A/N: I have taken a completely different turn with this chapter. I have decided that it's a bit too monotonous to write out everything from the book except in Char's point of view. So I'm going to skip a bit into the future, to where Char receives Ella's last letter. Also, this is written in 1st person instead of 3rd. I'm sorry if this confuses anyone! Oh, and characters belong to Gail Carson Levine, etc.

(To clarify the scene a little bit, Char is in Ayortha, sitting in his room. He and Ella have been exchanging letters for some time, and have grown closer and closer.)

- - - THE LETTER - - -

I have never felt more alone. So fiercely, utterly, completely alone.

I let out a sigh. Full of loneliness, longing, and all of the other emotions I feel at this moment mixed together. A miserable concoction. I put my hand to my forehead, massaging my temple. My head aches with thoughts of Ella. She fills my head, disturbs my senses, weakens my emotions. She is in my every waking thought, and every dream that fills my head as I sleep. My head and heart are going to burst for want of Ella.

I don't want to be in Ayortha, visiting it's rulers at court. I long to be in Frell, maybe walking through the menagerie with Ella. Or sliding down stair rails with Ella. Or talking with Ella. Or even in my own room at the castle, thinking of Ella, knowing that I will see her very soon. I wish that I were anywhere but here in Ayortha, just as long as I am close to Ella.

I love Ella.

The problem with that is, I don't know if she returns the feeling.

This love is much, much more than one simple sensation. It is a rush of thousands of emotions overtaking me at once, so that I feel as if I am walking on air, or flying. Wonderful, beautiful feelings about a wonderful, beautiful girl.

I wish I knew what she felt.

Certainly we are friends, and very good ones at that. Our correspondence through letters is excellent proof. We tell each other everything through them. If her letters to me ever stopped coming, I don't know what I would do.

Still, letters will never stop the ache of not being near her, in her presence.

I gaze into the fire, glowing red and then orange and yellow, the flames licking at the brick of the chimney. My chamber in the castle in Ayortha is small, but I prefer it that way. There is just enough room here for a four- poster bed, a writing desk, and an easy chair by the fireplace. I am sitting in the easy chair. I have Ella's latest letter in my hand. I have been sitting here for over an hour, hunting through her scrawling handwriting for the smallest clue, the tiniest hint that she has feelings for me. It would make my life so much easier if she did.

I find nothing in the letter of great significance but for these lines:

"I find that I am growing weary of my everyday existence here in Frell. I also find that I am missing you more and more with each passing day, not just because you are my friend, but also because I enjoy your company so much that I feel like a part of me is missing when you are gone."

These words give me courage. I know now that I cannot live another day with this love inside of me, brewing and stewing and never being released from my system. I need desperately to shout it from the rooftops and sing it from the mountains. The fact is, I am hopelessly, completely, and totally head over heels in love with Ella of Frell.

I pick up my pen and some parchment, and the words of my heart flow out into my arm, through my hand, into the pen, and onto the page.

Dear Ella,

Impatience is not usually my weakness. But your letters torment me. They make me long to saddle my horse and ride to Frell, where I would make you explain yourself.

They are playful, interesting, thoughtful, and (occasionally) serious. I'm overjoyed to receive them, though they bring misery. You say little of your daily life; I have no idea how you occupy yourself. I don't mind; I enjoy guessing at the mystery. But what I really long to know you don't tell either: what you feel, although I've given you hints by the score of my regard.

You like me. You wouldn't waste time or paper on a being you didn't like. But I think I've loved you since we met at your mother's funeral. I want to be with you forever and beyond, but you write that you are too young to marry or too old or too short or too hungry-until I crumple your letters in despair, only to smooth them out again for a twelfth reading, hunting for hidden meanings.

Father asks frequently in his letters whether I fancy any Ayorthaian young lady or any in our acquaintance at home. I say no. I suppose I'm confessing another fault: pride. I don't want him to know that I love if my affections are not returned.

You would charm him, and Mother too. They would be yours completely. As I am.

What a beautiful bride you'll be, whomever you marry at whatever age. And what a queen if I am the man! Who has your grace? Your expression? Your voice? I could extol your virtues endlessly, but I want you to finish reading and write quickly.

Today I cannot write of Ayortha or my doings or anything. I can only post this and wait.

Love (it is such a relief to pen the word!), love, love-

Char

All that I can do now is sit here, with my head in my hands, hoping, praying, dreaming. . . that maybe. . . maybe she cares for me. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can only sit here and wait for her reply.

The letter that will determine my fate.