7. Silent fractures

To: Dedicate Crane, First Air Dedicate, Winding Circle. From: The Citadel. Her Grace, Lady Sandrilene fa Toren. Duchess of Emelan. 1055HE Crane. I give up. I give up because, while six months of silence feels interminable to me, I know that if I left things to you it would be even longer. We would be reduced to excruciating accidents of eye-contact until one of us falls dead from old age. (And it might not be you, crosspatch). I give up because I am tired, and I am frightened, and I am sick of writing letters in my head only to remember that I can't let them down to send to you. I am sick of Lark carefully not asking me what is wrong. I am sick of avoiding my own brother for fear of letting something slip. You have always worried about my lack of discretion. Know that I am safer with my secrets when I can smile. This is a chance for you to tell me you never want to speak to me again. You never gave me that courtesy. You just stopped. We have to see each other every month, and you have kept your very appropriate distance. We both know that Duchesses don't chase people through their own halls, and you have used that to horrible advantage. If the formal letterhead has tricked you into opening this, then please write yourself out of this part of my life, or come back. I am not a child. I will not harass you over what may—or may not—pass between us, though I am hurt that you think that I would. Writing all of this hurts. But I do not abide loose threads, and you had best remember it. Your friend.

Sandry. My dear. I'm sorry. I don't know.

Dear Sandrilene.

I don't know how to begin. I have not known how to begin for a very long time. I need to confine this to extremely short sentences.

The letterhead did trick me. The Count's son is helpless in the face of formal address. You read me well. You have read me well since you were fourteen, and it is discomfiting. I cannot lie. This is, of course, a falsehood. You are not the only one whose head is full of truncated correspondence. There have not been many days when I haven't regretted this silence, and yet still kept it. This is, I'm afraid, common behavior for me. Rosethorn, if you were to discuss it with her, would confirm this. There was a period of two years after we returned from Lightsbridge when-

Now I am justifying myself. That is habit, not aim. You letter shames me. As it should.

I won't embarrass either of us further by asking if you wish to continue this correspondence. You have said as much. And I…

I miss you. My days were better, my thoughts clearer, and my understanding greater when I had recourse to your friendship. If you still have need of me, then I am here. Though I anticipate a few more months of excruciating eye-contact.

Crane.

Crane, your apologies are awful—though why this surprises me, I have no idea. But I am surprised by too many things, lately, and at least this one has the chance of something good at the end of it. I do still trust you. And I am still appalled and amused by your inability to write a clean copy—unless you actually want me to squint at all the words you've struck through, as some sort of hint. I take that back. It is circuitous and perverse, and very much you. If you find yourself at a loss for words, here are some things I've been wanting to know but can never ask you during Circle council meetings. How did this summer's crop of tomatoes turn out. Rosethorn appeared particularly dour and Briar was avoiding eye-contact, so I suspected that you had finally managed to produce something she'd deem worthy. Are you ever going to take back that dreadful book you lent me about laconic Kurchali Hierophants? It's been lowering at me from the study and even Tris found it hard work—I made her find a copy at Lightsbridge so she might suffer through it with me. Are you dying your hair? If so, it's a shame. The grey at the temples was rather dashing, and I'm afraid you're prone to smears at the hairline. Yours, in hopeful curiosity: S.

Dear Sandry.

You are infuriating. In my brooding, I had forgotten this. I can't imagine how. Please know that three sheets of paper have been sacrificed in the name of a clean copy.

Your guess was correct. The glasshouse has finally produced a crop that even our mutual harridan declared acceptable. I am not too proud to say that the plants came off Rosethorn's rootstock. She knows this. I imagine it offers her scant comfort late at night. What she might not remember is that this was the rootstock I managed to take from her in exchange for Briar's shakkan. There is something strangely appealing in this, mostly centered around the rather severe dressing down you gave me at my own gate, impertinent scrap that you were.

Send the wretched book back if it offends you, Your Grace. It is, as I recall, a weighty article. I'm surprised you did not throw it at my head.

I shall take your advice under advisement. Wretch. But only because black does show up against yellow. And because your brother has been even more direct. Hearing it from you is too much.

Yours ever,

Crane.

Dear Crosspatch - oh, how I have missed you! S.

Dear S.

I see we are back to ridiculously small packets of text. The paper waste really is obscene

C.

Dear Crane You've seen the Namorn delegation. All my words are used up in counting and flattery. I still have the small poison you sent me. I shall, of course, refrain. I shouldn't even have mentioned it and hope you tear this wasted paper into tiny, tiny pieces—but it was still a comfort. I still can't believe you ever sent it to me. If I could, I would dose the next person who tries to tell me that children are really quite lovely, and I'll be a new person once I have some. A well-meaning councilor has told me on numerous occasions that marriage (and childbearing—at this point, there are many who would prefer the order to be reversed, as they are very concernedover the state of my insides) could be: "My pleasure as well as my responsibility." Since you are going to tear this into tiny pieces, I can tell you another secret. I wish I could name Tris as my heir and be done with it. I do not have a particularly good history with my relatives. Uncle the exception. Why I should risk descendants I do not want when I have brothers and sisters more entangled in Emelan's fate than my blood has ever been is beyond me. Am I irresponsible? I know many would say so. I'm not actually sure I want your answer. Please throw this on the fire. S.

Duchess,

You are many things. Irresponsible has never been one of them. You have never abandoned. When you have failed, it has never been through negligence. Emelan saw your uncle sicken and fade while his own children failed him. I shall keep your confidence. Please remember that you have mine.

C.

8. Slips

"That will be all."

Sandry smiled, her easy rise from her chair prompting the semi-circle of Dedicates to follow her example. Crane had watched her grow in this particular skill, watched as she grew to fit the space about her, and the power she could hold in her own voice, in the movement of a hand. She had had traces of it as a child, but it had taken years to colour her this way. Even pale and too thin from a winter of foreign dignitaries, a new grain tax, and pirates off Bit Island, she wore it well. Blue eyes met his, and he flushed. The note in his sleeve pricked the inside of his arm. He hadn't known where else to put the blasted thing—a scrawled surprise tucked under the council agenda that waited at his usual place.

Wait for me. Please. S.

For the first time in half a year, Crane did not look away first.