Chapter 21
Over the next three days, Roland exhausted every means he could think of.
On the first day, he made a barefoot pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Lady, ascending all nine
hundred and ninety–nine steps with nothing but a prayer and a penitent heart. At the summit, he
returned with a consecrated charm of union.
“They say her blessing binds two souls for life,” he said quietly, his eyes searching hers for a
flicker of hope.
Eleanor looked at the charm in his outstretched hand, then tore it to pieces without hesitation.
“Then we’d best not let such a curse linger,” she said coldly. “I’ve no wish to see you in the next life
either.”
The light in Roland’s eyes dimmed, but he forced a broken smile. “Eleanor… if I could turn back
time-”
“There is no ‘if,” she cut him off, turning her face away.
On the second day, he prepared a full banquet with his own hands–dishes rich with spice and
warmth.
“I remembered you like it fiery,” he said gently, offering her a portion of spiced river trout.
She glanced down at the dish, then back at him. “Cecily never touched spicy food. That’s why you
never cooked it before.”
His hand froze mid–air.
Without a word, Eleanor pushed every dish into the slop bucket, letting them fall with a heavy, final
splash.
On the third day, fireworks lit the evening sky from every corner of Westmarch.
When the final burst painted the sky in radiant gold, he turned to her, voice low, almost childlike in
hope. “Do you like it?”
She stared up at the sky a moment, then smiled faintly. “Roland… did you do this for Cecily too,
once upon a time?”
His fists clenched. His throat worked to form the words. “Never.”
He looked at her then, eyes red–rimmed. “Only you,” he whispered. “Everything–everything has always been for you.”
She gave no reply.
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That night, Eleanor returned to her chamber to begin packing. Tomorrow, her time here would end.
While searching through her belongings, she found a parcel given to her by Lady Wolveston–one she had not yet opened.
Inside was a bundle of letters, bound with care. The paper was yellowing at the edges, worn from being touched too many times.
Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the first.
[To Eleanor,
1 first saw you at the Lirendale banquet. You wore a white kirtle and fed stray cats in the garden. The hall was alive with noise, but you stood apart–serene, untouchable.
I watched you from behind the rockery, until you noticed me. You smiled.
In that moment, I was lost.
-Edmund“]
She opened another.
[To Eleanor,
I heard the Viremont family’s illegitimate daughter troubled you again. I sent medicine under the Wolveston name–did it reach you?
I wanted to come myself. But I had no excuse.
-Edmund]
And another.
[To Eleanor,
Today is your coming–of–age ceremony… and also your mother’s death day.
I rode to Crownspire and waited at St. Elara’s all day. I saw you kneeling alone by the grave.
I left your favorite honey cakes at the gate. I hope you tasted them.
-Edmund]
Letter after letter, each beginning with “To Eleanor.”
The final one:
[To Eleanor,
Your father has come to propose a match–Viremont and Wolveston, joined in marriage.
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I know he intends to offer your sister. It’s a trap.
But I said yes.
Because it’s the only way I could ever make you mine.
If you are reading this, then we are already wed.
Don’t fear this union–I did not choose it out of pity.
From the moment I saw you at thirteen, I have waited for this day.
-Edmund“]
The letter slipped from her hands.
She remembered how he had looked at her when he first woke–restrained, aching.
It wasn’t courtesy in his eyes.
It was love.
Buried. Long–suffering. Real.
Chapter 21
