The letters became a rhythm.
Like heartbeats on paper.
One would arrive every few days, folded neatly in soft-colored envelopes tucked within parcels of books or under her pillow by a sympathetic maid who never asked questions.
Each time Mary saw her name written in Isabelle's hand—or rather, Lily's—her chest lifted with a quiet kind of joy she never thought she'd know.
From Mary
I tried baking lemon biscuits yesterday.
They came out hard enough to be considered blunt weapons.
My mother said I need a "gentler touch." If only she knew how gentle I already am... when I'm with you.
Do you still dream of the orchard we played in as children? I sometimes close my eyes and pretend I'm there, running barefoot, before the world told us who we had to be.
Is it strange that I no longer feel guilty about what we share?
Some days I do, but then I remember how my heart felt when you kissed me—like I existed for the first time.
If that's a sin, then let me burn.
From Isabelle
I sang your favorite French song last night. Not one man knew the lyrics, but I imagined you mouthing the words from a seat in the back.
They clapped. But you would've smiled instead. That's all I want. A smile from you means more than a hundred hands slapping tables.
I still sleep with your first letter under my pillow.
When they ask why I don't entertain the men after shows, I say I've already given my heart to someone back home.
They laugh.
If only they knew you wear pearls and rebellion both so perfectly.
Mary kept the letters tied with a pale blue ribbon, hidden beneath the false bottom of her embroidery chest. She read them when her parents were asleep, when her ankle ached and the quiet felt too loud, when the sunlight passed too slowly across the floor.
Each letter was a flame warming her from within.
Her cheeks would flush at Isabelle's bold words. Her fingers would tremble when Isabelle described missing her scent, her voice, her eyes. Sometimes she laughed, sometimes she cried.
But more often now, she simply smiled—because someone truly knew her.
She no longer prayed for forgiveness in the church pews.
Instead, she prayed for strength to protect what she and Isabelle had built between ink and silence.
Was she a sinner?
Maybe.
But every day she cared a little less.
Because sin never felt so much like truth.
And shame had never made her heart beat this wildly.