She stared at the rolled-up letter in her hands.
Its worn edges and creased parchment gave credibility to the words of the hooded stranger, who had thrust it unceremoniously into her hands the moment he had confirmed her identity. "I have travelled a great long distance to deliver this to you," the man had said gruffly. He had then left hurriedly without so much as a backward glance, the swipe of his cloak stirring up the dead leaves she had forgotten to sweep that morning.
It was decidedly romantic, she thought. Her heart thumped a little faster at the thought that she was on the verge of a great big adventure, the likes of which she had never been through. She had spent an exceedingly boring eighteen years of her life in this small townhouse at the edge of London, with only her imagination for company. Or tolerable company, at least. The girls at her school were only interested in boys, their family connections, or the newest fashionable item.
She fantasized about what she would find in the letter. A confession of love from someone? A handsome stranger from a faraway land, who had perhaps been entranced by her lovely face while passing by her street? Or could it be a long-lost dying uncle, searching for his only heiress to pass down his inheritance? Better still, perhaps it was a secret mission, one which would require her vital assistance!
She tugged at the string with some difficulty, as the knot was matted. The messenger did seem to have been through a lot, just to pass her this letter! As the string fell away, she held her breath and unrolled the parchment. Her greedy eyes sought the inked words, written with impeccable penmanship.
It wasn't until she had looked through the whole letter three times, did she finally sigh and accept the brutal truth.
The letter was in an unrecognisable language. It could have been Greek for all she knew. The messenger had left. How was she to know what secrets the letter held, without risking others knowing its obviously important content?
Heaving a frustrated sigh, she left the letter on the mantelpiece and stalked out of the drawing room. She would head to the kitchen in search of some bread; at least one part of her would be fulfilled.
Unbeknownst to her, the ink on the letter began to shift and transform.
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