The letter arrived on a morning too quiet to be trusted.
Isabelle found it on the marble console in the entrance hall, weighted down by a small leather pouch. She recognized Mary's handwriting instantly—neat, careful, as if every word had been chosen not to accuse.
Her fingers stilled.
This was not part of the plan.
She dismissed the servants and opened the letter alone.
---
Isabelle,
By the time you read this, we'll already be gone.
Thomas's father took ill last night. It came suddenly—fever, weakness, the kind the doctors don't like to name too loudly. There was no choice. We had to leave the city before dawn.
We didn't come to say goodbye. Not because we didn't want to—but because goodbyes ask questions, and right now, questions are dangerous.
We know things aren't as simple as they seem. We know you're stronger than you let on. But whatever game you're playing, we can't stay on the board anymore.
Enclosed is what little money we have. It isn't charity. It's trust. Use it if you must. Burn it if you want. We just couldn't leave without giving something back.
If you ever need us—really need us—you know where to find me.
Take care of yourself, Isabelle.
—Mary
---
The pouch clinked softly as Isabelle set it down.
Not much money.
Enough to survive. Enough to mean something.
Isabelle sank into a chair, the letter trembling slightly in her hand.
They left.
Not exposed.
Not broken.
But walking away.
She had planned for rage. For betrayal. For desperate heroics.
She had not planned for retreat.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
Jacques's voice followed. "Bad news?"
Isabelle folded the letter carefully before turning. "They've gone."
Jacques smiled faintly. "Sensibly."
"No," Isabelle said quietly. "Unexpectedly."
Jacques studied her face. "You sound disappointed."
"I'm recalculating," she replied.
He moved closer, glancing at the pouch. "They left you money?"
"Yes."
A soft laugh. "Guilt has its own currency."
Isabelle didn't smile.
Because something had shifted.
Mary hadn't tried to save her this time.
Hadn't tried to fight.
She had chosen distance.
And distance was dangerous.
It meant Mary had stopped seeing Isabelle as someone to rescue—
—and started seeing her as someone to survive.
Jacques poured himself a drink. "Then our problem is solved. No witnesses. No sentimental interference."
Isabelle looked at the letter again, at the steady kindness in the words.
"No," she said softly. "It's not."
Because now Mary was free.
And free people, Isabelle knew better than anyone—
—had a way of returning when you least expected them.
She slipped the letter into the hidden drawer with the rest of her secrets.
Not destroyed.
Not forgotten.
Just waiting.
And somewhere on a long, uncertain road out of the city, Mary sat beside Thomas, watching the horizon with eyes that no longer believed in simple villains—
—only in truths postponed.