A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 21: A Step Forward in the Right Direction

Chapter 21: A Step Forward in the Right Direction

It took Galadriel some time to deduce how to write a letter to Amoise at the Autumn Court. She couldn't very well sign it with her name or include any information that might allude to where she was hiding away, lest it get into the wrong hands, but Amoise didn't know any code beyond a few inuendoes designed by Helion and Galadriel wasn't exactly planning on wooing the Lady of Autumn. In the end, she wrote a letter under the guise of her true name as a formal introduction. But at the very end, such a short sentence that others would likely overlook, she wrote I hope little Luci is doing well. Amoise had always called her youngest son by that name in private and Galadriel had picked it up when she cared for him.

Sealing the letter, she poured a little spoon of melted wax over the joining fold, flattening it with an unmarked stamp before writing the proper addressal on the front for it to appear as though it came from another noble High Fae.

Placing it carefully in her small satchel, Galadriel headed into the kitchen. Her eyes darted to the empty, woven basket sitting on the kitchen bench. One that had not been there when she sat down at the desk in the small study. The red and white cloth she had laid over the scones baked four days ago was now neatly folded inside and the scent of vanilla suggested that it had been washed. It was the third time Rhysand had done that—sent it back with magic, startling a century's worth of life out of her the first time.

But she smiled through her pursed lips as she aimed for the front door. Now early autumn, the air was slightly crispier, a breeze drafting through the lane, blowing the ends of her pale pink dress up. Being late afternoon, golden blanketing the city as the falling sun desperately reached its last rays across the land, the streets were quieter than usual. It was that hour after day dawdlers returned home and an hour before the creatures of the night emerged.

A little brass bell dinged overhead as she entered the post office designated to her district. Brown parcels were stacked behind a long and narrow counter where a white-haired High Fae stood. "Good afternoon," he greeted.

Galadriel handed him the letter. "Good afternoon, sir. This is an important letter—it's going to the Autumn Court."

The Fae male took the letter, briefly skimming over the address. "Important indeed." He smiled at her. "I'll make sure it receives the best of service."

"Can you make sure it is delivered to her personally?" Galadriel inquired, pressing herself up against the counter.

"Oh, I don't oversee any of the deliveries. I just work the front desk and organise mail notices." He took her in again, her worried face. "But I'll see what I can do. If I leave a message and mark it as priority, they should take care with its delivery."

"Thank you," she breathed. She turned and headed for the door.

"Hang on—you're Galadriel?"

Freezing, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. That recognition in his voice, the urge ingrained into it for her to be reeled back. Slowly, keeping her feet pointed towards the glass door, Galadriel looked back over her shoulder. "Yes?" Her training under Azriel allowed her voice to remain even, almost delightfully curious. She gave a moment to contemplate why she hadn't bothered with that façade on the High Lord himself, but realised that it would be pointless if he could read her mind, not to mention it would be utterly exhausting around him.

The white-haired Fae held up a finger indicating for her to wait. He disappeared into a backroom for a minute and she could hear him shuffling about. He returned, holding up a letter. "This was going out for delivery tomorrow. May as well take it now."

"Oh." She pottered back to the desk and took the letter. The envelope was embossed along the corners with a floral design. "Thank you," she muttered over her shoulder, tearing the letter open as she went back onto the street. There was a single, unfolded piece of paper inside. The paper itself was thick and stiff, rough with texture. Black ink swirled in delightful curls, something that she instantly recognised as an invitation.