I stared at the two stacks of letters that Wilma—my grandmother—placed carefully on the table between us when she returned from her carriage. One pile was significantly larger than the other, both bound with faded ribbons.
"These are all the letters we received from you over the years," she said, gesturing to the larger stack. Her fingers trembled slightly as she untied the ribbon. "Nearly eight years' worth of correspondence."
My throat tightened as I picked up the topmost letter. The yellowing paper felt brittle between my fingers. The handwriting was childish but neat—certainly not mine. I'd never been taught proper penmanship until I was older, and even then, Lady Beatrix had complained endlessly about my "disgraceful scrawl."
"May I?" I asked, already unfolding the letter.
Wilma nodded, watching me intently.
I began to read aloud:
"*Dear Grandmother and Grandfather,*
