André lowered the paper, his hands trembling. But he forced himself to read on.
The only answer at which I can arrive is that one of my uncle’s men must have followed Remy to the spot, as your brother came somewhat regularly to ensure that I was all right and to offer me news on your well-being. Always it was the same—that you were still alive, though imprisoned, and awaiting your trial. Remy told me that you had forbidden him from visiting you in the prison, out of the necessity of keeping him at a safe distance and free of any suspicion, and as such, that he could not deliver my letters. It was agony for me, but I do not wish to dwell on my suffering when you currently shoulder a burden so heavy as to render my own pains light by comparison.
But my cause for writing now, as you’ve likely guessed, is due to an urgent change in my situation; as I said, I was forced to flee my hiding place. My uncle arrived at the château two nights ago. Remy had just come with fresh supplies of food and firewood. We didn’t see my uncle’s party until it was almost too late. Remy heard it first, the sound of hooves some distance away. We thought it was our imaginations until we saw the torches lighting their approach. The sight sent a chill through my blood.
Remy, ever the soldier, kept his wits about him and hastened me out a back door to the stables, where we found the estate’s one remaining horse. Your brother put me into the saddle and sent me into the orchards. From there, I was able to slip into the woods and vanish from the grounds before my uncle’s party discovered me. Given that the stables had only the one horse remaining, and that the old, starving beast would have been overburdened by the two of us, Remy sent me away on that mount and assured me that he would make his way to the front of the château, where his own horse was tied. André, I don’t know what became of your brother. I have not heard from him since that hasty farewell in the darkened stable.
The last thing I saw, as my own horse panted through the orchard and into the backwoods, was a great blaze, as the château was set to fire. My very soul urged me to return, to offer help to Remy, whose selfless actions had led him to protect me and put his own life in danger. But I don’t know if I would have brought back help or more harm. I recalled that he had made me swear that I would keep riding until I found safety.
Oh, André, I am so sorry that I did not turn back. My heart is torn apart with regret. I’ve put both you and your brother in the way of danger, and that inescapable fact makes me ill.
I will write you again when I have a more regular and permanent situation. In the meantime, know that I am alive and well, though very eager for news on what I hope was your brother’s safe delivery. He is the only reason I am able to write you this day.
And, of course, even more important than my own happiness—I search everywhere for news of your trial. When it will be and what its outcome is. Oh, what terrible times we live in!
My heart remains yours,
and I shall remain for the rest of my days your loving and faithful,
Sophie
André lowered the letter, guessing from the rushed and disorderly handwriting that Sophie had been just as distressed in this note’s writing as he was now in its reading. Sophie, hunted from her hiding place like an animal. Remy missing, or worse. André sat or, rather, fell to the ground. For a moment his vision blurred and his eyes failed him. He shut them and dark visions swirled in his mind’s eye—his father, his general, his brother, his love—a waking nightmare playing out before him.
“André de Valière?” A stout guard, his cheeks flushed from a morning of cards and wine, stood at the door of the cell. André peeled his eyes open and blinked, looking around as if by some miracle he would wake to find himself anywhere in the world but this place. He noticed the letter lying on the damp straw at his feet and remembered Sophie’s troubled words. Despite his feeling of hopelessness, he hurriedly grabbed the letter and held it close to his person, as though protecting a candle’s light from flickering out.
“It’s time,” the guard said, jamming a rusty key into the lock and pulling open the groaning cell door.
“Time?” André stammered, remembering the trial. “Oh, yes.” He rose to his feet unsteadily. “But first, a moment. I must quickly change.” He glanced around his cell. “My uniform…my army uniform. It was right there—where did it go?”
The guard shrugged, unhelpful and uninterested. “You’ll stand trial in the sackcloth just like the thousands before you.”
André felt his spirits sink even lower. “But I meant to wear my uniform—”