VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING


Mon coeur,

Well. I see that if I seek to go toe to toe with you in bold correspondence, I had best be prepared for a swift and skillful counterattack.

I can see your smug expression in my mind when I tell you quite truthfully that I did not sleep well last night after reading and rereading your letter, though the sleeplessness was of a most enjoyable kind. You do paint a vivid picture, perhaps even more vivid than the one I already had in my mind.

I thank you sincerely for passing along Aiara's letter, which I will in turn pass along to my mother when she visits tomorrow. Though you may think it beneath your station to act as messenger, I assure you that your efforts do not go unappreciated. My mother has been gifted so little joy in life, and it warms me to think that she might finally have a loving word from the only one to ever return her romantic affections.

As I wrote in my previous letter, I have returned to Petworth, though I was initially quite resistant to do so. I was shocked (and pleased, if I must admit it) to find Lady Bolingbroke utterly contrite, and even fearful, when I returned. But before I left my home Mother had reassured me that I should never again be forced into the horrific situation I had found myself in before I wished myself away to you. When I asked how she could guarantee such a thing, she would not elaborate fully, but hinted that she had some sort of knowledge of a scandal involving Lady Bolingbroke and Roger's parentage, and that she might even have *proof* of said scandal, and that she had made it clear to Lady Bolingbroke that it would be wise to tread lightly. And her words seem to have had the desired effect, at least for now, for the Lady now bends to me like a reed in a gentle wind.

And yes, Roger has returned.

It seems he was injured on the battlefield, but thankfully only enough to be relieved of his duties and not enough to be impaired for life, or in any danger of death. He is much as he was when he left me after our very brief honeymoon—quiet, distant, and seemingly unable to meet my eyes. He walks with a slight limp.

Truly, what broke my heart for him was his parents' reception when he arrived. His mother kissed him quite perfunctorily on both cheeks, while his father said nothing. They almost seemed unhappy that he had returned.

When we were alone together in our bedroom I wasted no time in telling him of everything that had transpired—I am generally weary of secrets, and I somehow felt that I could trust Roger not to betray my confidence. I kept my voice low because I was fairly certain that Lady Bolingbroke was listening at the door.

Roger seemed dismayed but not shocked to hear of what his mother had done, and apologized on her behalf. And then, keeping my voice quite a bit lower, I told him of you, and the time I had spent in your world, and what you are to me.

I thought that he might call me hysterical, or simply refuse to believe my words, but while his eyes grew wider as I spoke, in the end he simply acknowledged the truth of what I had said, and told me he was happy that another was filling a role that he could not.

"I have seen truly unbelievable things on the battlefield," he said to me. "It is not so hard to imagine that everything you have told me could be true."
I told him more of the wonders that I had seen in your world, the many rooms of the castle and the field full of fireflies (though not what we did there), and his face seemed to take on a hopeful cast. Like me, I think he has often felt trapped in this world, and I begin to wonder if he might be better suited to yours...

Rest assured, though, that if you ever have cause to be jealous where I am concerned, your jealousy need not be directed toward Roger. Even if we are to share the same bed (and I believe he will insist on sleeping on the bedroom's divan, or perhaps in one of the other bedrooms), we would do so more as brother and sister than as husband and wife.

I suppose I should feel put out by your use of words such as "mine" to describe me, and the ownership you claim over my pleasure and my person, but...I cannot. Truthfully, it makes my heart beat faster to think of myself as yours, and to think of the determined gleam in your eye that would fall on any competitor for my affections. Perhaps it owes to the fact that others who have tried to own me have truly taken away what little freedom I had, whereas you have not.

You know, of course, that you are also mine, and I claim you every bit as strongly as I now claim my own flesh and words. Your smiles are mine to draw out, the heat in your glances mine to create. Your body that I have so greedily tasted and caressed is mine to embrace, mine to dream of in great detail on these nights alone with only my fingers and my own breath for company…

I must find a way back to you, I know. And I must also keep my mother and Tobias safe. And it seems—though I know it might shock you—that we must all leave this world behind and live in yours. I imagine you never thought that your kingdom would be invaded by mortals seeking refuge, but I hope you would see it as a small price to pay to have me by your side again.

I pray you do not deny me this small gift, mon coeur.

Yours,

Sarah


Addendum, Albert Bingham to Jacob Dorchester: This is the last letter in the pile. The young servant who delivered the package (and who did not wish to be named, only to receive coin) has not returned, and we have no means of contacting her, as we do not know whether she is employed in the Bolingbroke or Williams estates, or neither (further, I believe that she may be illiterate and unaware of the exact nature of what she delivered to us, knowing only that it might be of value). Though I suppose absconding with Lady Bolingbroke's correspondence would have been simple enough, I am curious as to how she came to possess the letters of this "goblin king." Given that I am not inclined to believe in village superstitions about the fair folk, I do wonder if these letters are all an elaborate ruse, with the hushed and furtive delivery by the illiterate servant merely serving as a theatrical flourish.

Fiction or no, we have received correspondence from Lady Williams urging us not to publish (including a rather unsubtle threat, though such bluster is par for the course in our industry when anything is soon to be published that might reflect poorly on its subjects). I myself have no genuine fear of retribution from the Williams estate (and really, the Bolingbrokes have enough skeletons in their closet to be wary of making similar threats). However, this final letter leaves things rather…unsatisfying, to say the least. And now that Lady Williams has been alerted to our possession of the letters, I doubt the authors will be so careless with their correspondences in the future.

I await your thoughts on how to proceed.


Author's note: Thank you as always for your patience! Eek, certain plot points have been a challenge for me to resolve, but after multiple rewrites I think I'm getting there. Hopefully done in four or five more chapters!