I look down at the letter, then again at him.
“What?” I breathe, hesitant to accept it.
“Here,” he affirms, peering up at me, “Burn it.” I remain still to his offer. Picking up on my indecision, he continues. “This is what you were burning earlier, is it not?”
“No, I–”
“Don’t lie to me,” he asserts, shaking his head at me. “Just burn it, like you did with all the others, I’m certain.”
“I won’t be burning that,” I contend, taking a step back from him, “That won’t be done.”
“Avalor, just burn it,” he sighs, “I truly can’t stand to see it anymore.” His complacency gives me pause, thus beginning my careful tread through this conversation.
“So then… you’re not cross with me?” I inquire. He tilts his head curiously.
“Am I not cross with you?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
“Yes,” I nod, “You seemed awfully cross with me when I refrained from addressing you by name.” “I had merely presumed you would lose your patience upon seeing one of your letters burnt,” I scoff. My words appear to have caught His Grace off guard, parting his lips in hesitance.
“T-That was… I-I was being selfish,” he quickly asserts, as though having strangely lied, “I’m sorry.” I narrow my eyes at him as my face regresses into a scowl, not taking kindly to his odd attempt at an apology.
“Alright,” I reply tersely, swiping the letter from him. Approaching the window sill, I hover the torn page over the candle. “Is this what you want?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Yes,” he concedes, rising from his crouch. With his approval, I begin lowering a corner into the lit wick, allowing for the flame to catch. The room remains quiet in our wait. Fire then tears its way through the limp page, encroaching upon every wrinkle and handwritten thought that His Grace ever made the mistake of sending. As the letter’s ashes give way to smoke, I notice the young duke standing beside me. His gaze lingers on the candle, seemingly solemn in his thoughts. Perhaps, he grieves the cremation of his cherished note–or might it be more than that? Knowing what he knows now, he’s not merely watching the demise of this one letter, but of them all. He may feel compelled to consider the fate of his every sweet nothing, having left his hand to be burned by mine.
As heat threatens to singe my fingertips, I set the remaining part of the letter atop the candle, allowing the wick to finish it off.
“It’s done,” I affirm, turning to face him. His focus is still with the candle. “Well, now that you have been made aware of my transgressions,” I assert, hoping to sway his thoughts, “I must ask you where I am to be accompanying you today.” I succeed in drawing back his gaze, appearing to have been caught off guard by my suggestion.
“Forgive me, Avalor, what did you say?”
“I merely skimmed your letters at most, Nikkolas,” I remind him, nonchalant in my cruelty, “I would like to be better informed on the matter from your own words.” A seeming delay in his train of thought occurs, giving him pause before coming to terms with an answer.
“Ah,” he finally says, though his voice wavers in certainty. “Actually, perhaps you might prefer plans with someone other than me.” Beginning his abrupt pull away, he continues, “Or you might even decide on later plans altogether.” “I must excuse myself for the movement though as… I recall having business within the House of Lords that are in desperate need of my attending to,” he quickly clarifies, heading for the door, “I’m sorry to have misguided you with my writings.” He clasps his hand around the gilded knob, and peers over his shoulder at me. “I must have misspoke when I said we had plans, earlier, Avalor. It won’t happen again.” I watch as he takes his leave, quickly closing the door behind him.
Standing alone, I look back at the candle, appearing celebratory as its flame dances over the ashes of his flattery. It had more than succeeded in its crime and wasn’t about to dull its light for the sake of social graces. Perhaps, having been granted a taste of his previous letters, to burn the final note felt deserved; perhaps, having been given merely crumbs of his faith in me, to discard his whole heart heedlessly felt earned; or perhaps, having only been teased with glimpses of his honeyed gaze, to turn him away felt long due. I wouldn’t soon forget the treachery he inflicted in deceiving me, but I suppose, neither would I forget the sweetness he had laced with each ploy. To have possessed such ease in swaying my affections, only to wield it as a double-edged sword made him all the worse. I wish I could say for certain that he wasn’t worth a second thought, but in the brief moment my heart had beat for him, I'd find myself reconsidering as I was now. I guess it can’t be helped.
