Life in Austmark passed by in a blur. Before Lucian knew it, they'd spent two months in the little town, and only recently had the cracks shown themselves.
A non-answer was still an answer, and Lucian had stopped going into the crow-post office.
But with the rising tension of people who wanted to mourn versus the people who desired to suppress it entirely...
He shouldn't have been surprised when the letter arrived.
It was in the morning bread delivery, tucked beneath the loaf like a confession waiting to be discovered. Lucian recognized the handwriting before he read the words—careful, precise strokes that belonged to someone who'd spent years decorating wedding cakes and writing birthday wishes in sugar. Marta Hendrik's hand.
I'm tired of keeping my interests hidden to keep the peace.
He set the letter down beside his mortician's tools, the silver instruments catching the pale Austmark sunlight that filtered through his workshop windows.
