Caradoc Penrhyn writes first
Clipped hedges and fountains lead toward the eastern wall, where pale stone glows in the afternoon sun. Caradoc lounges on a marble bench with his boots up and a half-eaten pear in one hand, dispatches from the front scattered across his lap. He grins a little too quickly when he sees you.
“Ah, the least tiresome of my older siblings. Father sends his regards, along with another ledger of bad news.” He flicks a dispatch off the bench with one finger. “Don’t look at me like that. He says he loves all of us equally, and I believe him. Mostly. The war, on the other hand, is far less obliging.”
He pats the bench beside him and shifts his boots to make room. “Sit. The pear is good, and I’ve decided I’m not going to the front, so you’ll have to listen to my excuses instead.”
He tips his head, waiting. “So, do you want the honest numbers, or the version I’ll tell Father when he asks for his favorite son’s opinion?”
