It was the last day of summer when the letter arrived. Summer months were always the shortest, but today marked the end of a season of warmth and relaxation, and as though the creators had some sense of irony or humour, the day was a mere eight hours long. Around four o'clock, at the height of the day - just before the sun began to set - the post coach delivered the day's grip of letters to the Lutton's residence in Perrinton.

The youngest Luttons were in the garden overlooking a lake, lounging quite comfortably across several reed chairs sumptuously plumped with dove-feather pillows. Situated betwixt the two sisters was Eiren Adair, his bare feet propped upon the lap of the elder sister, and his head resting softly against the arm of the younger. Their laughter and soft voices gave away their gentle upbringing. As Eiren read from a small book of poetry he held, they commented in soft tones and chuckled behind their hands, delighting in his attentions. The air was smooth and warm; the flowers gave a wondrously numbing aroma to the garden. In short, the idea of Perrinton was perfectly personified in the carefree atmosphere of the group.

"Oh, Mr. Adair, I beg you, repeat that last line," crooned the younger sister, a woman who had yet to shed the girlish fat around her face.

"As you command," replied Eiren smoothly, and he almost sang out a line of such pretension, it assuredly passed over the attention of young ladies he sought to entertain. He had written the poetry himself, though he did not reveal this to his companions, preferring to hear critique and criticism as it was removed from his name - it was much easier, Eiren found, to avoid bias, and he hated anything that was not pure of prejudice.

"It is beautiful, is it not, Ludmila?" the younger asked, eyes aglow. Her sister smiled in silence. Lucella - for that was the name of the exuberant pupil who cradled Eiren's head against her arms - turned slightly, to better face the conceited reader. "I find that the outdoor air so perfectly compliments the style of the author," she sighed, and her fingers lightly touched Eiren's forehead, brushing aside a strand of hair. He bowed his head and withheld a smug grin.

"I quite agree, my dear." He gave her an encouraging smile and faced Ludmila. "And you?" Ludmila turned her gaze from the waters and raised an eyebrow. She was older than Lucella by less than five years, but her composure and intelligence far surpassed the younger's. Eiren often approached her carefully, usually as a colleague. Such illusions of respect were never necessary with Lucella, who was easily swayed by the smallest of attentions.

"What more could I add," she replied, closing her eyes for a moment. "Lucy put it so delicately, to add more would spoil the praise." Eiren paused, then relinquished another nod.

"Mr. Adair," Lucella breathed, "Read us another." Before he could open his mouth, footsteps sounded at the door, echoing inside and interrupting their reading. Eiren turned his head slightly; he saw only the feet of their guest. A throat cleared, gravelly and stern in the relaxed garden air.

"Eiren," the speaker uttered, before turning and walking a few paces back inside. The poet gave Lucella a look of feigned sadness and stood, pinching her cheek as she pouted.

"Fret not, my darlings," he bowed. "I shall soon return." Giving him a simple smile and rolling her eyes slightly, Ludmila raised a slender hand in farewell. Her sister suffused him with plenty of pleas to remain, which he placated with a swift kiss on the forehead. In a moment, he had stretched his long legs and was quickly out of the garden. Evening had already begun its descent. The glitter of the orange lake loomed beyond the bushes, winking to Eiren as he made his way inside. Waiting just indoors was an agitated Lorian Lutton.

The eldest of the Lutton children, he was responsible for Eiren's presence at their Family home, as the two had developed a friendship in a boarding school nearly ten years past that proved stronger than most. They had taken a liking to one another academically, but the real root of their attachment lay in their differing personalities. Lorian excelled in psychology and logic, and especially loved horseback riding and swimming; Eiren turned to prose and storytelling, as well as anything involving the majesty of music. He played no instruments, but it was a great pleasure of his to listen to the performances of those who could. Simply put, they appreciated their similarities, but thrived on the challenges they presented to one another.

Eiren considered these traits as he strode leisurely inside. Pacing and holding what appeared to be the post, his friend's handsome face was turned in an expression of confusion and discomfort. Unconsciously, it pleased Eiren to see that his friend, always so composed and prepared to argue his ideas, was at an obviously emotional crossroads.

"Lorian, what is it? I was practicing a bit of writing on your sisters, and you know how disappointed they should be to have such a luxury stripped of them." He smirked and leaned against a wall bordered in a deep amber colour. Lorian looked up at him, amusement far from his countenance. He held up the paper tightly clenched in his hand, and gave Eiren an anguished stare.

"This arrived ten minutes past," the eldest Lutton said hollowly, as though he had not heard his friend. "Mother was sure it was addressed to the wrong house, but there are so few this side of the lake." Eiren leaned forward and squinted at the handwriting. His name was elegantly, but sternly, written across the centre of the envelope.

"Who is it from?" he said harshly, snatching the letter and flipping it over angrily. Nobody he knew was aware that he was living with Luttons, especially not here, at their summer house. Lorian leaned forward and pointed with a trembling finger to the uppermost corner of the back of the envelope. Scrawled in barely legible writing were the words Kelfordshire Estate. Eiren's stomach sank at once. After a moment, he realized he hadn't taken a breath.

He inhaled sharply and glanced up. Lorian was biting his lips and wringing his hands together.

