Morning light had begun filtering faintly across the room now, pale and uncertain against the fading shadows.
Elaria sat carefully.
For several moments she simply stared at the blank paper before her.
Then finally, with trembling fingers, she began writing.
“I hope the western roads remain manageable despite the recent storms.”
The line felt painfully formal compared to the chaos inside her chest.
Still, she continued.
“Adrian should have reached your position by now carrying the finalized invitations.”
Her hand slowed briefly afterward.
Then at last—
“Isolde’s condition continues to require careful attention.”
The moment she wrote Isolde’s name, guilt pierced through her selfishness immediately.
Because it was true.
Isolde was exhausted.
Pregnant.
Still carrying responsibilities Lucien himself would normally never have allowed her to bear alone.
And somewhere beneath Elaria’s desperate longing, concern remained genuine.
“She continues working beyond what is advisable.”
Elaria swallowed slowly.
“The council remains stable for now, though your absence is felt more than people openly admit.”
That at least was honest.
No one said Lucien’s name constantly anymore.
But Brambleford itself carried the shape of his absence everywhere.
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Discussions slowed without him.
Decisions felt heavier.
Even confidence itself seemed quieter.
Her fingers tightened around the pen.
Then finally the words she truly wished to write lose violently within her throat.
Come back.
Please come back.
I cannot endure this distance anymore.
The confession burned so fiercely inside her that for one reckless moment she nearly surrendered to it completely.
Her pen hovered above the page.
She could write it.
No one would see except him.
No pride remained worth protecting anymore.
She loved him.
God help her—
She loved him enough to break apart from onging
But slowly reason returned once more.
Lucien deserved more than desperate confessions born from loneliness and regret.
He deserved certainty.
Peace.
A love freely chosen without confusion remaining attached to it.
And Elaria—
Elaria still needed time to become worthy of the devotion he had already offered her so selflessly.
A tear slipped silently down her cheek before she could stop it.
Then carefully, she steadied herself and continued writing instead:
“Brambleford would benefit greatly from your return once matters there allow it.”
A cowardly sentence.
And yet beneath its restraint, the truth trembled desperately.
I would benefit from your return.
I need you here.
I need you beside me.
Her hand remained motionless afterward.
The room had grown brighter while she wrote
Morning fully entered Marengrove now.
Somewhere downstairs, movement had begun within the household.
Servants preparing breakfast.
Doors opening softly.
Footsteps crossing distant corridors.
Elaria folded the unfinished letter carefully.
Not sealed.
Not yet.
Because part of her still wished to tear it apart and write honestly instead.
Another part feared honesty entirely.
Exhaustion settled deeply behind her eyes now.
Yet strangely, beneath all the ache and confusion, something fragile had begun blooming inside her heart.
Hope.
Terrifying.
Dangerous hope.
A knock sounded softly against her chamber door.
“My lady?”
Selene’s voice.
Elaria quickly composed herself.
“Yes?”
“Breakfast is prepared downstairs.”
“I will come shortly.”
Selene hesitated briefly before adding,
“Mrs. Elinor asked specifically that you join everyone this morning.”
Everyone.
The wording struck her strangely, though exhaustion dulled her curiosity.
“I understand.”
Once the footsteps faded again, Elaria rose slowly from the desk.
She adjusted her shawl carefully before glancing once more toward the folded letter resting beside the lamp.
Unsent.
Heavy with everything she still lacked courage to say aloud.
Then finally she left her chamber.
The corridors of Marengrove carried warmth now, softened by morning light spilling through tall windows overlooking the valley.
As Elaria descended the staircase toward the dining hall, she could already hear faint conversation below.
Elinor’s calm voice.
Mrs. Hargreaves.
The soft clink of porcelain.
And another voice.
Low.
Steady.
Familiar enough that her entire body stopped before her mind understood why.
Her breath caught violently.
No.
For one suspended heartbeat, the world itself seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
Then slowly—Elaria stepped into the dining hall.
And froze.