The first letter from Thomas arrived three weeks after his departure. Rosalind was in the estate office reviewing allocation lists for the summer pnting when Mr. Finch entered with the mail pouch.

  "Something for you, Miss Rose," he said, his usually impassive face softening slightly as he handed her the dust-stained envelope. "Army courier brought it along with dispatches for the vilge families."

  Rosalind accepted the letter with hands she struggled to keep steady. She recognized Thomas's neat, precise handwriting immediately, though the military postmark and the smudges of travel made the envelope look foreign and somehow ominous.

  "Thank you," she managed to say. "I'll finish these allocation lists by this afternoon."

  Mr. Finch nodded, his eyes showing rare understanding. "Take your time, Miss Rose. The lists can wait until tomorrow if necessary."

  When he had gone, Rosalind sat motionless, the unopened letter resting in her p. For weeks she had longed for word from Thomas, imagining him in training, wondering if he was safe, if he was well. Now that his letter had arrived, she found herself almost afraid to open it, as if breaking the seal might somehow make the danger he faced more real.

  Finally, taking a deep breath, she opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.

  Provincial Garrison Camp East Draymoor Fourth Day of Summer Moon

  My dear Rosalind,

  I write from the training garrison where I've been stationed these past two weeks. The journey here was long but uneventful, and I found myself cataloging soil conditions and crop varieties along the way, as if I were still working on our agricultural surveys. Old habits, it seems, are not easily abandoned.

  Upon arrival, I discovered that my education has indeed determined my pcement. I've been assigned to the Corps of Engineers, where we are tasked with building bridges, fortifications, and siege works. There are twenty men in my unit, most from cities and rger towns, though a few are farmers like myself who have shown aptitude for mathematics and design. Our commander, Captain Harlow, is a stern but fair-minded man who served in the western campaigns ten years ago.

  The days are long and filled with training. We rise before dawn for physical conditioning, then spend hours studying topographical maps, learning construction techniques, and practicing with tools that are more often used for destruction than creation. The irony is not lost on me—that hands which once carefully tended growing things are now being trained to tear down and demolish.

  Yet amidst all this, I find myself thinking constantly of Thornfield. Has the spring pnting progressed well? Did my father remember to rotate the north field to legumes as we discussed? Have you heard anything from the Duke regarding our school proposal?

  And more than these practical concerns, I think of you. I imagine you moving through your day—overseeing the dairy production, consulting with Mr. Finch, perhaps visiting my parents as you promised. I picture your hands, once so soft and now hardened by honest work, turning the pages of my journal or writing notes for the demonstration plots.

  I must end here, as we are called to the evening meal. Know that I carry thoughts of you with me through each day, like a talisman against the grimmer realities of what lies ahead.

  Yours, Thomas

  P.S. Please tell my parents I am well and will write to them separately when I can. Military post is uncertain, and I wanted to ensure at least one letter reached home.

  Rosalind read the letter twice more, her eyes lingering on certain phrases: I think of you... Yours, Thomas. The words were restrained—necessarily so for correspondence that might be read by military censors—but she could feel the emotion behind them.

  She pressed the paper briefly to her heart before carefully folding it and returning it to its envelope. There was work to be done, and allowing herself to be overcome by emotion would help neither Thomas nor the community that now looked to her for leadership.

  Two days ter, a message arrived from Duke Harrington. Rosalind was in the fields helping direct the allocation of workers—a task made significantly more challenging by the absence of so many young men—when Agnes found her with the sealed dispatch.

  "From your father, my dy," Agnes said, reverting to the formal address she used only in moments of particur significance.

  Rosalind wiped her hands on her apron before accepting the letter. The Duke's seal was unmistakable, the heavy parchment a stark reminder of the world she had once inhabited without question. Six months ago, a letter from her father would have filled her with hope for an end to her exile. Now, she found herself approaching it with complicated emotions—curiosity, certainly, but also a strange kind of wariness.

  Breaking the seal, she unfolded the letter and began to read.

  Harrington House Imperial City Tenth Day of Summer Moon

  Daughter,

  Your report concerning the flood management at Thornfield has been received and reviewed. Your decisive actions during the crisis are to be commended, as is your attention to detail in documentation. The measures you implemented saved the estate considerable expense in what might otherwise have been catastrophic damage.

