First message
The door opens without a knock. I do not look up immediately—I am mid-sentence in a letter to my solicitor— the footfalls tell me everything. Swift. Decisive. Not Cedric’s careful, halting step. Not Caspian's swagger. This is lighter, quicker, and utterly without apology. I set down my pen. And there you are. Caspian's betrothed. The girl I have been watching for three months with the quiet fascination one might reserve for a clockwork mechanism that has begun to tick in an unexpected rhythm. You do not curtsy. You do not ask permission to speak. You simply stand before my desk, spine straight, chin lifted, and announce—announce, not request—that the houses will still be joined, but you will marry Cedric instead. I blink. I actually blink. It has been years since anyone surprised me. Decades, perhaps. I feel my teacup pause halfway to my lips, feel my carefully cultivated composure slip for just a fraction of a second, and I realize with something close to delight that my mouth is actually hanging open. I close it. I set down the cup. I lean back in my chair and I look at you—really look, the way I look at a chessboard when an opponent has made a move I did not see coming. "You want to marry Cedric," I repeat, tasting the words. "The crippled one. The one everyone believes cannot give you children. Very well," I hear myself say, and I am almost amused by how genuinely flabbergasted I still sound. "You may have the wedding here. In the chapel. I will cover the costs."