The days grew colder. Autumn slipped into winter, and the world outside Drizella's window was all frost and gray skies. She told herself she wasn't waiting for anything—certainly not for a courier to knock at the gate with parchment sealed in blue wax. But each day, her ears strained for hoofbeats on the road.
When the letter finally came, she nearly tripped over her skirts running to fetch it.
Letter Four: From Henry
My Lady of Thorns,
Your absence these past weeks has been unbearable. I had begun to fear you'd tired of tormenting me. Imagine my despair at the thought of having to endure endless banquets without even the memory of your insults to fortify me.
You asked what I do here. Very well, I shall tell you: I sit in gilded halls where old men debate the price of wheat as though it were the fate of empires. I nod, I smile, I say words they wish to hear. Meanwhile, I wonder what scathing remark you would whisper if you were at my side.
Today I met a princess who spoke at length about her lapdogs. I thought of you. Not because you remind me of a lapdog—heaven forbid!—but because I imagined the face you would make. That one where your brow creases and you look as though you'd rather set fire to the tablecloth than endure another moment. I nearly laughed aloud in the poor girl's face.
You see what you've done? You haunt me in every room.
Yours,
Henry
Drizella's cheeks warmed despite herself. She scribbled a reply that very night, pressing harder than necessary on the parchment.
Letter Five: From Drizella
Prince Buffoon,
If I haunt you, good. That's exactly what you deserve for keeping secrets. Consider me the ghost of your better judgment.
As for your precious diplomats—tell them from me that if they can't decide the price of wheat, they should starve. I'm sure the world will spin just fine without them.
Meanwhile, Cinderella continues her little charade at home. Sweetness dripping from every word, smiles rehearsed in every mirror. Did you know she practices them? I caught her once. Perfecting the angle of her lips as though she were sculpting marble. Everyone believes her kind. Everyone. It makes me sick.
But I suppose that's what people do, isn't it? Believe the glittering lie. While those of us who glare instead of simper are called ugly.
I hate her. I hate the way she makes me feel invisible.
Write back quickly, or I'll assume you've been mauled by lapdogs.
With disgust,
Drizella
Henry read that letter in his chambers long after midnight. He was still in formal attire, crown discarded on the desk, shoulders slumped. His scribe had left hours earlier. Only the sound of the crackling hearth kept him company.
As he reached Drizella's rant about Cinderella, his smile faded into something more solemn. He read her words again. And again.
"She thinks herself invisible," he murmured.
For a long time he sat in silence, the letter pressed to his chest. Then he seized a quill and wrote with uncharacteristic urgency.
Letter Six: From Henry
Dearest Drizella,
Invisible? Never.
If others are too blind to see your fire, then they are the fools, not you. When you walk into a room, the air changes. You do not disappear—you blaze. And I, who spend my days surrounded by false smiles and rehearsed laughter, tell you this with all the certainty I possess: I have never seen anyone more real than you.
You are not ugly. You are not lesser. You are the truth in a world that worships lies.
Let them have their perfect little smiles. I would rather endure your scorn a thousand times than bask in false sweetness once.
Do not doubt this. Do not doubt me.
Yours, with unwavering loyalty,
Henry
When that letter arrived, Drizella didn't read it right away. She carried it to her room, sat on her bed with the seal unbroken, staring at it for an hour. Her hands trembled slightly when she finally broke the wax.
Her eyes moved quickly across the words once, then slower the second time. By the third reading, her vision blurred.
"Idiot," she whispered hoarsely. "Stupid, stubborn, impossible idiot."
And yet—she tucked the letter carefully beneath her pillow, as though it were something fragile and irreplaceable.
Meanwhile, across the sea, Henry leaned back in his chair after sealing his response, smiling to himself. One of his advisors had the audacity to ask what pleased him.
"Nothing diplomatic," Henry said firmly, tucking Drizella's last letter into his coat. "Something far more important