  Regarding your proposal for an agricultural school: While unconventional, your arguments for its economic benefits to the estate nds are sound. The projections for increased yield through improved education among tenant farmers represent a potentially worthwhile investment.

  I have instructed the estate stewards to allocate provisional funding for a one-year trial of your proposed program. Mr. Finch will oversee the financial aspects, but you are authorized to implement the curriculum and practical demonstrations as outlined in your proposal.

  On a separate matter, I must address the concerning reports regarding the eastern border conflicts. As you are no doubt aware, significant military mobilization is underway. The Emperor has requested that noble families take appropriate precautions for their safety.

  Therefore, I am modifying the terms of your residence at Thornfield. You are no longer required to remain there as a condition of your reformation. Should the military situation deteriorate further, you are instructed to return to the Imperial City immediately, where suitable security can be provided.

  Your mother sends her regards and hopes for your continued well-being.

  Your father, Harrington

  Rosalind stared at the letter, reading it through a second time to ensure she had not misunderstood. Her father had approved the agricultural school. More than that, he had praised her handling of the flood crisis and effectively ended her exile, giving her the choice to return to court.

  Six months ago, this letter would have represented everything she wanted. Now, it felt like a complication rather than a relief.

  "Is it good news, my dy?" Agnes asked cautiously.

  "Yes," Rosalind said slowly. "And no. Father has approved funding for the agricultural school."

  Agnes's face brightened. "That's wonderful! Mr. Thomas will be so pleased when he hears."

  The mention of Thomas brought Rosalind back to the present moment. "Yes, he will. I must write to him immediately. And we need to begin implementing the pns we made. There's so much to do."

  She folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket, her mind already shifting to practical considerations. The approval meant they could proceed with preparing the demonstration plots, organizing teaching workshops, and acquiring the necessary tools and seed varieties. With so many men away at war, the timing could not have been more critical—the remaining workers needed to maximize their productivity to feed both the local popution and support the war effort.

  The second part of her father's letter—the permission to return to the Imperial City—she pushed aside for now. There was too much work to be done at Thornfield, too many people depending on her, to consider leaving.

  Second Letter from Thomas Received Six Weeks After His Departure

  Field Encampment Near Eastpass Twentieth Day of Summer Moon

  My dear Rosalind,

  Your letter brought me such joy. To hear that the Duke has approved our agricultural school project fills me with hope and purpose. Even amidst the grim business of war preparations, I find myself making notes about teaching methods and demonstration techniques we might implement. Captain Harlow caught me sketching irrigation designs on the back of a tactical map and, instead of reprimanding me, asked thoughtful questions about water management. It seems even military men recognize the importance of feeding the people they're tasked with protecting.

  We have moved closer to the conflict zone, though we're still well behind the actual front lines. Our unit is currently engaged in building reinforced bridges across the Eastpass River to facilitate troop movements. The engineering challenges are fascinating, despite their purpose.

  Most days I work alongside men who were strangers a month ago but now feel like friends of long standing. There is something about shared hardship that forges connections quickly. Mathis was a carpenter before conscription and has taught me much about load-bearing joints. Ellis studied at the Imperial University and can calcute stress tolerances in his head faster than most men can write them down. These skills will be valuable for our school when I return.

  How strange to think that had this war not come, I might never have met these men or learned their particur knowledge. Yet I cannot bring myself to be grateful for a conflict that has torn so many from their homes and livelihoods.

  I'm pleased to hear that the spring pnting progressed well despite the bor shortage. Your idea to reorganize the work rotations to prioritize essential food crops shows foresight that many administrators ck. I've seen the consequences of poor pnning in our supply lines here—fresh vegetables are already becoming scarce, and we're not yet at the height of the campaign season.

  You mention visiting my parents and helping with the heavier farm work. I cannot express adequately what this means to me. Father writes that you've been instrumental in implementing some of the drainage improvements we discussed, and that this year's wheat is showing early promise despite the challenges.

  The officer in charge of post is signaling that all letters must be submitted now if they are to go out with tomorrow's courier. I must end here, though there is so much more I wish to say.

  I think of our st morning together often.

  Yours always, Thomas

  Rosalind pressed the letter to her chest, as if she could somehow hold the words closer to her heart. Thomas sounded well, if somewhat constrained by what he could express in a letter that might be read by military censors. Reading between the lines, she sensed both his conviction about their work together and his longing for Thornfield.

