Curie Yurkovich

There is naught quite so romantic in this world as quill dragged just so across a blank page. Not flowers, nor ballads, nor even confessions by moonlight's leave can quite compare to a real good and proper love letter. I mean the kind with all that curly ink and those long fancy words in it the commonfolk can scarcely pronounce. The kind that's embroidered all nice-like and that sometimes smells of a fair lady's sweet perfume. That's what love is. When I hold a thing like that in my hands, it feels like I’m holding someone’s beating heart, the very soul of romance.

...now hypothetically, it doesn't have to be my heart, nor my soul ...nor, strictly speaking, does the letter actually have to be addressed to me at all. It's as is often said: "Reading other people's love letters is the only worthy balm for a lonely maiden's soul." Often said by me. I say that. But pushing the technicalities aside such as 'who said what' and 'who wrote what words to whom', a radiant truth doth reveal itself! The nobles bleed such beautiful ink! It would be... most unrighteous, yes! It would be most unrighteous to let only one pair of eyes gaze upon it. Never minding, of course, all that posh about 'sworn not to bear witness to private matters' and 'by penalty of hanging from the neck until dead', I take upon my solemn duty to read their mail. Besides, who’s to know if I just peek? Who's to bear harm? Miles of woodland abound and shield me! Let the couriers have a little fun!

One of these days all this reading will manifest something for me. I believe it as surely as I believe the sun will rise. Some lordling will oughtly remember the stunning courier who runs the paper routes and become madly and hopelessly enamored. I'll be doing rounds and discover a letter in my bag with no address, only "to the resplendent vixen who delivers my letters". I can see the words now: "Dearest Paper Maiden whose name I do not know but who I find I cannot live without, I can conceal my feelings for you no longer. You drive me to ruinous confession. Truly, when I look upon thy countenance, it... it striketh me in the heart like, er... like two slain fowl what’s been smacked together in a sack. Your pale eyes of gray are very... gray-y. They remind me of... of...

Bah! Rubbish. My own imagination can't even manage a decent compliment for my own eyes. This is exactly why a girl needs to browse the work of professionals. Searching the treeline for a detour, I spot a break in the foliage and venture just off the road, tucking myself within a quiet glade suited for snooping. The sack of letters, large, unwieldy, and surprisingly light for its girth, lands in the short grass beside me with a thunk, and I follow alongside it shortly. I waste no time in culling through people's writings, sifting past merchant ledgers and other mundanities in search of true love.

It doesn't take long for me to find a suitable letter, its make marked profoundly amongst the rabble. The beautiful red sigil of wax adorned across its front is that of a rose, and the embroidery that pleasantly encroaches on it from the sides is shaped of vines. Even the parchment itself is soft to the touch, a silkiness to the envelope that speaks to care and quality. And look at that subtle off-white coloring. The tasteful thickness of it! A dainty little thing like this is what real romance is made of, not my twaddle about dead chickens.

My thumbnail innocently digs under the edge of the seal. I'm not opening it, not really. It's more like... checking its integrity. And when the wax just so happens to give way with a soft, satisfying little pop I gasp in shock and horror. Oh, what a most horrid and dreadful shame! I can't possibly deliver a letter in this condition. It's damaged goods! I'd better read it to make sure the contents are still intact before I remelt the seal. It's the responsible thing to do.

To My Beloved,

Even now, as I write this, the ink of my father's signature dries on the contract that binds me to another. He speaks of the lord I am to marry, of his lands and his titles, but he does not speak of me, of my own wishes. The lord is, by all accounts, a good man. A respectable man. But in my eyes, he is merely another blockade to keep me from you. I have poured my heart out to father again and again, but he discards my feelings as if they are worthless. He refuses to even let me confess to the noble lord that I belong to another. The wedding is to go through against my wishes.

