I wrinkle my nose at the closing of the letter. “This was written by a woman very much in love,” I say. “Almost sickening, really.” Her affection even bleeds into her handwriting, loopy words in faded ink that’s nonetheless stood the test of time.
I refold the letter gently and then open the envelope again, only to see a second piece of paper. So I slip that one out and replace it with the first, unfolding the paper once I’ve retrieved it.
This handwriting is different, more scrawled, less careful, and my eyes drop to the bottom to confirm my suspicion—sure enough, my grandfather’s name is there.
“Here’s my grandfather’s reply—are you ready?” I say, but I don’t wait for Aurora’s response.
“My sweetheart,”I say, in a man’s voice this time. Somehow it feels too intimate to speak these words to Aurora in my regular voice, so I pitch it lower.“My work is so horribly dull and your words are the greatest way to end such a horrid day. Although it is not hard labor, I do wish I could be doing other things. Your mother frets for nothing, although I know that is her way, and no amount of reassurance will stop it. She would not like St. Louis for all its people, but I do, I have always felt better suited to cities. Still, tell her not to worry, and I’ve heard even that worrying can cause sickness, so reassure her, and I will try to write more frequently, whenever I am not so tired or busy. Yours in love, Goddard.”
When I stop reading, Aurora blinks at me. “Is that all he said?”
“Yep,” I say. “Not much of a writer, it would seem.” I stare at the letter. “Yours in love,” I murmur, looking at the words, and then I fold the paper and return it to the envelope.
Although I wouldn’t speak such sentimental thoughts out loud, there’s something comforting about knowing my grandparents had that kind of relationship, even if my parents didn’t.
And it’s a crazy thought, but I find the idea floating through my head anyway:Maybe the same could be possible for me someday, too.
“Don’t be stupid,” I mutter.
“Hmm?”
I clear my throat. “Nothing.”
AURORA
The study isquiet when Roman finishes talking to himself under his breath, save for the shuffling of papers as he replaces the letters. I turn to face the wall, partly because I insisted the papers were private and partly because there’s work to do here anyway. The file cabinets grate loudly as I slide one open, then the other, checking to see what’s inside. It’s nothing exciting, just folders with a few papers here and there, but it’s something to pay attention to.
I riffle through the folders, checking the labels—Finance, Personal, House, Car,and so on—while Roman remains quiet behind me. When he finally speaks, his words are unsurprising.
“Don’t you want to know what else is in these letters?” he says.
Glancing over my shoulder at him, I respond, “Not really.”
It’s not strictly true. I want to look at the rest of the letters, not because I’m nosy but because they appear to be old, and it’s cool to see a piece of history that’s survived all this time.
I turn all the way around to face him when he holds the letters up and gives them a wave. He strides further into the room with slow, leisurely steps. “You can ask,” he says, raising one brow at me. “You’re allowed to ask.”
I stare at him with disbelief and more than a little suspicion. “You want me to pry into your business?”
He shrugs, but the motion isn’t as casual as he’s going for. “No one ever does,” he says lightly as he continues to approach me. “I thought it might be fun.”
“It’s not,” I say flatly. I put my hands on my hips. “People prying into your business is obnoxious. Like when someone keeps asking questions about why you need another job.”
“Mmm,” he hums, looking amused now. “But you answered, didn’t you?” He pauses, stopping in front of me. “How long do you think you could hold a grudge? A month? A year?”
And I find myself suddenly faced with a sticky problem: When Roman is looming like this…he doesn’t feel twenty-five.
Twenty-five issoyoung; it’s definitely younger than I expected. But right now, he doesn’t feel young or old or anything at all exceptlarge—a large frame, a large presence.
I swallow and push the ridiculous thought aside. “Try me and find out.”
The amusement in his eyes sparks into a grin. “I suppose I can respect your privacy in the future,” he says, surprising me. A few strands of hair fall over his forehead as he tilts his chin down to look at me. “ButI’man open book to anyone who cares enough to read. Ask me all the questions you want, Aurora Marigold. I would love nothing more than to tell you the answers.” He waves the bundle of letters again, the twine still hanging halfway out of his pocket.
“I think you’re bluffing.”
He gasps, looking affronted. “I would never.”
“Then why were you in the holding cell?”