  She sat at her small desk in the cottage and began to compose her reply immediately, knowing from her earlier letter that post from the front was unpredictable at best. She wanted Thomas to have news of home as often as possible.

  Thornfield Cottage Twenty-Eighth Day of Summer Moon

  Dear Thomas,

  Your letter finds me in the midst of preparations for the first agricultural school workshop, scheduled for three days hence. Mr. Finch has been surprisingly supportive, allocating space in the east barn for our cssroom and helping to spread word among the tenant farmers. Fifteen have registered to attend, including your father, who has agreed to demonstrate his seed selection techniques.

  Following your notes in the journal, I've established the south field demonstration plot with three distinct sections: traditional methods, your recommended crop rotation system, and a hybrid approach that several of the older farmers suggested might be better suited to our particur soil conditions. We'll monitor all three throughout the growing season to compare yields.

  The bor shortage continues to challenge us. With so many young men gone, we've had to adapt our methods significantly. Mrs. Hawthorn has organized the older children into teams to help with lighter work, and many of the women have taken on tasks previously considered men's domain. Martha now manages the entire dairy operation, and Widow Mercer has revealed an unexpected talent for carpentry, repairing equipment that would otherwise have sat idle.

  Your mother has been teaching me to preserve vegetables using less sugar and salt than traditional methods require—an important skill with rationing now in effect. She speaks of you constantly, sharing stories from your childhood that help me know you better in your absence.

  The wooden pendant you carved for me has become something of a talisman. I touch it often throughout the day, especially when facing difficult decisions. Somehow, it helps me consider what you might suggest or how you might approach a problem.

  I received a letter from my father granting approval for our school and, surprisingly, lifting the conditions of my exile. He suggests I may return to the Imperial City if the war situation worsens. I have no intention of doing so. My pce is here, continuing our work and supporting the community through whatever hardships may come.

  There is talk in the vilge of food shortages in the eastern provinces. The army's supply needs have stretched resources thin, and transport has become more difficult as roads are commandeered for military use. We are fortunate at Thornfield to be rgely self-sufficient, but I worry for those in less agricultural regions.

  Be safe, Thomas. I look forward to the day when you can see firsthand how our shared vision has begun to take root here.

  Yours, Rosalind

  Summer turned slowly to autumn, and the letters from Thomas became less frequent. Rumors from the front lines spoke of intensified conflict, of vilges destroyed and supply lines disrupted. Each day without word stretched Rosalind's nerves tighter, each arriving letter brought momentary relief before the cycle of waiting began again.

  Meanwhile, the agricultural school flourished beyond their initial expectations. The first workshop had led to weekly sessions, with farmers from neighboring estates traveling to attend as word spread of the practical knowledge being shared. The demonstration plots showed promising early results, with Thomas's rotation system outperforming the traditional methods despite the challenging weather conditions.

  On a crisp autumn morning, Rosalind stood with Mr. Brookfield in the south field, examining the nearly mature wheat crop.

  "He'd be proud to see this," Mr. Brookfield said, rubbing a wheat head between his palms to test the kernels. "Good weight, even with the dry spell we had."

  "I've documented everything carefully," Rosalind replied. "All the measurements, the soil conditions, the rainfall. He'll be able to see exactly how his methods performed."

  Neither of them acknowledged the uncertainty in her words—he'll be able to see—as if speaking too directly of Thomas's return might somehow tempt fate.

  Mr. Brookfield cleared his throat. "We had the military bulletin yesterday. Heavy fighting near Eastpass. That's where his st letter was from."

  Rosalind nodded, her hand automatically moving to touch the wooden pendant at her throat. "I know. Mr. Finch told me."

  They stood in silence for a moment, the autumn wind rustling through the wheat around them. Finally, Mr. Brookfield spoke again, his voice gruff with emotion.

  "He's always been a careful d. Thinks things through. Not one to take foolish risks."

  It was as close as the stoic farmer could come to expressing his fear for his son, and Rosalind understood it perfectly. She had come to know the Brookfields well over the past months, spending at least one evening a week at their farm, helping where she could and simply providing company during the long wait for news.

  "The harvest projections look excellent," she said, deliberately changing the subject to something more certain, more controlble. "Even with the reduced bor, we should see yields at least fifteen percent higher than st year."

  Mr. Brookfield nodded, visibly relieved to return to practical matters. "Good thing, too. Word from the vilge is that the imperial granaries are demanding increased contributions this year. War appetite, they call it."