But do not despair, my darling, for I have done enough despairing for us both. This does not change what we are, nor what you mean to me. I will marry this lord as I am bound to, but my vows to him will be empty air, spoken with a tongue that has tasted your kiss and may never be satisfied by another's. He may claim my hand, but he will never, ever have my heart. That is mine to give, not father's, and it belongs to you. Forever and always.

So I make you this promise, a vow, and a plan. I will be his wife in name only. When the celebrations are over and the castle sleeps, I will fly to you, and you will have all of me, my love, my joy, my body. And should I swell with child on that night it will be not his, but yours. He will have his bride, but you, my darling, will have everything we ever spoke of or dreamed.

Recall now, as I have written to you the location of the lord's manor in letters past. He is presently increasing his hired hands in preparation of our union. Go swiftly to him. Employ yourself among the servantry, and be not perceived to know me. When I arrive in the coming months to be wed I will recognize you, be you a butler, cook, or dish boy. We will meet by midnights in secret chambers. We will be together yet, risks be damned.

Yours, in this life and every other, Lady Fairchild

By the time I've finished reading I'm about to pass out. This... This is NOT a love letter! Well... it technically is, but wow. Just wow. I need to sit down. Oh wait, I'm already sitting down.

It takes a minute before my brain catches back up to me, and even when it does I feel a numb buzz infesting it. Lady Fairchild... A secret lover... An arranged marriage with a lord she doesn't truly care for... Her father forcing her hand... It's... It's kind of sad. In all my dreams of romance among the nobility this side of it has never crossed my mind. For the first time ever, I find myself feeling genuinely bad for snooping in other people's privacy, genuinely awful in fact. These matters of the heart were not meant for me. There are real people behind the words, and not all of them lead happy lives. The bitter realization clings stubbornly to me long after I've remelted the seal and set myself back upon the road.

I can't let it end like this, can I? It will hound me by the nights if I do. But what can a single lowborn courier hope to do? Admitting I read the letter is my neck within a noose by the fortnight, and my scratchy penmanship is barely even legible, let alone strong enough for forgery. I could 'accidentally' misdeliver the letter to cause a raucous, but that's risky. On one hand it could lead to the engagement getting called off, but on the other hand it could also lead to the lady or her lover's lives being ruined. I don't know what kind of man the lord is, but her father clearly isn't of the agreeable sort...

It's not until the sun is low, and I'm finally approaching the walls of my destination city that finally an idea strikes me. "...increasing his work force in preparation of our union..." That is what the letter said, isn't it? The lord is hiring. That means there will be a need for new hands, a search for them even. It would be no great luck to assume that there would be talk of the wedding preparations, even if it is months from now as was written. Gleaning the location of this mysterious lord's manner might be as easy as getting hired to work at it. I don't need the exact location, just to search around.

My brain, my horrible, naive, stupid, romance-ridden brain immediately jumps to a happy ending, idealistic maybe, but... perhaps distantly possible. I need only gain employment under this lord, and then, through my endless charm and deep knowledge of noble romance, win his heart. Obviously anyone would prefer true love to an arranged marriage, right? And, if he falls for me, then he'll be forced to call everything off with Fairchild. Everyone wins! Fairchild and her lover are spared, the lord's trust remains unviolated, and I... I would get to have a real-life noble swoon over me like I've always dreamed of. It's perfect! It will be easy... surely.

I do not give myself more time to think on it, for thinking is the enemy of optimism and bravery both. I arrive at the gates like I always do, I am verified and admitted with my haul of letters like I always am, but this time, instead of rushing off inbound to go finish my deliveries, I linger around the guard's outpost. I can't believe I'm actually going to try and go through with this, but I am.

"Uuoooff... Legs feel like they're about to snap in half! Back is sore! Feet're raw! I'm fed up! I quit! I'm not delivering another letter for the rest of my life!" I complaining loudly, dramatically shrugging off my letter bag in a bluff of total abandonment. "I've been thinking it's high time for a change of vocation. Courier work is shite anyhow. I don't suppose either of you blokes know of work around these parts? Something cushy with less damnable walking?"