Chapter 12: The Letter
The evening light had turned the city below to amber and rust. Blair sat on the chaise by the window, one hand pressed flat against the warm glass, the other resting in her lap. The garden was still fresh in her mind. The smell of jasmine. The heat of Lucien's hand in hers. The way he had looked at her when she asked for the letter, as if she had surprised him, and pleased him.
She had not asked for anything in a month. She had taken what was given, eaten what was fed, worn what was chosen. And then, in the sun, with the roses heavy and the fountain murmuring, she had asked. And he had said yes.
The door to her cage had a handle.
She pressed her forehead against the glass and watched a cart roll past the outer gate. The driver was a man, small and distant, and he was free. He did not know he was free. That was the trick of it. You only noticed the cage when you were inside one.
She had noticed, that first night, when Lucien tore her dress. She had noticed, each morning, when Vespera fed her past fullness. She had noticed, all month, every time a dhampir maid smiled without meeting her eyes.
But today, in the garden, she had felt the door give.
The knock came at the door. Not Vespera's. Not Lucien's. A servant's knock, quick and light.
Blair straightened on the chaise. "Come in."
A dhampir maid entered. Blair recognised her. Amelia, the one who had mentioned the lotion. She was tall and pale, with dark hair plaited close to her scalp, and she carried a silver tray in her hands. On the tray lay a single piece of parchment, folded and sealed with a dollop of wax.
"A letter, my lady," Amelia said. "From the kitchens."
Blair's heart stopped. Then started again, too fast.
She stood. The silk of her nightgown whispered around her ankles. "From Marta?"
"I do not know the sender's name, my lady. The messenger said it was from the kitchens." Amelia set the tray down on the low table and stepped back, hands folded. "Shall I light more candles? The light is fading."
Blair did not answer. She crossed the room and took the parchment from the tray. The wax was a plain, unmarked red. But the handwriting on the outside, in thin, spidery letters, was unmistakable.
For the lady in the eastern wing.
Marta's writing. Marta, who had taught her to knead dough when she was nine years old. Marta, who had slipped her extra seed cakes when the head cook wasn't looking. Marta, who had called her my little mouse and brushed the flour from her cheek with a rough, callused thumb.
Blair's throat closed.
"I will fetch pen and paper," Amelia said. "In case you wish to reply."
"How did you know I would wish to reply?"
Amelia's pale eyes were kind. "Because you asked for the letter, my lady. And because you have not stopped holding it since you took it from the tray."
Blair looked down. Her fingers were gripping the parchment hard enough to crease it. She loosened them, one finger at a time.
"Thank you," she said. "Yes. Pen and paper. Please."
Amelia bowed and left.
Blair stood alone in the dimming room, the letter in her hands. The wax seal was simple, a daub of red, no sigil. Marta did not have a sigil. She had hands covered in flour and a heart big enough for every kitchen girl who ever crossed her path.
Blair sat on the chaise, angled toward the window, and broke the seal.
The parchment unfolded. The handwriting was exactly as she remembered. Thin and spidery, a little shaky, the letters pressed hard into the page as if Marta had written with her whole arm.
My dearest Blair,
I hope this letter finds you well. The King's men came to the kitchens this afternoon and told me you had been asking after me. They said you had been promoted, that you were living in the eastern wing, that you were settling in with fine things and fine company. I confess I did not believe them at first. I thought they were playing a trick on an old woman. But the messenger had your name, and he said you were well, and he gave me parchment and a pen and told me to write whatever I wished.
So I am writing.
The kitchens are much the same. The head cook still complains about the lard. The boy who polishes the silver still talks too much. The girl from the candlesticks, Elowen, she has been made a junior housemaid, can you believe it? She was so proud when she told me. She said she learned it from you, the way you carried yourself, the way you always knew where things were. She misses you. We all do.
I have told them you are well. I have told them you were chosen for a great honour and that we should be proud. And I am proud, my little mouse. I always was.
But I need to know. Are you happy? Are you kind to yourself? Do you eat enough? I know how you used to skip breakfast to read, how you would forget your supper in a book. And I know that look you used to get, that fierce look, like you were fighting something only you could see.
Write to me, if you can. Even a few lines. Even just to tell me you are alive and well, and eating your breakfast, and not letting anyone dim that fire in your eyes.
All my love,
Marta
Blair read the letter twice. Then a third time.
The words blurred. She blinked hard, once, twice, and the blur did not clear, and she realised she was crying.
The last time she had cried, she had been eleven years old, and the head cook had blamed her for a burnt pie that was not her fault, and Marta had held her in the pantry until the tears stopped. She had not cried since. Not when Lucien pinned her to the desk. Not when Vespera bound her wrists and brought her to orgasm. Not when she spent that first terrible day alone with the crystal dildo and the plug, miserable and aching and certain she would break.
