An Anonymous Letter
1283 Words
Caroline stared at her reflection in the dressing mirror. Dawn had not yet broken; the candle was almost spent, and her face, in the dim yellow glow, looked unusually hard. She had stayed by her mother’s side all night, not closing her eyes once. Adeline’s breathing was steadier than before, but her fever still burned frighteningly high. Caroline knew this calm would not last.
Her hand reached beneath the pillow for the lavender sachet. It had been sewn by her mother, the edges frayed, threads loose. She had meant to take a pinch of the dried herb and hold it to her nose, hoping it might rouse her mother — but in shifting it, she noticed a bulge in the hidden lining at the bottom.
She undid the stitching.
A neatly folded slip of fine paper slid out — smooth-textured, its edges precisely cut, the kind used for court documents. On it, a single line of ink:
“If you wish to save your mother’s life, go alone to the eastern corner of the palace wall at midnight.”
No signature, no seal, the handwriting unfamiliar, the ink still fresh.
Her heart pounded as she read it.
This was no joke. Nor coincidence.
She closed her eyes, letting her consciousness sink into darkness. The familiar illusory library rose before her — vast, silent, with only a wooden table at its center, upon which floated a parchment scroll. The scroll opened of its own accord, and new words emerged:
“Tonight at midnight, your mother’s condition turns critical.”
The script felt warm, as if freshly written. Her fingertip brushed it and met a searing heat. When she awoke, cold sweat soaked her back.
Two hours remained before midnight.
She stood, went to the wardrobe, and pulled open the hidden compartment. Inside lay a men’s hunting outfit she had worn when riding in better days — deep gray wool, high collar, fitted waist, the hat pulled low. She changed swiftly, twisting her long hair tightly and tucking it beneath the cap, then sliding the silver-handled folding fan into her left sleeve. Light, useful for self-defense, and could double as a cane.
She eased the door open a c***k. The corridor was quiet; Bess dozed against the wall, clutching a pouch of medicine. Caroline did not wake her, only murmured, “If I’m not back in two hours, burn the ledger and take Mother to the side manor.”
Bess mumbled an indistinct reply.
She slipped out through the side door, skirted the garden wall, and hurried along the tree-lined path. Morning mist still lingered; the ground was damp beneath her feet, each step squelching through leaves and mud. She avoided the main road — the night watchmen patrolled every half hour, and news of a noble lady abroad at night would spread through the town in moments.
She kept to the shadows of trees, ears straining for distant sounds. At the first footsteps, she ducked into a thicket, holding her breath until the passerby moved on. The second time, near a bridge, she crouched beneath the stone railing until the lantern light receded.
The journey of several miles took her nearly an hour and a half.
At last, the palace’s eastern wall loomed into view — towering stone cloaked in ivy, topped with iron spikes. The side gate was shut tight, two guards pacing with muskets, spacing their rounds some twenty paces apart. She observed carefully: the gap between their shifts lasted only thirty seconds.
Retreating to the wall’s base, she found a spot where ivy grew thick, twisted into a net that could just bear weight. Grasping the sturdiest vine, she planted her foot on a protruding stone ledge and began to climb.
The wind dropped suddenly.
She hauled herself higher, right hand firm, left foot finding a cross-branch — but the branch was dead, and snapped under her weight. Her body tilted, foot slipped; she fell from three meters up.
Her back struck a bush; thorns tore through her coat. Her right ankle twisted on landing, a sharp pain shooting up her calf. She bit back any cry, curling in place for half a minute before daring to move.
She couldn’t stop. Time was short.
She tried to rise, but her ankle had swollen; any pressure stabbed like fire. Pulling off her boot, she saw the ankle already purpling. Tearing a strip from her petticoat, she bound it tightly, just enough to support her weight.
Looking up at the wall — a few meters remained. Once over, she could reach the imperial physician’s quarters.
She refused to believe protocol could outweigh a human life.
Gritting her teeth, she seized the vines again, dragging her injured leg upward. Slowly, cautiously, avoiding dead wood, using only sturdy stems for leverage. Near the top, hoofbeats echoed from afar.
She flattened herself.
A black horse emerged from the shadow of the wall, steps measured. The rider was tall, clad in a black military-style uniform, a monocle over his right eye. Moonlight flashed cold off the lens.
He reined in less than ten paces from her hiding place.
He did not look toward her, but raised something in his hand; the monocle shifted angle. Instantly she recognized it — a telescope. He was scanning.
Holding her breath, she shrank behind the vines.
The telescope’s gaze swept over the thicket, pausing several seconds. Then he lowered it, turned his mount, and rode off in another direction. No call to the guards, no sound.
His figure vanished into the fog.
Robert Grey. She knew him. On the day of her wedding in the past life, he had stood behind the duke like a shadow. Rumor said he was Edmund’s most trusted man, keeper of all entry records, someone even royal daughters feared to cross.
Yet he had seen her clearly just now.
Why hadn’t he stopped her? Why no alarm?
No time to dwell. Midnight approached. She had to get inside.
Summoning every ounce of will, she climbed again, slower still. At last she perched on the wall’s edge, catching her breath. Pain lanced through her ankle; cold sweat traced rivulets down her temple. Below, a copse of low shrubs offered a possible landing, beyond it the rear window of the imperial pharmacy, still lit. Someone was on duty.
Preparing to drop down, she heard metal clink outside the wall.
She spun around.
Robert Grey was back. Still mounted, right hand on his sword hilt, he gazed up at her. The look in his monocled eye was clear, calm.
Frozen on the wall, she could neither advance nor retreat.
He raised his left hand, touched his breast pocket — a brief, subtle motion — then drew out a dark cloth and tossed it into the thicket. As it fell, a white edge showed — bandage.
Then he wheeled his horse and left.
She did not move.
Wind stirred her hem. Within and without the palace walls, silence reigned.
Glancing at her ankle, she saw blood seeping through the bandage. Waiting was impossible.
She swung over the wall, landing with her right leg buckling, kneeling in the mud. Hands braced, she rose slowly.
Ahead, the pharmacy window glowed dimly, a figure visible through the glass, flipping through pages.
Dragging her injured leg, she took one step, then another.
A scent drifted to her — not medicinal, not earthy, but a blend: cedar and herbs, faint yet unmistakable.
She halted.
She had never smelled it before, yet it slowed her heartbeat, deepened her breath, as if from a long-forgotten memory.
She looked up.
The shadow inside the window shifted, as if sensing her.
The door began to open, slowly.
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