No strings, just warm summer rain || Drabble {prompt}
The letter on the night-stand makes Jeremy's skin rise in goosebumps. There's no reason for it. The bed is a warm mess of tangled sheets and the scent of a woman; the heavy brocade curtains are still drawn; the balcony door is half-open and the red and gold of a Budapest dawn is streaming in. It's charmingly idyllic: a scene carefully composed for a painting. He can almost hear Ginevra out on the balcony, but the letter snags his attention, interrupting his smile.
  Jeremy has a bad history with envelopes. The better and more decorated they look, the worse they are. The black silk bow on this one makes him shudder. Cuthbert tended to tie his hair with one, which always distracted Jeremy whenever he dropped by the bank to negotiate the terms of a new loan extension with the man. Cuthbert was easily swayed and had hands that shook very badly when he was in withdrawal. (Jeremy was always happy to provide relief.) An expensive-looking envelope had arrived in the post box to inform Sir Jeremy that unfortunately, Mr. Cuthbert had retired from the bank for health reasons, and would Sir Jeremy please drop by to acquaint himself with his new financier: Jian Shangkun. Damn yellowface, Jeremy had no idea which was the first name and which was the last. What he knew was that the bank finally cottoned on to Cuthbert's addiction and cut him loose for it.
  His au pair had also "retired" gracefully from service with an envelope for Jeremy. He had been away at boarding school when it happened, and he'd taken the letter to the bogs to read it because he didn't want any of the other boys to know he'd been crying. Tears were for girls, a lesson he'd hammered into many unfortunate underclassmen. Tears over a girl felt acceptable, even if she was thrice his age and more maternal than the woman who bore him. She didn't say why she was leaving, only that she must, that she loved him, and she knew he would make her proud one day. He still hasn't. He knows she sees him in the newspapers, he knows she's aware she was wrong.
  Some lads used to hoard sweets wrappers from home, others kept trophies from the playing field or from the girls' school two streets down. Jeremy kept all of the letters from his parents, tied together with a large red ribbon and buried at the bottom of his trunk. None of those letters seemed to say much: generic pleasantries and holiday wishes. He still has them all.
  This letter on the night stand is no different, he knows before he's opened it. They're all the same. Good news is delivered in person, the bad on paper. He wants to be with Ginevra when he opens it. He needs to be reminded that some things in life go right after all, that she's living proof, and so is his signet ring on her finger. Maybe he can't marry her now, but he knows he will one day. It's a promise to them both that things will get better for them, even if the envelope in his hand threatens to destroy that. They say love makes you stronger; love makes him invincible.
  It is a cold morning on the balcony, and there's no one else there. She's not there. He slips out the letter and doesn't need to read it to know why.
