Soon, Una would leave on a mission to pursue the Reaper of Vesria. If her new healer wasn’t competent enough to not leave scars, for the Goddess’s sake, what hope did they have of protecting her against Hal Cavendish’s magic? Soon, Una could be another name on a headline. Another tragic story to fuel Isabel’s war. Another blow Wren couldn’t take.

She would never forgive herself if Una didn’t come home.

And she would not let herself rot in that mine. She would not let Isabel win.

The steady tick, tick, tick of the clocks chipped away at her restraint. She had half a mind to tear them all from the walls and hurl them across the room. She took perverse satisfaction in imagining the shower of springs and gears, how Isabel and her attendants’ mouths would gape in a collective, silent scream.

She needed to get outside. She needed to get out of this habit and away from its suffocating heat. Wren shoved her way through the door, and when she stumbled outside, she sucked in huge gulps of air. The sky pressed too close, but she wasn’t afraid. She was furious.

Her anger brewed the entire walk back to the abbey, hardened by the whip of the snow and wind against her face. When she at last made it to her room, she cast her satchel aside, tore off her habit, and tossed them both on the ground. The fabric lay there like a skinned animal, alongside a slip of paper that fluttered from her bag.

The return address that had been enclosed in Lowry’s letter.

Wren nearly threw herself on the floor and cradled the note against her chest like a newborn. Tears prickled the backs of her eyelids. She could still accept the offer. It wasn’t too late. Once Wren secured the alliance, Isabel would come to understand the service she’d done the crown. She’d have no choice but to reinstate her.

It was the only hope she had left.

Wren sat at her desk, pulled out a sheet of parchment, and dipped her quill in ink. She hesitated for only a second before she reminded herself that she had been dismissed for insubordination. She was no stranger to disobedience and was well-known for acting recklessly.

With careful strokes, she composed a response:

Dear Lord Lowry,

Thank you for your letter. I am grateful for your kind words about my work and your condolences for my, as you say, misfortune. Mostly, however, I am sorry to hear of your servant’s illness. To be brief, I would be honored to accept your gracious offer and am intrigued by your proposal. While I cannot be sure what ails your servant until I examine him myself, I am confident I can be of assistance. Please consider me at your service and thank you again for your trust.

Faithfully,
Wren Southerland