Later that evening, the mansion was quiet. Ethan had dropped her home from the gallery; she was glad none of her brothers were around, and none of them saw Ethan.
Mara sat on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. She hadn't opened the letter yet. It sat in her lap, folded neatly, its corners slightly creased from being held so tightly by Ethan. She hadn't looked at it until now. Part of her was scared of what it might say. Part of her just didn't know if she was ready to feel what it might stir.
But she couldn't let it sit there forever, she had made up her mind, what could change?
With a slow, deliberate motion, Mara unfolded the paper. The ink was handwritten, neat but hurried in some places, as if Ethan had written it in a rush, but had paused often to make sure each word was just right.
She read the first line:
