Prince Graham's letters became Isabelle's salvation, banishing the shadows that crowded the corners of her mind every night once the sun had set. Some days, his words filled pages, while other letters were simply a few sentences. No matter how long or short they were, they kept the distance between them seeming less like days and more like moments.

Marcus arrived with a particularly large envelope on the very same morning that they received word from Umberwood that Lord Winters would arrive within the week. Shelving their usual daily tasks, she and Marcus set to organizing for Callum Winters' arrival, Graham's letter put aside for later. Marcus took every spare moment to brief her about what to expect, what to agree to negotiate and what policies of her father's she ought to hold firm on.

"Above all else, you must be strong. You cannot be the little girl he knew before," Marcus said, his parting words before leaving her for the evening.

It was a mantle Isabelle had been hesitant to assume. Some sad, desperate part of her kept wishing her father would somehow magically return, the flowers she laid daily at his grave not sufficient to remind her that he wouldn't. Sitting in his chair during her Sunday mediation sessions had helped to somewhat steel her against the more official duties she would soon be forced to assume.

Sitting across her father's desk from Lord Winters would only be her first test; sitting at the king's council table would be the final one.

Distracted by her thoughts, she broke the wax seal of Graham's envelope only for the contents to tumble to the floor. She stared at the inky black card lying on the ground, the silver calligraphy glittering up at her in the firelight.

His Royal Highness Prince Graham of Pretania

requests the pleasure of your presence

at the Highcastle Palace Midwinter Ball

Isabelle plucked the invitation from the floor and laid it aside on the desk, the walls seeming to close in around her. Her ears were roaring in the silence as the implication of that invitation laid yet more upon her overburdened shoulders.

Midwinter, mere weeks away...

She hadn't had enough time.

She hadn't had enough time to ensure Kentshire that would survive without her. She hadn't had enough time to decide whether she wanted to be queen. She hadn't had enough time to choose the path she wanted for her future.

Swallowing, she turned her eyes to the letter in her hands, steeling herself for a command to return. For an ultimatum. For something that would force her hand.

Instead she found an apology.

Isabelle,

I'm sorry.

I know that I promised you time, but all my tactics to delay a decision have worn out. Father is forcing me to choose my top three candidates and I cannot choose you if you are not in attendance.

I will understand if you remain in Kentshire, but you deserve to be the recipient of my only personal invitation. You will always have my heart, Isabelle, even if our paths were only meant to cross for such a short time.

Promise me that you will think long and hard about this. I will accept your decision either way, but you know what I would prefer. I shall await you on the evening of the ball, for my first dance is yours should you still want it.

If the world were a simpler place, I wouldn't be writing this letter wondering if my heart is about to break. I know how much I am asking of you. I know I am breaking my promise to give you time. You should know that I will understand if you cannot accept.

Forever yours,

Graham

Isabelle's heart thundered in her chest, the crackling of the fire almost deafening in the silence. Folding the letter, she tugged open one of the desk drawers and shoved it in, slamming it only once she'd thrown the invitation in as well.

She hadn't had enough time.

Midwinter was too soon.

She inhaled a shaky breath, massaging her face as she fought from crumbling under the weight of her looming decision. Waiting for her swirling thoughts to settle, she studied the scars that were now crimson slits across both of her palms. She'd regained most of their function, but she knew that a similar, hideous wound ran across her neck as well. It was one thing to leave her wounds uncovered in the privacy of her own home, but the thought of a high lace neckline or velvet ribbon chafing at the raw flesh of her neck had her cringing. She couldn't return to Highcastle, not until they'd healed...

But that was silly and vain. She was grasping at straws, scrabbling for reasons she could use to ask Graham for a reprieve. Scars, physical and otherwise, were not enough. There would be no reprieve. She had until Midwinter to decide her fate.

Duchess or queen. Alone or married. Powerful in her own right or tied to a man...a man who loved her, but one that would always hold more power that she did once she tied herself to him.

Burying her face in her hands, Isabelle let out a frustrated groan. Of all the people to marry, someone like Graham, someone who had rushed all the way to Kentshire to ensure she was safe, someone who had made it clear that he would do anything to make her happy was the kind of person she should marry. But Graham was not a mere man, he was a crown prince. Marrying a crown prince was not as simple as marrying any other man.

