Chapter 225: The Note
Chapter 224: The Note
Lyria’s POV
I began to read.
Your Highness,
I am sorry about the manner in which the date ended. I truly enjoyed my time with you, and I did not wish for it to conclude as it did.
I am also sorry for being obtuse. I ought to have realised there are very few people who would dare strike you. I should have thought of it at once, yet I did not, and for that I apologise.
I am sorry that you must endure what you do. I ought to do less to make you uneasy or distressed, yet instead I seem only to do more of it. I hope you may forgive me.
The cherry pie is for you to eat. The colour pencils are delivered as promised. I hope you shall make good use of them.
And perhaps, one day, you might grant me a drawing. Yes, I am shamelessly asking for one. When time permits, I should greatly value something created by your hand.
The lessons shall continue. I promised to assist you, and I intend to keep that promise. Oliver shall remind you of the hour and place at which we are to meet.
I hope you are not still displeased with me after what transpired. I should very much like to continue spending time in your company and to know you better.
Yours,
Lucian Aurelgrave
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I read the words once.
Then I read them again.
My eyes moved slowly across the page, taking each sentence as it came, allowing the meaning to settle before I moved to the next.
He had written this for me.
No one had ever written me a letter such as this before. No one had ever apologised to me in writing, had ever taken the time to put pen to paper and explain themselves, had ever sought my forgiveness in so earnest a manner.
My mother had written to me once, when I was very young, before the illness stole her strength. I still possessed that letter somewhere, hidden safely beneath the loose floorboard.
But this was different.
This was from Lucian.
Lucian, who had bullied me as a child. Lucian, who had mocked my stammer and stolen my masks. Lucian, who had brought me cherry pie through a gatehouse wall and apologised when no one else would. Lucian, who had taught me to dance and steadied me whenever I stumbled.
Lucian, who had noticed the bruise upon my cheek and grown angry on my behalf.
I smiled.
This time, I did not hide it.
Who had ever written me a letter so thoughtful? Who had ever apologised so plainly, without excuse or evasion? Who had ever asked for a drawing from my hand as though my work possessed value?
I set the letter down carefully, smoothing it flat against the table so the edges would not curl.
Then I reached for the pie.
It had already been cut into slices, perhaps by Lucian himself—I had no notion. The portions were neat and even, arranged carefully within the linen wrapping.
I took one.
The pastry was still warm. The filling was sweet and tart exactly as cherry pie ought to be, and the crust flaked softly beneath my fingers as I lifted it to my mouth and took a bite.
And as I ate, I reached for the colour pencils.
I selected a pale blue first—the colour of the sky on an overcast morning, soft and gentle. Then a deeper shade for the shadows beneath the clouds. Then a muted grey for the distant horizon where the sky met the trees.
And I set to work.
I worked slowly at first, testing the pencils upon a spare piece of paper before committing them to the drawing itself. The colours were rich and smooth, nothing like the faded pencils I had seen in the market stalls near Mercer’s Row. These glided across the page with ease, leaving soft, even strokes that blended beautifully when layered together.
The sky came first.
I shaded the upper portion in pale blue, leaving the centre lighter where the sun might have been struggling to emerge. Then I added layers of grey and white, building the clouds until they appeared soft and full, the way clouds often looked after rainfall when the sun had only just begun to return.
The birds came next.
I coloured their bodies dark brown, their wings tipped with black, their beaks touched with faint orange which I achieved by layering yellow over red. They were small and distant, yet I wished them to seem alive. I wished Patricia to look upon them and imagine their movement, their flight, their freedom.
The trees came last.
I used deep green for the leaves, though I left spaces untouched where the light might have filtered through. The trunks were brown, darker upon one side and lighter upon the other to suggest the sun’s position somewhere beyond the frame.
I ate as I worked.
A slice of pie here, another there. I did not count how much I consumed. I only knew the pie was delicious, the drawing was finally coming together, and for a short while I forgot the palace entirely and simply allowed my hands to work.
When I finished, I lifted the drawing and held it toward the light.
The sky was soft and layered with pale blue, grey, and white. The birds stood dark against the brightness, their wings suspended mid-flight as though climbing toward something unseen beyond the edge of the page. The trees rose tall at the bottom, their leaves deep green, their trunks dark brown, their roots fading into shadow.
It was not perfect.
There were places where the colours blended too heavily, where my hand had trembled and left marks I had not intended. There were places where the shading was uneven, where the clouds appeared too heavy or the birds too small.
But it was beautiful.
And though Patricia would likely insist she did not want it, I hoped she would still like it.
I smiled again, softer this time, and set the drawing carefully upon the table.
Then I wrapped the remaining slices of pie within the linen cloth once more and tied the ribbon neatly around it.
