>>1339Allendale sat beside the box and ran his hands back through his hair. He wanted a bright shock of tea, or the bitter burn of whiskey, or perhaps just to have never opened the door at all.
"Can't come to the door tonight," he muttered to himself, feeling quite mad. "No one's home."
He plucked one of the violets from the box and held it between his first finger and thumb. The compulsion to crush it overcame him, but he ignored it, marveling at the delicate skin and deep color of the blossom. He held it to his cheek—felt the petal softness there—and dropped his hands between his knees.
A flash of cream caught his eye: a folded sheet of paper, nestled deep in the box of flowers. It was plain, but when he shifted aside the roses to touch it, he could practically feel how expensive it was by the weight.
Allendale held it up, tilting it this way and that, and trying to work himself up to opening it. The paper tilted, and opened, and although he didn't mean to read it, he couldn't help but recognize the familiar, curling script:
'My dear Daniel,'