Anne
Your Most Gracious Highness,
May it please Your Serene Highness, I humbly extend my most heartfelt salutations on this auspicious day. I beg your esteemed forgiveness for the intrusion of my words, and I offer my deepest apologies for the clandestine nature of this correspondence. The watchful eyes of my superiors compel me to veil the true intention of this letter, lest the revelation thereof jeopardize my vocation.
In response to the inquiry posed in your prior missive, I must, with a heavy heart, declare that no new details have come to light in the matter at hand. A lamentable stagnation grips our efforts, and the passage of eight weary months has failed to bestow upon us any fresh leads. Alas, the sanctity of the crime scene, nestled within the hallowed abode of your residence in Azurelia, has regrettably barred my entry. The investigation proceeds behind the impenetrable veil of secrecy, and I, a humble constable, find myself excluded from its inner workings.
There have indeed been a few clandestine conclaves concerning the investigation, convened between the constabulary and the venerable King Alfred. Regrettably, the outcome of such gatherings eludes my ken. However, despite the arduous nature of the task, I have succeeded in procuring a copy of the initial report of the crime, as per Your Highness's previous request. Pardon the protracted delay, for the acquisition proved to be an arduous undertaking for one of my humble stations.
Should Your Highness deign to command any additional service from me, I stand ever ready to fulfill your wishes as your devoted servant. May divine providence guide our efforts, and may the elusive culprit be brought to justice swiftly. Rest assured, any further evidence that comes into my possession shall be promptly conveyed to Your Serene Highness.
Until the quill dances upon parchment once more, I remain, with the utmost respect,
Constable Adam Green of Azurelia.
I delicately folded the missive and placed it on the table before extracting the single-page report, securely ensconced within the confines of its envelope. My heart quickened its pace as I unfurled the document and began to peruse its contents. Alas, the report bore witness to nothing more than the grim tableau I encountered within Andrew's study on that fateful night of his demise.
The clock had tolled well past nine when I traversed the threshold, memories of our shared repast—quail accompanied by roasted vegetables and a nourishing beef broth—lingering in my thoughts. Following our evening meal, Andrew opted for a leisurely bath, while I ventured out for a brisk walk through the estate grounds. Amidst the verdant serenity of the garden, I plucked a solitary rose, a token of affection for my beloved.
Upon my return, an hour hence, I discovered that he had concluded his ablutions and retired to his study—a habitual nocturnal retreat for work. Curiously absent was the customary goodnight kiss, a ritual he unfailingly observed before immersing himself in his tasks. Donned in a silk pale turquoise robe, I proceeded to his study, intent on exchanging our customary evening farewell, only to be confronted by a scene of unspeakable horror.
There, upon the floor, lay Andrew, bathed in the crimson pool of his own lifeblood. His countenance was frozen in a macabre tableau, mouth slightly ajar, and eyes wide open. The brutality of his demise, inflicted by a ghastly slit across his throat, is etched indelibly in my memory. A primal scream, echoing with anguish and horror, erupted from the depths of my being, reverberating through the very walls of the mansion we once called home. The resonance of that anguished cry, I am convinced, still haunts the hallowed halls, a testament to the unfathomable grief that befell us that accursed night.
The dispassionate account within the report unfolded a harrowing narrative, casting shadows upon the cruel enigma that enveloped Lord Andrew's tragic demise. The stark revelation that no witnesses beheld the clandestine intruder entering his study intensified the chilling nature of the crime. Ajar and accusing, the open window overlooking the serene garden whispered of the murderer's stealthy ingress and escape.
Regret and self-reproach clawed at my heart as I revisited the decision to curtail my habitual post-dinner stroll that ill-fated night. Had I lingered beneath the moonlit boughs a moment longer, the lurking specter of the killer might have unveiled itself as it surreptitiously breached the sanctum of the study through the open window.
