Letter 8: From Dyan to Silvania

To Lady Silvania of Willfrost,

I have waited a few days before writing this third letter to you. Not for lack of things to say—you know there are always words when it comes to you—but because I promised myself not to send you empty lines. Sometimes, when darkness falls and the wind sweeps down the Glavendell hills, I have the feeling that speaking with you, even on paper, keeps my sanity in place.

I've made progress with the repairs on the old house. I no longer sleep exposed to the elements—though I admit the stars offer some comfort on sleepless nights. The roof no longer leaks, the beams once again hold firm, and though my hands are not a carpenter's, I've learned to listen to the wood. It helps me remember that things can regain shape, even after being forgotten.

Eunid's daughter, Frila, has been a constant presence. She is a sweet girl, with a laugh that chases away the dust of the past. She has that warmth that demands nothing, that simply *is*. She has helped me with tools, with provisions, and more than once she has left a basket of warm bread and honey at my door. I don't know if she sees something worthwhile in me, but I appreciate her quiet tenderness. She reminds me of someone, though I don't know exactly who.

I have tried to use as little magic as possible. Perhaps out of shame, perhaps as punishment. I don't know for certain. There are days when I feel the power in my hands watching me with the same distrust with which I look at it. I left everything in a way that wasn't fair to anyone. Not to her. Not to me. Not to you.

Sometimes, happiness feels like a distant city, one of those that only appear on old maps, with names no longer pronounced. But there are moments, brief, fleeting, when a spark ignites within me. It doesn't last long, but it is real. And sometimes, that is enough.

I miss our talks. The long afternoons in your parlor, the aroma of the bitter herb infusion you said prolonged life—though I always suspected it was your voice that did it, not the concoction. I hope you haven't stopped drinking it. I still remember how your fingers held it, even when the tremor began to betray you. I will visit you in a few months to ensure you are doing so. If I am permitted, of course.

I don't know if Eleanor will forbid my entry. I wouldn't blame her if she did.

(The ink smears a little here.)

Forgive me.

Sometimes I find myself surrounded by kind, even generous people, and yet there is something inside me that refuses to loosen the knot. As if a part of me knows I have no right to open myself completely. As if showing tenderness were... a weakness no longer permitted to me.

I don't know if this makes sense. I suppose I just wanted to tell you.

(…)

(The handwriting steadies again.)

I miss you. Truly. More than I expected. More than I should. And I hope, with all my heart, that Eleanor doesn't hate me for too long. Though if she does... I suppose I will have to deserve it.

With eternal affection and respect,

Dyan