Atticus was lying on his belly when the letter arrived, bed bound, white bandages wound around his chest. He was awake but drowsy from a mix of sedative the doctor had given him and the opium smoke that curled from the brass slow burner next to his bed. He lifted his head as a servant opened the door, cloth to his mouth.<br/><br/>“Nnn... not...” Atticus tried as the servant entered, trying to sit up. His arms didn’t move right, couldn’t bear him. The servant shushed him, placing the letter near the brass burner and laying a hand on Atticus’ head, stroking his hair. He stopped struggling to rise, panting. “Ism... is...”<br/><br/>“Just a letter. Go to sleep, you’ll not be used tonight.”<br/><br/>The fingers felt good, gently twisting through his hair. His back throbbed just a little, and he was so, so tired...<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>... He woke the next evening with a low hiss. He had a sullen bitch of a headache and his back burned terribly. One long but very thin stripe had been slowly cut out from his skin, from right shoulder to left hip. A terrifying wisp of a girl had done it under the close scrutiny of one of the more veteran guards. She was a new customer asking to do something dangerous, so Atticus had requested a watchman to stop her if she went too far. The girl knew her trade, however. It was neat and clean and should heal almost invisibly... if his next few patrons didn’t fuck up the stitches.<br/><br/>He lifted his head and blinked a few times, then saw a cup in arms reach. He braced himself and reached for it, the onslaught of pain making his head spin but he got the cup. He downed it all, water dribbling from the corners of his mouth in his eagerness. His gaze drifted to the table, the burner long gone – why waste opium on a sleeping whore? – and saw a bit of parchment. A letter.<br/><br/>With a little squirming and a lot of hissed curses, Atti was able to reach it. He cracked open the seal and held it to his face, breathing in the slight hint of perfume that was her.<br/><br/>He didn’t want to read it. He couldn’t stop himself.<br/><br/>He read the letter twice over, then stiffly eased out of bed and threw open his windows to better clear the air of the last of the smoke, so he might think, and gather pen, paper, ink and a stiff backed book before returning to his bed and dropping to it.<br/><br/><em>E. Precious, beloved E.<br/><br/>I thought you would hate me for suggesting what I did. I am pleased that you do not, that you write, that you wish to see me once more. I wait in eagerness to see your face, breath your name against your lips, earn your forgiveness in all the ways I can imagine. <br/><br/>You ask me to trust to you, and I will, and do. Whatever your plan, I wish you luck and courage. The dangers you face are much more dire than my own, I think. <br/><br/>Oh, E. Yes. Should our worlds not hider us, shackle us, I would desire to be yours alone. I wish you were here now so I might say this to you. See your eyes. Feel your belly. I would wed you, and give to you my future to make a better one. My fortune, so we could have something more valuable than gold. My all.<br/><br/>When I dream of that, waking is bitter.<br/><br/>There is more I wish to say, yet my mind is addled and the words will not come, and I have run out of time. <br/><br/>Courage, luck, and love<br/>Louis X</em><br/><br/>The lineup bell had sounded. Even though he was still hurt, he would be expected to at least make an appearance. He folded it and hid it in his chest of draws before heading down to meet the evening rush.<br/>