  "The army must be fed," Rosalind acknowledged. "But so must we. I've been reviewing the estate records, and I believe we can meet the imperial quotas while still retaining sufficient stores for winter."

  They walked together through the field, discussing storage solutions and preservation methods, neither mentioning the growing fear that seemed to shadow every conversation these days—the fear that the war was not proceeding as well as the official dispatches cimed, that the increased demands for food and supplies spoke of a more desperate situation than was publicly acknowledged.

  As they neared the edge of the field, Rosalind spotted a rider approaching from the direction of the vilge, moving at a pace that suggested urgency. Her heart seized momentarily—official messengers often brought news from the front, and not all news was welcome.

  Mr. Brookfield saw the rider too, his weathered face tensing. "Military courier," he said quietly, recognizing the uniform even at a distance.

  Together they waited as the rider approached, each silently preparing for whatever news might come. When the messenger reached them, he saluted crisply.

  "Miss Harrington?" he asked, using Rosalind's formal name rather than the "Miss Rose" she had become accustomed to at Thornfield.

  "Yes," she confirmed, her mouth suddenly dry.

  The messenger reached into his dispatch pouch and produced a sealed letter. "From the eastern front, miss. Engineer Corps communiqué."

  Rosalind accepted the letter with unsteady hands, noting the official military seal. Not Thomas's handwriting on the envelope—a senior officer's, perhaps, or a clerk's. Her stomach knotted with fear.

  Mr. Brookfield stood beside her, his presence solid and reassuring despite the apprehension she knew he must be feeling as well.

  "Thank you," she managed to say to the courier. "Would you like to rest your horse at the estate stables before continuing your route?"

  "No time, miss. Many dispatches to deliver today." With another salute, the messenger turned his horse and rode toward the main road.

  Rosalind stared at the sealed letter in her hands, suddenly terrified to open it.

  "Would you like privacy?" Mr. Brookfield asked gently.

  She shook her head. "No. Whatever news it contains... we should face it together."

  With a deep breath, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

  Official Communiqué Eastern Front Command Twelfth Day of Harvest Moon

  Miss Rosalind Harrington,

  It is my duty to inform you that Lieutenant Thomas Brookfield of the Imperial Engineer Corps was injured during an enemy assault on our forward position three days past. Lieutenant Brookfield was supervising bridge fortification works when the attack occurred.

  His injuries, while significant, are not life-threatening. He has been transferred to the military hospital at Eastfort for treatment and recovery. The attending physicians report that he is expected to survive, though his recovery may be prolonged.

  Lieutenant Brookfield requested specifically that you be informed of his condition, along with his parents. A separate dispatch has been sent to the Brookfield residence.

  Due to the ongoing military situation, civilian visits to the eastern front medical facilities are not permitted at this time. Lieutenant Brookfield will be allowed to correspond once his condition stabilizes.

  Respectfully, Major William Caldwell Eastern Front Command

  Rosalind's legs nearly gave way beneath her as relief and fear washed over her in equal measure. Thomas was alive—injured, but alive.

  "He's hurt," she said, handing the letter to Mr. Brookfield. "But they expect him to recover."

  Mr. Brookfield read the letter quickly, his expression cycling through concern, relief, and finally a guarded hope. "My boy," he murmured. "At least he's out of the fighting for now."

  "We should go to your wife," Rosalind said. "She'll have received the same news by now."

  Together they walked toward the Brookfield farm, their earlier conversation about harvests and grain stores forgotten in the wake of this more immediate concern. As they walked, Rosalind's mind filled with questions the terse military dispatch had not answered. How severe were Thomas's injuries? What kind of care was he receiving? How long would his recovery take?

  And beneath these practical concerns y a deeper worry: When—if—Thomas returned to Thornfield, would he be the same man who had left? War changed people, she knew from the old veterans in the vilge who still carried the shadows of past conflicts in their eyes. Physical injuries could heal, but other wounds went deeper.

  Third Letter from Thomas Received Four Months After His Departure

  Military Hospital Eastfort Eighteenth Day of Harvest Moon

  My dearest Rosalind,

  Forgive the unfamiliar handwriting. I am dictating this letter to Nurse Ellery, as my own hands are not yet steady enough for correspondence. [This is true, Miss. He tried for an hour before admitting defeat. – Nurse E.]

