“You didn’t tell them, did you?” asked Keir.
“Of course not,” said Gwenla with a huff.
“They’ll be more where they came from,” said Julian. “Someone I barely knew in the city wrote me asking to stay next year. It’s going to be madness.”
Along with the magazine was a letter from Rinka:
My dearest Alison,
I’ve just arrived in the castle for the first time, and I so wish you were here with me. I can’t believe this will all belong to me someday. I can’t even decide if I want it to. If there was some way to have Idris without all of this, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I know he would too.
But it’s not all bad. There’s an incredible history to all of it. Much of it untold, I’m realizing. All we learn about in the history books is what these nobles were up to. Who was fighting whom, who married whom, which family owned which land. But there’s an entire untold story here about the people who made it all possible. People who grew up like you and me, the people who built and cared for these great homes and families with their own sweat, blood, and tears.
Idris says there’s a lot to learn from their stories, for his research into curses but also from a purely historical lens. I’ve decided to make it my mission to bring those stories to light, through the work of the new college and in my official role as princess, once that happens.
I can’t wait to see you all again at the summer. Give our love to Keir and all the rest.
Love always,
Rinka
“That’s a nice idea,” said Gwenla. “She’s always been such a champion of the working folk. I’m glad it’ll be her in that castle one day.”
“I’m glad it’s not just Idris on his own. Can you imagine?” said Keir.
“I thought he was rather impressive,” said Charlotte. “Until he came screaming out of the hedge maze, drunk off his arse.”
They all laughed remembering the stag night the future king of Loegria and Wilderise had thrown.
“Are you going to open the last one?” asked Keir.
Alison picked up the last item in the pile: the package. It was wrapped in brown paper, but she could tell what it was before she even opened it.
It was her poetry book, bound in a lovely green cloth with gold foil on the cover.
Wilderise through the Seasons:
A Book of Poems by Alison Lennox-Ainsley,
Marchioness of Caernock
Illustrations by Weyland Gilroy
“Oh, let me see!” said Gwenla. “It’s so lovely. Look at the color!”
Inside, Weyland’s illustrations had been printed in full color with Alison’s poems set inside them.
Alison flipped through the pages. She knew what each one held, but it was still surreal to see them bound up together in a proper book. It felt foreign, as if she’d picked it up in the bookstore in Sudport, not as if she’d made it herself with her own mind.
“There’s a letter, too,” said Keir, holding it out to Alison to read.
Dear Mrs. Lennox-Ainsley,
Thank you for sending your manuscript as requested. We’ve taken the liberty of printing a proof copy for your review. Please ensure that all pages have printed according to your desire.
We’d like to begin with a run of 1000 copies, to be distributed to stores here in Wilderise and in Loegria.
“One thousand copies!” said Gwenla. “Oh, what wonderful news!”
