The palace was alive in a way it hadn’t been for decades.

  Masons, carpenters, and garden hands wove through the halls and courtyards like determined ants. Scaffolding crept up the east wing. Dust trailed every servant’s step. The scent of freshly cut wood and blooming seedlings mingled with ink and parchment in the Duchess’s study — a room now perpetually occupied by cats, scrolls, half-eaten fruit, and some poor steward trying not to weep over a new tax bill.

  After Orveil, something in Frances had shifted. Subtly, but unmistakably. She had returned to Vartis with the quiet, treacherous certainty that she might actually stay.

  And if she was going to stay, the place needed improvement.

  The gardens, for one, were an insult to her eyesight. Overgrown, dull, swampy in places — as if the past decade of ducal landscaping had been overseen by a blind man with a grudge against joy. So, she commissioned a complete overhaul.

  By late spring, the first results were beginning to show. The hedges had been trimmed back into submission, the fountains repaired, and most of the dead rose bushes pulled out with great ceremony. Plans were in motion for herbs and fruit trees. She had even — despite protests from certain staff — insisted on benches.

  Today, Fran was standing at the window of her study, sleeves rolled up, paperwork ignored, watching three gardeners argue with Master Dekarios over the best angle for a vine trellis. Gale was, predictably, winning — through sheer verbosity, if nothing else.

  Her cats — Nymph and Rudy — were curled near the hearth, batting at a parchment roll they had stolen from her desk. In the background, someone was loudly rearranging furniture in the hall, another side effect of the palace’s quiet revival.

  She was, for once, almost relaxed.

  Until the knock.

  “Your Grace,” came Silja’s voice, soft but urgent. “There’s… a letter.”

  Fran turned. Silja entered, holding it like it might hiss at her — a long, slender envelope sealed in the deep blue wax of Candlekeep’s Academy, and faintly shimmering with frost.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Fran took it slowly. The envelope was cold to the touch.

  “Is it cursed?” she asked, half-serious.

  “No, Your Grace. Just… very late.”

  Fran squinted at the seal, then at the handwriting. “Dekarios.”

  She sat down, broke the seal with a fingernail, and carefully unfolded the letter. It was written in the most unnecessarily elaborate calligraphy she had ever seen — flourishes that could have slain a less seasoned reader on the spot.

  She read. Then read again.

  Then, with the air of someone discovering that their long-lost cousin had finally RSVP’d to a funeral, she leaned back and muttered:

  “…Two months.”

  She looked out the window again. Gale was now gesturing dramatically at a climbing rose, while the gardener next to him rolled their eyes so hard they nearly fell off the ladder.

  “I think,” Fran said dryly, “this arrived a little too late.”

  She turned back to the letter and read it aloud, under her breath:

  To Her Grace Frances Serenna Elarion, Duchess of Foher, etc., etc.

  It is with no small amount of frostbite and internal protest that I acknowledge receipt of your most unexpected (and therefore perfectly in character) invitation. Your missive, which arrived during the exact moment I was being accused by three students of having "ruined spell theory forever," served as a welcome distraction — and a challenge I found myself regrettably unable to resist.

  The timing of your request, however, left much to be desired. Midwinter is, as you may recall, a particularly cruel season for those of us born without natural insulation. My joints protest. My patience thins. My toes become weapons of vengeance.

  Nevertheless, I prepared my departure with customary elegance, and would have arrived promptly had I not been rudely waylaid by an argument with a first-year (he lost), a pack of drunken starlings (they won), and the peculiar disappearance of your steward’s reply instructions, which I suspect were enchanted to vanish in shame.

  I therefore offer this letter, composed post-arrival and delivered post-shame, as both apology and formal acknowledgement of my acceptance. May it reach you before the next century.

  Respectfully — and frostbittenly yours,

  Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep (formerly Candlekeep), Master of Arcane Sciences, Mildly Afflicted by Cold

  Fran stared at the signature for a long moment.

  Then carefully folded the letter and set it aside.

  “Well,” she said to the cats, who were now chewing on a quill. “I suppose I can’t send him back now.”

  She rose, stretched, and walked back to the window. Outside, Gale was demonstrating — of all things — how not to hold a pruning knife. The gardener next to him appeared to be praying.

  The Duchess sighed.

  Then smiled. Just slightly.

  Two months.

  But he had come. After all.