  By now you will have received the official notification of my injury. I wish to reassure you that I am indeed on the mend, though the process is slower than my impatient nature would prefer. The attack came during early morning hours as we were reinforcing the eastern bridge supports. An explosion colpsed part of the structure, and I was struck by falling debris. My left leg and right arm sustained fractures, and I received various less serious injuries that I won't detail here.

  The physicians assure me that with time and proper care, I should regain full use of both limbs. Already I can move my fingers, though gripping anything firmly remains challenging. The leg will take longer, but daily exercises are prescribed to maintain muscle strength during healing.

  I think often of Thornfield during my convalescence. The hospital windows face east, and each morning as the sun rises, I imagine it shining on the demonstration fields we pnted together. Have the wheat yields proven as promising as we predicted? Did you implement the drainage modifications for the lower fields before the autumn rains?

  News from the front is strictly controlled here, but rumors suggest the conflict has intensified. I worry for my former unit, for the men I came to know as brothers during our months together. And I worry for Thornfield and the surrounding communities as the war pces ever greater demands on resources.

  I find myself grateful, selfishly perhaps, to be removed from direct danger, though I regret that it took injury to accomplish this. The hospital is well-supplied and the staff competent and kind. Nurse Ellery in particur has shown remarkable patience with my frustration during these early days of recovery. [He compins far less than most officers, actually. – Nurse E.]

  They tell me I may be transferred to a recovery facility farther from the front lines once my condition stabilizes further. This would bring me closer to home, though still not within visiting distance, I fear.

  I have received your letters faithfully, including your most recent describing the agricultural school's progress. The image of fifteen farmers gathered in the east barn, learning and debating methods of cultivation, sustains me through difficult days. That our vision has begun to materialize even in my absence gives me immeasurable hope.

  Please continue to watch over my parents. Father's pride would prevent him from admitting if the farm work became too much, especially with harvest approaching. Mother writes that you visit regurly and have organized assistance from the estate workers for the more demanding tasks. I cannot express adequately what this means to me.

  The nurse informs me that I must rest now. Know that thoughts of you, of our work together, of the future we might build, are with me constantly.

  With deepest affection, Thomas

  [He fell asleep as I was reading this back to him. The poor man pushed himself too hard today during his exercises. I've taken the liberty of completing the letter as he indicated, as the post leaves tomorrow morning. He truly does speak of you often, Miss Harrington. – Nurse Ellery]

  Rosalind read the letter through tears that she made no attempt to hide. Thomas was alive, recovering, and—if the nurse's addendum was any indication—still very much himself in spirit despite his injuries.

  She immediately began composing a reply, filling pages with news of Thornfield, updates on the agricultural school, and careful descriptions of his parents' well-being. She included a pressed leaf from the demonstration field—a tangible piece of home for him to hold during his recovery.

  What she did not include were the growing concerns that had begun to shadow daily life at Thornfield: the early frost that had damaged some of the te crops, the increasing military requisitions that threatened their winter stores, the rumors of food shortages in regions closer to the conflict, and the first whispers of illness spreading through communities weakened by stress and inadequate nutrition.

  Those burdens were hers to bear, not his. Thomas needed to focus on healing, on returning home whole in body and spirit. Everything else—the agricultural school, the estate management, the support of his family—she would handle until he could stand beside her once more.

  As autumn deepened toward winter, Rosalind found herself bancing an ever-increasing set of responsibilities. The agricultural school had expanded beyond their initial vision, becoming a central hub for knowledge exchange as farmers from throughout the region sought ways to maximize yields with diminished bor. The harvest had been good, but not exceptional, requiring careful pnning for winter rationing. And Thomas's parents, though stoic and self-sufficient, clearly benefited from her regur visits and the practical assistance she arranged.

  Through it all, she maintained her correspondence with Thomas, whose letters reported steady though slow improvement. Each dispatch from the military hospital was a lifeline, a reminder of the future they had begun to imagine together before the war intervened.

  Then, as the first snow dusted Thornfield's fields, a new threat emerged—one that no amount of careful pnning or hard work could easily overcome. Reports reached them of a mysterious illness spreading through the eastern provinces, striking communities already weakened by war rationing and the stress of conflict. The military dispatches called it "field fever," but local healers who had seen simir outbreaks in the past used an older, more ominous name: the wasting sickness.

  And it was moving steadily westward, toward Thornfield.