Letter 1: To Elias
Dear Elias,
I write this with a slightly trembling hand—though not from any fainting spell you might foolishly imagine befalls a delicate damsel. (More likely the wine, if we're being honest.) Still, I must call upon your talents—those that extend beyond swordplay and silencing courtiers when they begin eyeing me as though I'm some fragile ornament. Which, for the record, I am not.
It seems that my "unfortunate" encounter with poison has gifted me with more than a lingering ache. My normally razor-sharp wit feels dulled, as though someone has thrown a velvet curtain over my thoughts. The physicians assure me I'm "on the mend," but their mend feels more like a sluggish crawl than a victorious march.
And while I may be many things—ambitious, cunning, perhaps even a touch vain—I'd rather not die cooped up in a sun-drenched chamber, surrounded by fretting healers and insipid herbal tea. If someone means to kill me, I'd prefer to see it coming. Or at least have the dignity of orchestrating my own dramatic finale.
You've always been maddeningly astute about such matters—who wants me dead, and why. I trust you'll uncover the truth, quietly. Subtlety is key. I'd rather not fuel the court's appetite for scandal with a grand, theatrical execution.
Let me know what you find. And do try to avoid noble bloodshed in the hallways. (Unless it's necessary—then by all means.)
Yours always in mischief and mayhem,
CharlotteFuture Queen of the Realm—or, failing that, Empress of a Very Comfortable Chair
Letter 2: To Lady Anastasia(secret ally)
Dearest Anastasia,
It appears fate has a flair for drama. Or perhaps someone in the shadows has decided that a "dash of poison" is the appropriate punctuation to my rise. A shame, truly—I was just beginning to enjoy myself.
Do not worry. I'm still very much alive (to the disappointment of several, I'm sure). But there's a problem—nothing insurmountable, of course—but a lingering weakness that I find... inconvenient. The sort that reminds one that even the brightest stars can flicker.
And so, darling Anastasia, I turn to you—not merely because you have the best taste in fashion (though that remains indisputable), but because your reach stretches farther than anyone suspects. I need answers. Who slipped the poison? And why now?
Discretion is vital. The last thing I need is the court catching wind that I'm asking questions. Let them believe I'm recovering in peace, sipping broths and gazing wistfully out of windows.
Send word back discreetly, of course. Preferably not through a lovestruck pageboy—those tend to faint when asked to deliver anything more serious than perfume.
Lastly, how are you? Still dazzling all suitors within a three-mile radius? I live in jealous awe of your ability to turn a political gathering into a catwalk.
With affection and just a hint of vengeance,Charlotte the Cunning(Not nearly as breakable as I look, thank you very much)
Letter 3: To the Master of Spies (Anonymous)
To My Shadow,
Perhaps you've wondered why I insist on referring to you as my spy. There's something rather romantic about it, don't you think? Like something torn from the pages of those terrible novels that noble ladies devour between scandal and supper.
But I digress.
Here is what I need: something small. A lead. A whisper. Anything to help me move through this evening without feeling like a ghost wrapped in silk. I've been poisoned—again—and the aftermath is proving most inconvenient. I am weakened, yes, but not defeated. Still, I would rather not endure another well-meaning stare from the King, as though I'm made of glass and best left on a high shelf.
Someone stands to gain from my demise. Find out who. Quietly. I suspect they've grown too bold, believing me softened by my illness. Let us remind them that even a weakened lioness still has teeth.
You've always been excellent at unearthing secrets. I trust you to do so now—with your usual subtle brilliance. And if you hear word of the Firstborn—my sister—report it. She's waited in the shadows long enough. If she's the threat they whisper of, I must be ready. And if she's something more... well, we shall see.
Silence, discretion, precision. You know how I like it.
CharlotteQueen in spirit (for now), and very much not dead yet
To Her Majesty the Queen (Mother)Wax-sealed, penned in cipher only she can read
Dearest Mama,
Before you ask—yes, I've had my tonic. No, honey does not improve it. And yes, I continue to believe the healer is a swindler with a penchant for bitter herbs and false optimism.
I write not from panic, but from preparedness—your favorite word, if memory serves. You always said a ruler must prepare even on the sunniest of days, and while I am trying quite hard not to fall apart like a tart left too long in the heat, I must still leave things… in order.
If anything happens to me (and it won't, of course—I'm far too stubborn to die fashionably), Eladin must be protected. From the court, from the whispering nobles, and most especially from his own urge to fence with the rosebushes. He is a bright, strange little comet, and I want him to stay strange and bright as long as the world allows.
Oh, and one more thing—please, please ensure he never names his horse "Whiskers II." One Whiskers is more than sufficient.
Yours in mischief and monarchy,Charlotte
To MiraSlipped through quiet hands, written in unseen ink
Mira, my moonshadow,
If this finds you, I'm likely sprawled across my bed, melodramatically pelting grapes at Elias and claiming to see my ghost. (I do, incidentally. She's quite polite and lets me borrow her blanket.)
I need you to begin contingency plan Applecore. Yes, the very one we giggled over—the royal baby on the throne, advised by a talking cat. I was joking. Mostly.
But in truth, Mira, if I cannot stand before the people, I need to know that someone wise, quiet, and full of secrets can. You are my voice in silence, my eyes in the dark. If I fall quiet, you must become thunder.
P.S. Steal the red map from the war council desk. No, not the blue one. You'll know why.
With ink and absolute trust,C.
To EladinWritten in green-and-blue ink with a frog sticker, folded thrice and hidden beneath his pillow
To Eladin the Brave,
You're only allowed to read this if you find it under your pillow or Mira says you can. (If you peek before then, the frogs WILL get you. I've made arrangements.)
If I'm not around for a while, it's not because I've vanished. I've gone on a quest. A sleeping princess quest—you know the one. It's very serious and involves a lot of blankets.
While I'm away:
– Do not let Whiskers in the pantry.– Eat your carrots. No, seriously. Stop making that face.– Hug Mama. She needs her brave knight.– And if you miss me, tell the moon. I always hear the moon.
Your eternal sister,Lottie the Magnificent