The Sixth

9: The Flowers Speak

~

To my Lady, Darlin Rayne,

If you are reading this you have encountered some sort of danger. I initially meant for Collette to guard you from a distance, but in the event harm befalls you, she is under orders to approach you so you might know you have an ally.

Collette is one of my best and would lay her life down for you. Though our correspondence is sudden and brief, please trust her as if she were my own sword.

Your letter and flowers were received with much gratitude, unfortunately a more personal thanks will have to be delayed while I prepare to return to the Capital.

Until we meet, please care for yourself before others and try not to get hurt.

I hope you will await me as eagerly as I do you.

With much anticipation,

Ludovik Von Taivaria

~

Every day Darlin reads Ludovik's letter, and every day a vase of fresh irises grace the round table by her window.

She knew it was Collette's doing and has grown tired of being unnerved by the faux maid's sneakiness, especially as it made her three day confinement a tad more bearable.

Darlin often catches herself reaching towards the irises, always stopping right before her knuckles can brush a petal.

The flowers' vibrant blue reflect in her blood colored pupils, Ludovik's letter pressed to her chest by her other hand.

Darlin sighs, confused? ...Maybe frustrated?

All logic and wisdom suggests she burn the letter, but just as her hand never reaches the flowers, she is unable to touch the paper to a candle's flames.

She reads the letter again and purses her lips. Darlin would love to blame starvation and dehydration for the suffocation in her chest, but the truth jeers at her— Ludovik's words... move her.

She should be over the moon, bouncing off the walls, but all she wants to do is laze on the table and sigh, staring into nothing.

Ludovik's words are so kind. They seep with genuinely good intent that poisons her. He is a sincere person. Darlin didn't trust feelings— hers or others'— but is inclined to give Ludovik the benefit of the doubt.

Lifting the letter to eye level once more, she notes with a smirk, Bold too.

Ludovik referred to her as "my Lady" which is awfully comfortable for someone writing to a person they've never met.

She didn't hate it, however. Like her heart is the instrument, and Ludovik a skilled pianist, any offense she might have felt resounds then quickly fades into nonexistence.

Darlin's ever working brain said he is only trying to secure her support in light of the information she provided in her letter.

Her traitorous heart did not care and swayed to the melody of the care and worry not even her family affords her.

"Best not be stupid..." She grumbles and locks the letter away in the desk's drawer.

Wander as far as her heart might, Darlin is not stupid enough to believe Ludovik really cares for her.

In high society, propriety is a must, and, sometimes, propriety demands buttering people up, smiling, comforting them, offering a helping hand while keeping a dagger tucked behind you.