She had not cried. She had been defiant, or numb, or both.
Now she was crying over a letter. Over flour and lard and a girl named Elowen who had learned to carry herself from watching Blair. Over a woman who called her my little mouse and asked if she was happy.
Blair pressed the letter to her chest and wept.
She did not know how long she sat there. The light outside the window deepened from amber to violet to the soft purple of full twilight. The candles had not been lit. The room was dim and quiet, and the sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears.
She thought about Marta's words. Are you happy? Are you kind to yourself? Do you eat enough?
She thought about how she had eaten past fullness this morning, because Vespera's eyes were warm and the praise made her feel weightless. She thought about how she had asked for the letter, and Lucien had said yes. She thought about how, a month ago, she would have torn this letter up and used it to light a fire, just to show them she could not be bought.
A month ago.
She looked down at the letter in her hands. The ink was smudged where her tears had fallen. She smoothed the paper flat against her knee and read the last line again.
Not letting anyone dim that fire in your eyes.
She had fire. She had always had fire. It was the only thing she had ever owned, the only thing the scullery could not strip from her. And she had been afraid, these past weeks, that she was losing it. That the softness and the praise and the silk gowns were smothering it, that she had become a creature made of comfort and obedience.
But Marta saw it. Marta, who had not seen her in a month, who had only been told she was promoted, who had written a letter to a lady in the eastern wing. Marta saw the fire. Marta believed it was still there.
Blair's hand came up to touch her cheeks. They were wet. Her eyes were sore. Her chest ached with a longing so sharp it was almost physical.
She missed Marta. She missed the kitchens. She missed the weight of a flour sack in her arms and the rhythm of kneading dough and the gossip that flowed like wine through the scullery.
She missed being a person who was not fed and dressed and praised.
The door opened. Blair looked up, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
Amelia stood in the doorway, a tray in her hands bearing a pot of ink, a pen, and a neat stack of blank parchment.
"I brought these, my lady," she said. "As you asked."
Blair sniffed. "Thank you."
Amelia crossed the room and set the tray on the low table. Her pale eyes lingered on Blair's face. She did not comment on the tears.
"Shall I light the candles?" she asked.
"Please."
Amelia moved through the room, touching flame to wick. The light rose, warm and golden, and the shadows retreated.
"The King and Queen are in the council," Amelia said, "and will be for some hours yet. You have time to write, if you wish. I will have a messenger sent to the kitchens as soon as your letter is sealed."
Blair stared at the blank parchment. The pen. The ink. The promise of a reply.
She could write to Marta. She could tell her she was well, that she was safe, that she was being cared for. She could tell her about the books and the pillows and the garden. She could leave out the rest.
She could also tell her the truth. That she was a concubine now, body and soul. That she was fed by hand and praised like a pet and loved and claimed and changed. That she had stopped fighting, and she did not know if that was surrender or the beginning of something she had not yet understood.
But Marta was a human servant in a vampire palace. If Blair wrote the truth, and the letter was read, Marta would be in danger.
Blair's fingers tightened on the edge of the parchment.
She could not tell the truth. Not in a letter.
But she could tell Marta she was happy. And the strange thing was, some part of her believed it.
She picked up the pen. The ink was cool against the nib. She wrote, in her careful, looping hand.
Dear Marta,
I received your letter. I read it three times. I am crying as I write this, but I promise they are good tears.
I am well. I am safe. I am being cared for more than I have ever been in my life. I eat more than I ever did in the kitchens. I have books, and soft pillows, and a garden I walked in today for the first time in a month.
It is strange to be on this side of the palace. Sometimes I forget I am still in it. Sometimes I forget what I used to be.
But I remember your hands in the flour. I remember the seed cakes. I remember the pantry, and the way you held me when I cried over a burnt pie that was not my fault.
I am happy, Marta. I think I am. I am learning what that means.
Write to me again, if you can. Tell me about the lard. Tell me about Elowen. Tell me everything ordinary.
Your little mouse,
Blair
She set the pen down. Her hand was shaking.
"Seal it," she said. Her voice was steady, which surprised her.
Amelia stepped forward. She folded the parchment neatly, pressed the wax, and set the red seal in place. "I will have it delivered tonight, my lady."
"Thank you."
Amelia bowed and left.
Blair sat alone in the warm, candlelit room. The letter to Marta was gone. The letter from Marta was still in her hands. She smoothed it flat and read the last line again.
Not letting anyone dim that fire in your eyes.
She looked at the window. The city glowed below, amber and velvet. The cart was gone. The streets were quiet. Somewhere in the kitchens, Marta was reading her letter, or would soon, and she would know that Blair was alive, that Blair was safe, that Blair had eaten her breakfast.
The door to the cage was ajar. She had opened it herself, with a question.
She held the letter to her chest and let herself breathe.