"Who delivered this?" Eiren demanded, but Lorian shook his head.

"I don't know; Mother received the post, as always, but it was the postman who handed everything to her. Who else could it have been?" questioned Lorian. Eiren waved a dismissive hand.

"There's no point in chasing the postman down," he muttered. He stared hard at the letter. Only one person could have sent correspondence from Kelfordshire. The true question, Eiren wondered in silence, was how the venerable Lord of the Kelfordshire Estate learned of his location in Perrinton. It had been more than a decade since Eiren was within a hundred miles of the estate and its inhabitants, and he had not been so foolish as to leave his intended location in the hands of anyone near Kelfordshire. He looked up suddenly at Lorian, whose intense blue eyes were sympathetically narrowed.

"I need a moment," Eiren said simply. "A moment of privacy... I'm sure you understand." Lorian nodded and stood tall, his hands neatly folded in front of him.

"Call when you are finished," he said. Eiren watched him walk down the hall, no doubt to whisper to his mother about what the letter could hold. Still, Eiren thought, he appreciated the alacrity with which Lorian left him alone; it was one of the traits Eiren admired most in his friend. Walking briskly to the stairs and up to the room he had stayed in for the last four months, he considered what the arrival of the letter could mean. If the Lord of Kelfordshire had found him out, then why had he not contacted Eiren's father? Why would he have written to Eiren himself? Had the Lord even shared the discovered location of his only son with Eiren's father? Such thoughts whirled mercilessly within his mind, and it was only when Eiren was at last able to sit upon his bed and open the envelope that they paused.

The envelope was a pale, aged-looking brown, and ringed with a deep burgundy. His name was elegant, yet simply-read from its place in the centre. He flipped the envelope over and examined the address of the Estate, only to scowl at the name.

"Bastard," he mumbled, before ripping open the envelope. The letter inside was written on the same type of paper as its cover. In wide, neat letters, was his name, reminding him that he was not of the Luttons. He swallowed hard and read on.

Mr. Eiren Adair,

It is with great sorrow and regret that the inhabitants of Kelfordshire Castle and its incumbent Hatchhanger Abbey inform you that your father, the honorable Sire of Kenton Abbey, has been taken from us this last week. His death, though unfortunate, is nevertheless a cause for rejoicing, as he may now be called upon to ascend into the heavens with the Great Ones.

With the death of the Sire of Kenton Abbey, all titles, properties, and debts have been passed immediately unto you, Mr. Adair. In the years since your absence, your father had accumulated quite a considerable sum of the latter, and, without the benevolence of the Lord Van Wyk, it was to be expected that you should remain in this significant debt for the rest of your life. Blessed are we indeed, to know and be cared for by such a compassionate figure as he.

Of your payment to the Lord Van Wyk, he requests only thus: that you should quit your lodgings with the Luttons and return immediately to the Kelfordshire Estate, wherein you shall remain, until your betrothal to the Lady Caelony Van Wyk should yield the marriage your mother and the Lord Van Wyk promised one another so long ago. All of your properties at Kenton Abbey and Tottenham Cross shall, of course, be joined with those of the Kelfordshire Estate, as befits the joining of your two great families in marriage.

We welcome you warmly back into our home, Mr. Adair, and it is with great pleasure that we expect to see you soon.

A coach will be waiting at six o'clock on the 20th of this month outside the Lutton's residence. Your punctuality is, of course, expected.

Sincerely, Father A.G. Bele, of Hatchhanger Abbey, Kelfordshire Estate.

Eiren looked up at the walls, the portraits of long-dead family members of the Luttons staring smugly back at him. There was a stillness in the room, a stiffness that went far beyond old drapery and paintings. It was a moment before Eiren could force himself to take a breath. Random fragments of the letter surfaced in his mind, each taking another piece of his soul as it came to the forefront.

"...His death, though unfortunate..."

"...debts have been passed immediately unto you..."

"...such a compassionate figure as he..."

"...return immediately to the Kelfordshire Estate..."

"...two great families in marriage..."

"...A coach will be waiting..."

Eiren seized his heart and gasped. Marriage! His father barely registered as a woe of any sort - He had long written off the Sire of Kenton Abbey as a man hardly worth knowing. The death, however, posed the worst sort of situation. He was expected to retain that dreadful betrothal, and the Lord of Kelfordshire was not a man easily disobeyed. Eiren swallowed hard and stood up, the letter still held in a tight grip. He crossed to the window and peered through the light glass. He could just see the garden from his position, and he watched the Lutton sisters for a minute. Lucella was laughing and holding a hand passively against her chest. The elder sister had risen from her position and was smiling demurely at her sister as she leaned against the balcony.

He grimaced and turned away. Not even the beauty and charm of the sisters could provide relief to this misfortune, for he was to wed that despicable Caelony Van Wyk, the whore of Kelfordshire! Eiren's mind raced like a rabbit's heart, but he could find no immediate escape to this horrible future, so crudely imposed on him. He glanced hopelessly at the letter, and with a groan, he reread the last line. The 20th! It was indeed that day, and Eiren wondered if the postman had been delayed, or if it was a cruel joke played by the Lord of Kelfordshire. He looked up at the handsome clock in the room and nearly fainted. It read four-thirty.