The Crimson Promise

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, folded three times and sealed with red wax that had dripped like a wound onto the pale envelope. Evangeline pressed her fingertip to it before she opened it, half-convinced the wax was still warm.

It was not warm. It was February in Edinburgh, and nothing was warm, least of all the contents of her dead husband's final correspondence.

She read it twice before she understood what it meant. Then she sat very still for a long moment, looking out at the frost-laced windows of the drawing room where she had sat with William every evening for eleven years, watching the light drain from the sky.

The fire had gone out. She hadn't noticed.

"Mrs. Hartwell?" The voice came from the doorway. Thomas, the footman, holding a tray with her afternoon tea. His expression conveyed the particular sympathy of the recently-bereaved-adjacent. "Shall I light the fire again?"

"Yes," she said. "And send word to my solicitor. Tell him I need to speak with him before the week is out."