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the woman of the portrait. I would, perhaps, drop dead from sheer excitement, proving to be the ultimate disappointment as a son.
    Only once the door was closed and bolted behind me did I break the seal and read the words within.
    I do not know how to address you, she wrote , since we have never met. You have the advantage of a picture – I have seen the artist’s rendition of my features, and I believe it to be true to life – but I know only that you are two-and-twenty years of age and in excellent health. I would have written a formal letter of the kind my father’s scribe has taught me to construct, but that would be an inadequate response to the beautiful words you sent me. My mother wanted to open your sealed message. It was only the words Personal and Private that prevented her from doing so. As it was, she sat beside me while I read it, which did rather diminish the pleasure. Later, I took your letter out of doors and read it again in the shade of my favourite oak tree, with only my little dog Bramble for company. (There is a story to Bramble’s name – don’t you find there are stories everywhere if you look for them? – but I will save that for another time.)
    It is odd that my mother, who believes me old enough to travel far from home, marry an unknown prince and in time, perhaps not so very much time, bear his children, was concerned that a sealed letter might contain material shocking to my tender disposition! I assured her that your missive included nothing of the kind. It was, I said to her, full of courtesy and goodwill. I did not mention the poem. That is between you and me.
    What you wrote was lovely. I read it over to Bramble several times and she agrees. I would like to write my own poem in return but I confess to feeling somewhat shy about it. Perhaps next time. Will you write to me again before a final decision is made about the marriage?
    I liked the description of Winterfalls. There is a forest near here where I love to walk, just me and my maid with Bramble. My little dog is very well trained and knows not to bark or run about after the wild creatures. Shy deer live there, and scampering squirrels, and frogs in the hidden ponds. I think you would like the place, Prince Oran. Perhaps Winterfalls is something similar. I hope so.
    My father is writing a reply to your father. From what little he tells me, I gather we are at the stage of ‘considering’ the proposition. Do you sometimes feel as I do, as if you were a commodity to be traded? If my whole future were not in the balance, that might make me laugh.
    I hope you will write again soon.
    Flidais of Cloud Hill
    Your letter warmed my heart, I wrote . Please take all the time you need to make up your mind. My father is so delighted that I am at last prepared to consider marriage that he will be easily persuaded to wait a little before things are quite settled. I hasten to assure you that I have no objection to the general idea of being a husband and father; only that I have read too many old tales, and they have made me wary. I wanted to wait for the right woman. I wanted to be quite sure each of us could make the other perfectly happy, not only while we were young and hale, but through all the years of our lives.
    I believe that in you I may have found that woman. I believe – you will think me foolish – I knew it the moment I saw your picture. Too many old tales, indeed. That is what my mother would say. But I spoke to Donagan, who is my body servant and friend, the brother I never had, and he said I had been wise to wait. He reminded me that I love wild creatures and am fascinated by their ways, and suggested that trusting my instincts would serve me well. So perhaps I am not so foolish.
    Should agreement be reached on our marriage, I understand I would ride to Cloud Hill for the betrothal and stay on awhile. This, dear Flidais, would allow you ample opportunity to show me your forest with its scampering squirrels. I do not at present