Eleanore knew, deep down, that it wouldn't last. There could be no real peace in her life, not yet. There were still too many things left unresolved, and that uncertainty gnawed quietly at her, eating away at the edges of her contentment, making her fear that this stillness was nothing more than the silence before an overwhelming storm.
She looked out the window, though the smile still lingered faintly on her lips. She was sitting with a cup of tea gone half-cold by the windowsill when Marina appeared a short while later, carrying a small stack of correspondence. One envelope sat carefully on top, marked with familiar, elegant handwriting.
"This one came by private courier not an hour ago, my lady," Marina said. "From Lady Stella, if I'm not mistaken."
"You're not," Eleanore said, already reaching for it, recognizing the stamp of Sinclair, the swan, before Marina had even finished speaking.
She opened it eagerly.
Dear Eleanore,