Reasoning that there was no longer use for the lit wick against the rays of daylight, I motion to extinguish the candle. As my hand grasps the tray’s handle, I raise it to my lips and blow out the small flame. I set it back down, wave out the remaining traces of smoke, and close my window. With my schedule cleared, I’m suddenly aimless in my room. Adela and Rebecca had nearly completed their tasks when His Grace had dismissed them, but with the addition of a smudge along the side of my mattress, my morning ritual came up short. Grabbing an idle handkerchief, I bend into a crouch and begin wiping away what remained of his letter. The ash distorts before transferring to the cloth in my repeat of the motion. Stopping to examine the bed, I notice the stain has been mostly removed. However, for what was left, I felt certain it would disappear in the wash. As for the handkerchief, though… ? Peering down at it within my grasp, I contemplate what to do with the white cloth, now tainted with ash. Considering it alone could never serve as proof, its existence was mostly inconsequential. Every trace of evidence prior had been dealt with swiftly. I need not concern myself with the woes of a potential scandal and if I was so bold… perhaps I could even keep it. Although, it may just as easily be rinsed with the bedding. In doing so, all would be as good as forgotten. But then again… I could keep it.
The thought lingers before I realize I was not merely debating myself, but with a sick part of me that didn’t want to simply forget. Pouting my lips in mischief, I begin draping the cloth over itself. In my careful fold of the momento, I meet its edges to edges, encasing its dust to dust. As it lays neatly within my palm, I glance around for the makings of a proper resting place. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the gold finish of a trinket box atop my nightstand. With its dainty scroll legs and resin leaf accents adorning the round pot, I’m completely won over. I eagerly lift off its lid and nestle it beside the pearls already residing within it. Gazing upon my corner of remembrance, I smirk. Yes, I think this shall serve my treasure well.
Soon after His Grace had seemingly abandoned our plans, I headed off to the washroom in search of either Rebecca or Adela for I was to ask something of them. Upon my arrival, I was met with the curious stares of several handmaids who were previously preoccupied with their washboards. Among them stands an older woman, dressed in distinguished shoulder wings I recognize belong to the head maid. Following their gaze, she soon acknowledges my presence and motions to greet me.
“Oh,” Beatrice says, turning away from the other servants, “Good morning, My Lady.” “To what might I owe the pleasure?” she asks, looking up at me in her curtsey.
“Good morning, Beatrice,” I reply, curtseying to reciprocate the gesture. “I was hoping I might speak with Rebecca or Adela…” I answer, peering past her in search of them, “Are they here?” Looking over her shoulder, she scans the faces behind her, but soon shakes her head.
“It would appear they are busy elsewhere within the estate,” she sighs. “Might I be able to help you, instead?” Although she unknowingly wouldn’t be able to answer my question, I found her reassurance comforting all the same.
“Oh, no, that’s not quite necessary, Beatrice,” I smile, “I’m actually in need of my handmaids, specifically.” She tilts her head at me, considering my request of a peculiar nature.
“Might there be an issue, My Lady?” she inquires, “Anything that would require my oversight?” I sense she means to implicate their supposed incompetence, but I quickly wave off her concern.
“Of course not, Beatrice,” I affirm, to which she seems relieved that I did, “They have served as excellent handmaids throughout my stay here.” “I merely misplaced a hairbrush this morning and assumed they might lend me insight on my forgetfulness,” I shrug.
“Oh, of course,” she replies, beckoning me towards her, “Allow me to pull up their current task.” Producing an assortment of written schedules, she draws her finger over the list of names. “Ah,” she answers, tapping definitely over one, “Adela is sweeping the east wing’s main hall, you should find her there.”
“Thank you, Beatrice.”
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