But I don’t. I feel…nothing.
No, that’s not true. I do feel something, but none of the feelings are pleasant. There’s too much frustration, confusion, and anger clouding my heart to pay much heed to what might be buried beneath. But just because I don’t feel any warmth doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Hope is something I’ve learned to smother, to shove aside in favor of sensibility when I’m really made for dreaming. Do I dare embrace that hope once more, after twenty years of disappointment? After I was certain I’d already given up?
The letter suddenly feels heavier in my hands, as if it contains the answer. Perhaps my mother’s explanation will ease my anxiety, smooth my frustration.
There’s only one way to find out.
I lift my eyes from the envelope and address my teachers. “May I have a moment alone?”
“Yes,” Agatha says at once, “we can leave—”
“No, I’ll go. I just…”
Spruce gives me a sympathetic nod that tells me there’s no need to explain. She knows exactly what I require to process my feelings.
I nod back, clutch the letter to my chest, and flee the parlor.
5
Cake may be the best balm for a heavy heart, but there’s something else I can trust to smooth my frazzled nerves. Music. But not just any kind of music. One song from one particular event in my life has become as precious as my glade. There’s only one way to find such music in the convent, and I just so happen to be in possession of it.
I reach the door to the room I share with Dorothy. As the two oldest student teachers in the convent, we’ve been rooming together since the former eldest departed our company six months ago. I’m relieved to find the space empty. The others are likely still enjoying their cake in the kitchen. Perhaps more so now that the watchful Marsh isn’t there to forbid any of the students from taking second helpings. I close my bedroom door behind me and lean against it, the letter still clutched to my chest. My heart thuds against the envelope, a frantic melody I know I must calm before I can read the note.
Mymother’snote.
Steeling my resolve, I push off the door and march over to my bed. It’s a narrow cot dressed in flannel sheets and a wool blanket. Dorothy’s bed is barely more than an arm’s span away in the cramped room—yet anothergrayroom, I might add. The convent is almost entirely gray, from our clothes to our bedding to the simple stone floors. And when it isn’t gray it’s beige, like the parlor. The sisters insist on seeking the brightness of the stars and never outshining them ourselves.
From under my bed, I withdraw a small oak chest. Sitting cross-legged before it, I place the letter in my lap and remove the lid of the chest. Beneath it lies my most prized possession: a phonograph. The device is one of Faerwyvae’s latest technological advancements, thanks to Star Court’s cutting-edge innovation harnessing starlight. The phonograph utilizes crystal cylinders carved in minuscule patterns that manage to replicate sound when traced by a needle and amplified through a brass horn. It’s a rare item, one I wouldn’t have if a former student hadn’t left it behind when she returned to her family. For a year, it remained untouched under my bed, for its previous owner hadn’t left any musical cylinders to go with it. It wasn’t until we took our trip to Lumenas that I was able to purchase a recording of the ballet we attended. It’s still the only recording I own.
I pray to the All of All that my cylinder contains enough charge. The cylinders are fueled by starlight and only last about a dozen plays before requiring rest under the night sky for a handful of hours. In my current flustered state, I can’t recall the last time I left it on the windowsill overnight. With bated breath, I lift the needle’s arm and gently place it against the crystal cylinder. To my relief, the crystal tube begins to rotate, emitting a soft golden glow where the needle touches. Then comes the first strain of familiar music. Cherished music. A song from the first ballet I ever saw. Even though I managed to sneak from my lodgings and catch a few other shows during my visit to the city, the first performance holds a special place in my heart.
Because of that, I can always count on this song to set me at ease.
Once my nerves begin to calm, I rise from the floor with my envelope in hand and plop down upon my bed. My heart hitches as I scan the name scrawled over the front once more. Then, with a deep breath, I turn the envelope over, flick open the dark blue seal, and extract the letter within.
My dearest Rosaline,
First, please know I understand how shocking this must be for you and how sorry I am if any of this causes you pain. It must have been dreadful not knowing where you came from or if you were loved by those who left you where you’ve resided all these years. I promise you, Rosaline, you have been loved. For every minute of every day since your birth, your father and I have loved you. There was nothing I wanted more than you, long before your conception, and your birth was the brightest joy in my life. I never wanted that to end. Never. As you might have gleaned, though, your life was in grave danger. We thought we could protect you here, but we quickly learned our confidence was folly. Our only hope of keeping you safe was to spirit you away while we dealt with the threat. It pains me to say that the threat hasn’t been fully eliminated, but I could not wait a moment longer before bringing you home. We have spent years trying to find you, my dearest Rosaline. Years. And I am so relieved that we have located you at last.
Now, let me write of happier things. You’re coming home! Home, my love. I know I am but a stranger to you now, but my love for you has never grown cold. I cannot wait to be a true mother to you, if you will allow it. Though I suppose I must address something else you might have been told by now—your engagement to Monty Phillips. Darling, I do hope you can forgive me for springing such a surprise on you. The truth is, your engagement has been in the works for quite some time, as is customary for royals—you’re a princess, Rosaline! Have your caretakers told you this? Anyhow, to put things bluntly, your marriage to Mr. Phillips will save our family. I know that sounds a bit ominous, and I will explain more once Mr. Blackwood escorts you home. Just know that you truly are my every hope in every way. You’re the Briar family hero. Your father is reading over my shoulder and says I’ve just heaped an awful lot of pressure upon you. I hope you don’t feel that way! You’re already perfect as you are.
Oh, darling, I’m rambling now and I forget that you don’t feel as close to me as I feel to you, considering you only just heard about me. So I will end my letter before you deem me annoying. Your father says I’m a little “too much” at times, but he does not truly mean it. He has me to thank for his throne, after all.
And I’m rambling again. I cannot wait to see you and hold you in my arms. Yes, I understand you’re a woman grown, and not the baby you’d still be if fae children aged like they did long ago, but I do hope you will allow me to embrace you as I’ve dreamed of doing for so long.
My hope, my hero, my darling child.
I love you.
Eagerly awaiting your return home,
Mother
P.S. If you don’t want to call me Mother, that is fine. My name is Divina Briar. Did your caretakers tell you? Oh, this is rather strange that you don’t know me, but we have time to remedy that! Even after you depart to meet your fiancé, I plan on taking a trip to the Earthen Court to spend— All right, your father says I’m rambling again and is threatening to take away my pen
The letter ends with a slash of ink, which tells me my father truly did wrestle the pen from her. I find myself laughing even as tears stream down my cheeks. My anger melts away. Not entirely, of course, but enough to feel a flicker of my abandoned hope. I sink into that warmth, a feeling both sweet and terrifying at once. The tiny ember grows inch by inch until it shifts into a blazing fire in my chest. Fear accompanies it too, as does my rage over my shocking engagement. But those feelings are companions to my hope. To my joy. To my amusement over my mother’s ever-rambling letter.
She was wrong about one thing: I do feel like I know her already, at least a little. Her effusive joy practically leaped off the page. Whether it’s my imagination or some fae magic, I truly felt like I could hear her voice, a sound as comforting as the orchestral number that continues to stream from the phonograph.
