love you–
No, Ellanor thought, flipping to the last page. She would not sit here, during her time of grief, and have her so-called father ruin it. She owed him nothing, and he owed her more than a twenty-one year old letter. Looking at the signature at the bottom of the page was like a slap in Ellanor’s face.
–Your Father, Tor Dalton
Ellanor’s fingers curled around the letter, her claws ripping at the paper. Tor Dalton was no stranger to Skyward Manor, the Duke had often frequented Lourelle’s luncheons and dinner parties. Ellanor had even accompanied her aunt to Redstone Castle where Dalton hosted several balls throughout the year. Her father even sent a bouquet of flowers on her eighteenth birthday, something she had shrugged off as a kind gesture from a family acquaintance. Her blood was boiling, her tail a tense bow around her skirts.
“Tara.” The human girl was at her side in an instant, eyes alert. Ellanor didn’t bother to hide the letter from the handmaid. “Send for a messenger. I’ll be in my study.” Tara bowed her head and disappeared from the room.
Collecting the pages and stuffing them back into the envelope Ellanor took another look inside the silver box. The inside was clad in purple satin and at the cushioned bottom lay a set of jewelry: a ring, pearl earrings, a bracelet, and a medallion. Ellanor scowled at the Redstone crest adorning the necklace, the promise that came with it. She did not want it, nor need it. Slamming the lid shut, Ellanor got up and strode off to her room and its adjacent study.
***
By the time Tara returned Ellanor had written up a polite and rather passive invitation for tea at Skyward Manor, addressed to “the Duke at Redstone Castle”. She did not want to allude to what knowledge she held – let her father ponder on what the invitation might mean.
An answer arrived at dinner: Duke Dalton would stop by the following afternoon.
Casual, if not cautious. The note was clearly written by the Duke himself, but the words were unhurried compared to the old letter. As if every stroke of the pen had been made with reflection. From what Ellanor had glimpsed during their brief encounters, Tor Dalton was the model gentleman, a generous host, and an admired avvir in general. When Ellanor was fourteen Lourelle had brought her along to her very first ball at Redstone and Dalton had taken time out of his evening to introduce her to an abundance of guests. At the time it had seemed as a courteous gesture toward Lourelle, but now Ellanor wondered if it was the closest he could get to showing off his daughter.
Maybe he is worth it, she thought as she was getting ready for bed, Tara’s sure hands pinning and wrapping her hair for the night. He might be worth the effort of forgiveness. She chewed on the idea for a while before sliding between the sheets, waving for Tara to blow out the candles. She could not be certain of her father’s intentions, nor what caused him to give her up – after all she had not read the letter that supposedly explained it all. When she thought about it, she did not know Duke Dalton’s age. What could he be – a hundred? Closer to one-fifty? If he was even younger than that it could be reason enough for his decision, caring for a child might not have been a priority.
Tara blew out the last of the candles, leaving only the one on the nightstand lit before slipping out of the room. Ellanor lay staring at the flame for a long moment, turning tomorrow’s meeting with her father over in her head. A small part of her wished she’d read the letter before telling her handmaid to burn and bury it. It’s too late now, she thought, reaching out for the candle and snuffing it between her fingers.
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