Bright and cool the afternoon played on towards twilight as Sylvia ended the council session and made her way to the solarium. In its confines was solitude but for the plants that grew and lent an earthy air, green against their outdoor cousins turning into their winter sleep. There her letters awaited her reading.
Correspondence came in forms of requests, announcements, invitations, and some few from family. The seal of Queen Rian had become a frequent sight among the letters. In it she spoke of her latest readings, the gossip of court, the intrigues that plagued or tickled her, and the children. Young Princess Marghaid, named after her aunt, had been born a month before. The celebration was widespread except in the private letters Rian sent.
Sylvia turned one letter over and then another. The habit had become to search for family letters first, and when Rian's seal was seen, she stopped to open it and read. The script was neat and handsomely drawn with delicate loops upon the lettering. Sylvia scanned a portion to search for mention of Marghaid and if the worries still lingered.
...Of course the dinner went until very late hours, and I was not back at Marghaid's side until too late to do my mother service to her. As much as I long to take the same tender care of my children as you did yours, I rely on a wetnurse more than I should care and fear some animosity growing toward the woman for the hours she spends with my sweet Marghaid. Am I to fail everyone at every turn?...
It was not a fair burden Rian carried. It would be the first item of business in the return letter. Her life was not like Sylvia's as much as Sylvia's was not like those of her acquaintance in Rhydin. Rian was too sharp upon herself for things out of her control. But perhaps that was it, too. Rian wanted to control like Sylvia did, and that had been born from a life all too strange and undesirable until the past decade.
...Marghaid is so fractious. Fevers come and go at every turn. The wetnurse professes it is just a passing disturbance of her humours that she will outgrow. The healers proscribe salves and rubs, but they do little good. Her skin still carries that yellow hue, though it has lessened in some weeks. She will cry for hours until finally sleeping. Do I worry over much? Dearest Sylvia, did Beata have these troubles? Is it something she will outgrow?....
To that Sylvia dare not answer directly. Beata had a few fevers, but nothing so frequent for one so very young. It was worrying, but it seemed at least there were the appropriate healers taking note and Rian was not oblivious to it.
...I have been told to keep her indoors for fear the outdoors will only make the matter worse. It feels so dark in her room at times. Maelwgn I think is afraid to see her. I must bring her to him for him to see her at all and even then, he makes the visit brief. It is fear, I know. I can see it in his eyes. I do not speak of it to him, though, for he has troubles enough outside these walls...
The letter turned to topics of which Sylvia seemed to have the better knowledge. Negotiations further with the northern barons, the tithings of Harvest Festival having caused a stir barely diverted from another series of skirmishes by quick maneuvering on Maelgwn's part.
Drawing out paper, ink, and pen, Sylvia began her reply. Only to start it proved difficult. She did not want to cast away her sister-in-laws concerns, nor make her feel lacking in any way, but how to answer to questions of which she could make no certain conclusion? In the end, she felt it best perhaps Rian visit, and it was that at the end of a vague response to those worries and confirmation the Rian should trust her instincts, that she encouraged the visit.
Correspondence came in forms of requests, announcements, invitations, and some few from family. The seal of Queen Rian had become a frequent sight among the letters. In it she spoke of her latest readings, the gossip of court, the intrigues that plagued or tickled her, and the children. Young Princess Marghaid, named after her aunt, had been born a month before. The celebration was widespread except in the private letters Rian sent.
Sylvia turned one letter over and then another. The habit had become to search for family letters first, and when Rian's seal was seen, she stopped to open it and read. The script was neat and handsomely drawn with delicate loops upon the lettering. Sylvia scanned a portion to search for mention of Marghaid and if the worries still lingered.
...Of course the dinner went until very late hours, and I was not back at Marghaid's side until too late to do my mother service to her. As much as I long to take the same tender care of my children as you did yours, I rely on a wetnurse more than I should care and fear some animosity growing toward the woman for the hours she spends with my sweet Marghaid. Am I to fail everyone at every turn?...
It was not a fair burden Rian carried. It would be the first item of business in the return letter. Her life was not like Sylvia's as much as Sylvia's was not like those of her acquaintance in Rhydin. Rian was too sharp upon herself for things out of her control. But perhaps that was it, too. Rian wanted to control like Sylvia did, and that had been born from a life all too strange and undesirable until the past decade.
...Marghaid is so fractious. Fevers come and go at every turn. The wetnurse professes it is just a passing disturbance of her humours that she will outgrow. The healers proscribe salves and rubs, but they do little good. Her skin still carries that yellow hue, though it has lessened in some weeks. She will cry for hours until finally sleeping. Do I worry over much? Dearest Sylvia, did Beata have these troubles? Is it something she will outgrow?....
To that Sylvia dare not answer directly. Beata had a few fevers, but nothing so frequent for one so very young. It was worrying, but it seemed at least there were the appropriate healers taking note and Rian was not oblivious to it.
...I have been told to keep her indoors for fear the outdoors will only make the matter worse. It feels so dark in her room at times. Maelwgn I think is afraid to see her. I must bring her to him for him to see her at all and even then, he makes the visit brief. It is fear, I know. I can see it in his eyes. I do not speak of it to him, though, for he has troubles enough outside these walls...
The letter turned to topics of which Sylvia seemed to have the better knowledge. Negotiations further with the northern barons, the tithings of Harvest Festival having caused a stir barely diverted from another series of skirmishes by quick maneuvering on Maelgwn's part.
Drawing out paper, ink, and pen, Sylvia began her reply. Only to start it proved difficult. She did not want to cast away her sister-in-laws concerns, nor make her feel lacking in any way, but how to answer to questions of which she could make no certain conclusion? In the end, she felt it best perhaps Rian visit, and it was that at the end of a vague response to those worries and confirmation the Rian should trust her instincts, that she encouraged the visit.