Chapter 135: Yours

Chapter 135: Chapter 135: Yours

Cassian left the next morning.

Marian watched from the front steps of Ashford House until the riders disappeared beyond the gates.

Only then did she finally turn away.

The farewell itself had been entirely ordinary.

No dramatic declarations.

No tearful promises.

Just a simple instruction.

"Come back quickly."

And a simple answer.

"I’ll do my best."

At the time, it had seemed sufficient.

A week later, Marian was considerably less certain.

The problem was not that anything was wrong.

Quite the opposite.

Everything was finally right.

The engagement was dissolved.

The Emperor had ruled.

The compensation had been paid.

The future was secure.

For the first time in months, there was nothing left to fight.

Which left Marian with an unexpected problem.

She missed him.

The realization was deeply inconvenient.

Especially because she had no intention of admitting it.

The first letter arrived eight days after his departure.

Marian maintained her composure admirably.

At least until she reached her room.

The moment the door closed behind her, she immediately broke the seal.

The letter was three pages long.

Marian read all three pages.

Then read them again.

The contents were not particularly exciting.

Road repairs.

Budget revisions.

Administrative disputes.

A meeting with local officials.

An entire paragraph regarding a bridge.

Marian remained uncertain why the bridge required an entire paragraph.

The final lines read:

The duchy remains intact.

Contrary to several alarming predictions, I have not bankrupted House Ashford.

The roof remains present.

I thought you would wish to know.

Yours,

Cassian

Marian laughed.

Then reread the letter for a third time.

Her reply should have been simple.

Instead, she somehow produced six pages.

Marian stared at the result.

Then convinced herself this was perfectly reasonable.

It was not.

The second exchange followed.

Then another.

And another.

Gradually, a rhythm emerged.

A letter left the capital.

Several days later, another arrived from Ashford.

Days passed.

Then another.

The intervals between letters became oddly important.

Cassian’s correspondence remained remarkably consistent.

Projects.

Budgets.

Roads.

Meetings.

Vassals.

Once an entire page regarding a sheep that had escaped confinement repeatedly.

Marian responded immediately.

Have you considered apologizing to it?

The reply arrived over a week later.

No.

Yours,

Cassian

Marian laughed so hard she nearly dropped the letter.

After that, the correspondence somehow became worse.

Or perhaps better.

She was no longer entirely certain.

One afternoon she wrote:

The gardeners are relocating the southern rose bushes.

I disagree with this decision.

The gardeners disagree with my disagreement.

At present the conflict remains unresolved.

Cassian’s response arrived ten days later.

I support the gardeners.

Yours,

Cassian

The traitor.

Marian spent four pages explaining why he was wrong.

Cassian remained unconvinced.

As did the gardeners.

The weeks passed.

Winter settled over the capital.

Then slowly began to retreat.

The letters continued.

One arrived while snow covered the gardens.

Another while the snow began to melt.

Another when the first green shoots appeared beneath the frost.

And somewhere during those weeks, Marian developed a new problem.

A completely different one.

It began with a signature.

Yours,

Cassian

The same words.

Every letter.

Without exception.

Yours,

Cassian

Marian noticed.

Then continued noticing.

Then became annoyed by noticing.

Meanwhile, her own signatures changed constantly.

Yours,

Marian

Became:

Yours always,

Marian

Then:

Affectionately yours,

Marian

Then:

With fondness,

Marian

Then:

Always yours,

Marian

Then:

Yours affectionately,

Marian

Not once did Cassian acknowledge the changes.

Not once did he comment.

Not once did he alter his own signature.

Which was impossible.

The man noticed everything.

He responded to details hidden in the middle of page four.

He noticed everything.

Therefore, he was doing this deliberately.

The realization was deeply irritating.

Near the bottom of her next letter, she finally wrote:

You always sign your letters the same way.

I find this unimaginative.

Surely the Duke of Ashford is capable of more creativity than a single word.

The reply arrived nine days later.

Marian immediately skipped to the relevant section.

I considered changing it.

After careful reflection, I decided against it.

The current version remains accurate.

Yours,

Cassian

Marian stared.

Then reread the sentence.

Then reread it again.

The traitor.

Because somehow he had managed to say entirely too much while writing almost nothing at all.

That evening she sat at her desk with fresh paper.

The letter itself came easily.

Several pages appeared before she even noticed.

A complaint regarding a dressmaker.

An observation about the weather.

A question regarding the sheep.

A story about the capital.

Then she reached the final line.

And stopped.

Her pen hovered.

Yours,

Marian

Crossed out.

Yours always,

Marian

Crossed out.

Affectionately yours,

Marian

Crossed out.

Always yours,

Marian

Crossed out.

The wastebasket slowly filled with discarded drafts.

Marian eventually dropped her forehead onto the desk.

This was ridiculous.

Entirely ridiculous.

And yet she continued staring at the page.

Eventually she sat upright.

Took a breath.

And wrote:

Lovingly yours,

Marian

Then immediately regretted every decision she had ever made.

She stared at the words.

Read them twice.

Then three times.

She nearly destroyed the letter.

Nearly.

Instead she sealed it before she could lose her nerve.

The messenger departed the following morning.

For the next week, Marian suffered.

She reconsidered the letter repeatedly.

At one point she became convinced she should send another letter explaining the first letter.

Fortunately, she recognized this as madness.

Barely.

Nine days later, the reply arrived.

Marian carried it directly to her room.

Locked the door.

Then opened it.

The letter itself appeared entirely normal.

Road repairs.

Meetings.

Merchants.

Paperwork.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing alarming.

Nothing at all.

Until a second folded sheet slipped from between the pages.

Marian blinked.

Then unfolded it.

Only a single sentence had been written there.

The western gallery remains considerably less interesting without company.

Yours,

Cassian

For several moments she simply stared.

Then laughed.

Softly.

Hopelessly.

Because that was all.

One sentence.

One sentence after nine days of waiting.

And somehow it felt more precious than entire volumes of poetry.

Outside her window, winter was finally beginning to retreat.

The snow that had blanketed the capital for months had begun to disappear.

The gardens were slowly waking.

The first signs of spring appeared across the city.

And with them came preparations for the new Season.

Invitations.

Dressmakers.

Rumors.

The capital was beginning to stir once more.

Soon the nobles would return.

Soon society would wake.

Soon Cassian would come home.

And soon, whether she liked it or not, the world would start paying attention again.

But for now—

for just a little longer—

there were only letters.

And at the bottom of every one of them:

Yours,

Cassian.

For reasons Marian preferred not to examine too closely—

that single word had become her favorite.