I know how much I am asking of you...

His words echoed in her head as clearly as if he'd spoken them aloud to her. It would not be only Graham's heart that broke if she remained in Kentshire...

Pushing all thoughts of the prince and the palace away, Isabelle locked the desk drawer, surrendering to the day.

~*~

Lord Winters arrived four days later, with an entourage fit for a man of his station. A dusting of fresh snow covered the ground, the hoofprints of the Umberwood men contrasting starkly against the fresh flakes. Dressed in another mourning gown, Isabelle had tied an itchy, black velvet ribbon around her throat to hide the scar, a pair of fur-lined gloves hiding her hands. She shivered despite the warm cloak wrapped around her shoulders as Lord Winters rode into Kentshire castle's courtyard, this time with far less urgency. She and Marcus stood before a handful of her household staff, acting as a greeting committee for the approaching nobles.

To Isabelle's dismay, however, Lord Winters had not brought Sam with him, he'd brought his wife instead.

"Oh Isabelle!" Lady Maighread Winters gushed, rushing over the moment she'd dismounted. Marcus stiffened beside her as Lady Winters kissed Isabelle hello, greeting her much as she had when Isabelle was but a little girl.

The smell of heather and honey hit Isabelle hard, dragging forth all the memories of the last time Maighread Winters had set foot in Inverloch...

For Isabelle's mother's funeral.

"I couldn't bear it when I heard the news," Maighread said. "My heart broke for you, you poor thing. I'm so sorry about your father! That horrible, horrible Germ-"

"Thank you, Maighread," Isabelle said, interrupting her by using Lady Winters' first name for the first time in her life. The informality seemed to have snapped the older woman to her senses, for she blinked a few times before Callum Winters strode up beside her.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing. Realizing her faux pas, Maighread curtseyed, her fair skin flushing.

"I trust your journey was uneventful," Isabelle said, forcing herself to keep her eyes on Callum when all she really wanted was one of Maighread's soul-soothing hugs. The Lady of Umberwood was by no means a beautiful woman and the years of raising so many sons had etched a fair share of lines around her eyes, but she was one of the warmest, kindest people Isabelle had ever met. Isabelle would always remember Maighread as the woman who had stroked her hair and held her tight after her mother's passing.

Now, however, Isabelle could not be that broken, crying little girl, as Maighread had clearly expected her to be. Isabelle had to be the Duchess of Kentshire, meeting with one of her neighbouring lords to discuss business, not to be on the receiving end of hugs from his wife.

"Far less so than the last time," Lord Winters said.

"Shall we retire inside?" Isabelle suggested, gesturing for them to follow her.

She hadn't expected the sight of Callum Winters' wife to unsettle her so, but some dark part of her mind wondered if that was exactly what he had intended. Marcus had warned her that Callum might attempt to renegotiate some of the deals her father had worked so hard to broker. Bringing his wife instead of Sam, his heir, could very well have been a test to see whether Isabelle would collapse into Maighread's arms or stand tall as the memories of the last time she'd lost a parent peppered Isabelle's defenses like arrows.

She would stand tall today. Whether Callum had meant it to be a shock or if his wife had simply wanted to accompany him to give her condolences, Isabelle would meet with Lord Winters as they'd planned.

Only now, her guard was up.

"Perhaps Lissa could show Maighread to the rooms we've arranged for you?" Isabelle said, pausing at the foot of the stairs. "Callum, you and I can take tea while we talk."

Isabelle hoped the use of their first names would help re-establish some of her footing.

"As you wish, your Grace," Callum said. Maighread bobbed a curtsey, obediently following Lissa upstairs while Isabelle ushered Lord Winters towards her father's council room.

Isabelle had originally planned to spend the day socializing, entertaining Lord Winters and his entourage over tea and dinner before delving into the real business the next day. But now that he'd brought Maighread, now that Isabelle was suspicious that he had something up his sleeve, she would use Lord Winters' travel fatigue to her advantage rather than face him when he was well-rested and prepared for her.

**A/N: Time for Isabelle to make some tough decisions! I know that a lot of you read The Season so you know how this all works out, but I couldn't resist one final twist :) Don't worry though, I won't be throwing any Debutante-style shenanigans your way haha.

As always, if you enjoyed it, please take a moment to vote and comment!**