The truth, as you asked: I do not know what you mean—why I won the duel? I do not know. It should not have happened. I cannot do as you say. And I am tired of opening letters full of knives. Tired of feeling vises about my chest when your owls arrive.
I miss our earlier correspondence. I truly do. I miss—you, even, the moments of kindness you used to show, all those years ago, before you left down the dark path entirely. The way you touched me, in consolation, when you first met my sister. But now, perhaps, there is nothing left but this.