Apparently, the abundant sunshine has allowed the herb garden in your courtyard to flourish? Lestyn was thrilled when he wrote of it, though he did complain he can hardly keep upwith the weeding. I know you’ve been helping him tend it…and, if I know you the way I presume to, tending him as well.
Thank you for that.
It is surely brazen of me to ask you for anything, but I hope you will continue to keep an eye on him, for he has no one else to do it and, though he acts the sage adult, he is after all only thirteen. Without intervention, I fear Osain, that old crone, will beat the intuitive spirit out of the boy altogether.
He could use a friend.
(And, I think, so could you.)
Now you’ve surely tossed this into the fire, furious at my meddling. Ah, well. I will keep writing anyway, for I have never been diligent enough to keep a consistent diary, and spilling out my thoughts to you makes them feel slightly less confounding.
Skies, Carys, there is so much I ache to talk with you about. I wish I could tell you everything that’s happened, these past weeks since I left Caeldera. Everything that’s changed. If I’m being honest, my head has never been so confused. Nor has my heart. Still, a part of me is unshakably convinced it could all be sorted out in one single afternoon sipping tea in your shop. You were always far better at understanding me than I ever have been myself.
I know you may never forgive me. Trust that I suffer no foolish hopes in that regard.But my friendship will not wane, even if we never speak again except in discarded letters and distant memories.
Kiss Nevin for me. And hug Lestyn, if you can manage to make him stand still for longer than a breath.
All my love,
Rhya
Finished, I scatter a pinch of sand across the letter’s surface to set the ink. Whether or not I receive an answer back from Carys, I feel marginally more myself having emptied the contents of my heart onto the parchment.
Next: Lestyn.
I am overdue to respond to the boy’s most recent letter, which chronicled his deep boredom without any sick Caelderans to tend, for the infirmary is reportedly empty, as are his afternoons.
The sound of shattering glass from the direction of the terrace makes my quill jump, ruining the parchment before I’ve written more than a handful of lines. Sighing, I ball up the ink-blotted letter and toss it blindly toward the bin.
Soren’s hand darts out and catches it as it sails through the air.
“Oh!” I loose a startled gasp, nearly knocking over my pot of quill ink. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“How could you over all the racket?” His jaw is tight with tension, a muscle leaping in his cheek. The paper in his fist compresses with a crunch. “I’m going to bloody kill him.”
I suppress a laugh. “No, you aren’t.”
“Why not?”
I rise to my feet and cross to stand in front of him. “Firstly, because he’s your brother and you would miss him. Secondly, because I fear he would pop your head like a grape in one great fist if you were to interfere with his fun.”
Some of the tension bleeds out of his stare, replaced by the humor that has been gone for several days. I’ve missed seeing it there. His ability to laugh—at himself along with others—is one of his chief attributes.
“So little faith in me, skylark,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Haven’t I taught you anything? Brute force only goes so far. He would have to catch me first.”
“Well, our lessons have been rather lacking of late.”
He arches one dark brow. “Is that disappointment I detect in your tone?”
“Definitely not. I’m merely saying…I just meant…” I press my lips together, suddenly wishing the earth would swallow me up. “Never mind.”
“Oh, no. Too late to walk it back now. You’ve missed me. Admit it.”
“I will not admit any such thing!”
“Coward.”
“If I missed anything, it would be our training,” I say stiffly. “Notyou.”