The report painted a chilling tableau of a murder unhindered by resistance, a silent and meticulous dance executed with macabre precision. The crackling flames in the fireplace bore witness to the heinous act, casting sinister shadows upon the scattered remnants of Andrew's work documents strewn haphazardly across the floor. Curiously absent were the sanguinary traces one might expect—the walls remained unsullied, and the surroundings bore no evidence of a struggle.
The murderer, an unseen phantom, left the sanctity of his desk untouched, refraining from pilfering any valuables. The golden necklace adorning his person and our sacred wedding ring remained untouched, dispelling any notion of robbery as a motive. A veil of mystery enveloped the investigation as it concluded, leaving unanswered questions echoing through the hollow corridors of Azurelia. The thorough scrutiny of the mansion's servants yielded no tangible leads, rendering the murder of Lord Andrew an unsolved enigma within the Kingdom of Azurelia. The haunting specter of unanswered queries loomed large over the once-hallowed halls, shrouding the tragedy in an impenetrable veil of uncertainty.
On that night of sorrow, tears carved rivulets down my cheeks as I clutched the haunting report to my chest. In the solitary sanctuary of my bed, I surrendered to the raw anguish that clawed at my heart, mourning the love cruelly wrenched from my grasp. The weight of his absence bore down on me as I cradled his wedding ring in my palm, a tangible relic of the union that now lingered only in memories.
Unable to bring the cherished portrait painting that encapsulated our wedded bliss to this foreign refuge, I summoned its vivid image in my mind's eye. Brushstrokes of affection and stolen glances, frozen in the artist's rendition, whispered to me in the silence of the night. Each tender moment replayed like a bittersweet lullaby, etching the canvas of my memory with the hues of joy and the shadows of irreparable loss.
Sleep, elusive and distant, eventually descended like a melancholic veil, wrapping me in its tender embrace. Yet, even in slumber's gentle grasp, the specter of grief lingered, casting a shadow over the dreams that once bloomed in the garden of our shared love.
The following morning, as I descended the stairs for breakfast, a pleasant surprise awaited me in the form of a familiar face — Marilyn. In the confines of Silverhelm, she stands as my sole companion, though the title of "close friend" eludes her. Bound by the facade of marriage with Elliot in her eyes, she remains blissfully ignorant of my true identity, a secret I guard vigilantly.
A fleeting notion crossed my mind—to unburden myself of the concealed truths, to confide in Marilyn. Yet, caution prevails. The counsel of discretion echoes in my ears. Trust, in this precarious existence, is a precious commodity, not to be squandered.
Her ears must have caught the subtle cadence of my descent, for she looked up, and a radiant grin graced her countenance. "We have set the date for our wedding, Anne. In less than two months, I shall be a bride!" Her eyes danced with an infectious joy, a sparkle born of anticipation. Engaged to her teenage sweetheart, Joseph, for the past year, Marilyn had dedicated the preceding months to meticulous preparations. Now, as the date of culmination approached, the elation in her announcement resonated, and I couldn't help but share in the contagious happiness that enveloped her being. The promise of matrimony had been a cherished dream, patiently nurtured since our first encounter and the imminent realization of that dream painted a radiant glow on her face.
"Oh, Marilyn. I am so incredibly happy for you," I exclaimed, enveloping her in a warm and heartfelt hug. The joy radiating from her was contagious, yet beneath my happy exterior, a tinge of melancholy lingered. I reveled in her happiness, a stark contrast to the quiet longing that dwelled within me.
As we embraced, she rocked us back and forth, the sheer bliss of the moment palpable. In those shared seconds, I couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of friendship and the capacity for joy. If I couldn't partake in such gleeful moments, at least someone I cared about could.
Our hug slowly loosened, and she held my shoulders, her eyes shining with excitement. "We have decided to wed at my grandfather's mansion in Elderwood. It is right in front of Pine Lake. We have chosen to exchange our vows by the lake, just as I have always dreamed," she shared, her voice filled with anticipation. Elderwood, with its scenic charm and Pine Lake, held a special place in her heart, making the upcoming celebration even more meaningful.
Just before more words could be exchanged between us, Elliot emerged from his room and donned a crisp white shirt and perfectly tailored black trousers. My heart quickened its pace as I worried about Marilyn noticing Elliot's emergence from a different room. Anxious, I nervously gulped and glanced at Marilyn, who observed Elliot with curiosity. Elliot, taken aback by the unannounced guest, shifted his gaze from Marilyn to me. His tense shoulders visibly eased when Marilyn broke the silence.
"Uh, Lord Elliot, aren't you just as diligent as my Joseph?" she remarked, chuckling. With a teasing look directed at me, she continued, "I tell you now, Anne, these men – they sure love to work day and night," accompanying her words with a theatrical sigh. The air lightened with Marilyn's cheerful presence, but a subtle tension lingered as Elliot and I exchanged cautious glances.
Elliot graced her with a soft smile and a courteous bow of his head. "Morning, Lady Smith. What brings you here in the earliest of the morning?" he politely inquired, his demeanor ever composed. The clock had yet to strike seven, marking the early hours of the day.
"I came to inform you both that my wedding is set to take place in Elderwood in two months. It's a kind of destination wedding, that is if you're willing to consider Elderwood a destination," she chuckled, rolling her eyes in jest. "We'll be heading there a week beforehand. My apologies for the early visit, but I'm just too excited to contain myself," she explained with a big grin, radiating genuine enthusiasm. Turning to me, she continued, "I also want to ask Anne to be my maid of honor," dropping the unexpected proposal that left my eyes wide. "I understand it's rather last minute, but I couldn't imagine having anyone else as my maid of honor," she added, expressing a sentiment that touched me deeply. Marilyn, being a single child without a sister, had chosen me over her other friends, making the honor even more profound.
I gracefully embraced the role, and our hug carried a genuine warmth that seemed to momentarily dispel the pervasive loneliness of my surroundings. The opportunity to immerse myself in the preparations for Marilyn's wedding brought a sense of purpose that I eagerly welcomed.
As our hug concluded, Marilyn, with a playful glint in her eye, turned her attention to Elliot, "I extend my apologies, Lord Elliot, but anticipate claiming the company of your charming wife on numerous occasions throughout these next two months."
Elliot chuckled, and my gaze couldn't help but linger on him. I marveled at his impeccable ability to maintain the façade of our fake relationship. While I often felt a twinge of nervousness, he exuded a calmness that prevented any hint of suspicion. It was his unwavering composure that allowed me to seamlessly navigate the deceit of our faux marriage in the eyes of the people of Silverhelm.
Drawing a step closer, his eyes fixed on Anne, Elliot remarked with a subtle smile, "I harbor no reservations about my wife's company being graced by yours, Lady Marilyn."
My heart skipped a beat when he referred to me as his wife. The words felt strange and foreign, creating a peculiar sensation within me. Observing him, I noticed the subtle clenching and unclenching of his jaws, revealing an internal struggle. Despite his inner turmoil, he adeptly masked his emotions, far better than I did.
Our eyes met briefly, and as Marilyn beamed at us, Elliot, determined to maintain the illusion of our fake relationship, closed the gap between us. After a momentary pause, he placed his hand on my back, his fist pressed against my lower back. His touch was deliberate, his palm never making contact, only using his fist when absolutely necessary in public. The tension was palpable with his touch, and I couldn't help but tense in response, sensing his own internal conflict.
"Pray, do not overexert my wife, and see her safely returned to me hale and whole," he jested with a playful tone.
I chuckled nervously and glanced at him. His gaze remained fixed ahead, blinking more than usual—a sign of his own nerves. Yet, his countenance betrayed nothing. He adeptly concealed any unease. "Fret not, Lord Elliot. I shall ensure your beloved wife is well cared for," she chimed in with a soft snicker.