"I have become engaged to someone I’ve never met."
That in itself isn’t unusual, so I wasn’t particularly bothered. However, I didn’t even receive a reply to the letter I sent as a greeting.
Even after sending multiple letters, there was no response.
Not only have I never met this person, but we haven’t even exchanged letters. To say I’m not a bit anxious about marrying someone like that would be a lie.
When I asked my friends of the same age, their fiancés at least sent them replies.
My fiancé’s family is a bit higher in status—of course, I mean ours is the lower one—thanks to the connections my grandfather made when he was still wealthy. So, maybe they just don’t want to speak with someone like me, or maybe this is just how the upper class behaves.
No, no, they must just be busy. Unlike me, still a student, they’re currently working as a knight.
That’s what I tell myself as I sit down to write yet another letter.
My father and mother have told me I must write proper letters.
They don’t check the contents, but if the letter feels too thin, they tell me, “You need to try harder.”
But honestly, what am I supposed to write to someone who won’t even reply?
I don’t know anything about my fiancé, and there’s a limit to how much I can talk about myself.
Ah, if only there were fairies who could help. If only they could tell me what my fiancé is interested in.
I’ve always loved reading picture books since I was little, and I tend to have a bit of an overactive imagination, so I couldn’t help but fantasize about something like that.
But considering the lack of any response, I wonder—could it be that they’re not even reading my letters?
At best, they’re just sitting on a desk gathering dust; at worst, they’ve gone straight to the trash bin.
Then, suddenly, an idea struck me.
Yes, that’s it!
If they’re not reading them anyway, it doesn’t matter what I write.
It doesn’t have to be a letter meant for my fiancé at all.
I’ll fill the pages with my favorite daydreams. Surely, the ink and paper would prefer that over a letter written reluctantly.
And if the envelope feels thick enough, my mother will be satisfied. Everyone wins.
This might just be a great idea.
The blank pages that once filled me with dread now suddenly feel vast and open, like the sky.
Through these pages, I can go anywhere. I can become anything. That’s how it felt.
What should I write about? Perhaps… a story with fairies?
How about a story where a fairy girl falls in love with a human boy?
The fairy girl, sent to the human world as part of a trial from the fairy kingdom, meets a human boy and begins to learn about humans.
Though they grow fond of each other, they struggle with the differences between their species… until one day, a messenger comes from the fairy kingdom…
A story set in a school could be fun, too.
Two close friends suddenly get caught up in an incident one day.
The two commit a crime, and though it’s supposed to be their secret, they receive a letter saying, “I know everything…”
The two start investigating, sometimes even suspecting each other, as they try to uncover the truth. A bit of a thrilling story.
Oh wait, how about a story where my future self comes back to visit?
My future self tells me, “You won’t be happy with this marriage.”
So, I strive for a future where I marry someone else, but just when I’m close, my future self takes everything from me.
It turns out that was their plan all along. But I won’t give up—I’ll take my happiness back from my future self!
“…Huh!?”
I realized it was morning.
The birds were chirping happily outside the window. How adorable.
I wiped the sweat from my brow as I looked at the pile of letters I’d written.
Oh dear, I seem to have gotten a bit carried away.
But with this many letters in stock, I won’t have to worry about writing for a while.
I opened the window, feeling more refreshed than I had in days, and took a deep breath of the crisp morning air.
◇ ◇ ◇
“Master Leonardo, you’ve received a letter.”
“Just leave it anywhere.”
The butler sounded displeased as he replied, “As you wish, sir.”
Even if he’s upset, I’m not going to read it.
And writing a reply? Absolutely not.
A man sitting at a desk, pen in hand, scribbling letters—that’s far too delicate a task for me. I have no intention of doing something so pitiful.
This marriage was arranged by my grandparents. I’ll fulfill my obligations because it’s expected of me, but I refuse to get involved in anything beyond that.
Women can’t hold logical conversations. They’re noisy, emotional, and… they’re simply not like me—a rational person.
What could I possibly have to talk about with such a creature? I’m sure the letters are filled with things I couldn’t care less about.
Sighing, the butler placed the letter on the table with a thud, perhaps finally giving up.
Wait…
Did it just go thud?
What’s with that sound?
After the butler left the room, I turned to check the so-called letter on the table.
It was about three fingers thick.
Huh?
What is this?
A letter?
Not a book??
I inserted the letter opener into the wax seal, which was barely holding together the overstuffed contents, and opened it.
What is with this abnormal thickness?
Could it be that, because I hadn’t replied, this letter is full of complaints?
I shuddered at the thought, but then reassured myself. If that were the case, I could simply use the letter as an excuse to break off the engagement. There was nothing to fear.
Telling myself this—and biting my lip, just in case there was a strand of hair or something inside, to avoid making a fool of myself by screaming—I cautiously, with half-closed eyes, unfolded the letter.
There didn’t seem to be any foreign objects. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Not that I was scared or anything.
I dropped my gaze to the letter.
—“The culprit is among us!”
Huh?
What???
I tilted my head in confusion.
Is this a mistake? The letter starts with dialogue.
Why?
Why doesn’t it start with a greeting?
Thinking that maybe the pages were out of order, I flipped through the letter, but judging by the neatly printed page number in the bottom right corner, this was indeed the first page.
Confused, I suddenly had a realization.
Maybe the background to this is written in the previous letter?
I rummaged through the pile of letters that had been carelessly stacked and found the previous one.
The envelope was a bit more modest in thickness compared to this one.
I opened it.
The first page of the letter started with this sentence:
—“The Case Files of Detective Prince McQueen”
Why?
Why does this letter start with a title?
Who is this Prince?
Completely baffled, I continued reading.
—“My name is McQueen. I am the third prince of this kingdom, and also a detective.”
A prince? Shouldn’t you be doing your royal duties?
I read on with that thought in mind.
…Flip. I turned the page.
“…”
Flip, flip.
I became engrossed, turning page after page.
When I reached the end of that letter, I picked up the one I had originally opened.
The only sound in the quiet room was the flipping of pages.
“Huh!?”
By the time I realized it, it was morning.
What is going on?
I, who am known as one of the healthiest and most disciplined knights in the order, had stayed up all night!?
I had quickly finished reading the latest part of “Detective Prince” and opened all the previous letters I had received.
At first, the letters were ordinary, but at some point, they had turned into stories. From then on, I devoured every word.
A romance between a fairy and a human, a suspenseful story of friendship set in a school, a fantasy where an ordinary young lady fights her future self from another time—there were many stories of various kinds.
Though a bit rough around the edges, they were all captivating.
I picked up the final part of “Detective Prince” once again.
A murder had occurred at a marquis’ mansion in the snowy mountains. The detective prince had just found a crucial clue when he was struck from behind and lost consciousness.
The steadily falling snow covered the footprints of the culprit. And that’s where the story ended.
Don’t stop there.
Finish it. If you’ve written the rest, send it. Why send it incomplete?
I trembled with the urge to write a letter of complaint, but quickly caught myself, taking a deep breath.
No, there’s no need to rush.
If I just wait, another letter will surely arrive soon. All I have to do is wait.
I don’t need to go out of my way to write a letter and urge them.
Besides, it’s not like I care if the next part never comes. It’s not like I’m itching for it or anything.
Or so I thought… but a week passed, then two weeks, and still, no letter came.
What’s going on?
Why haven’t they sent the next part?
Who is the culprit? Is the detective prince alright?
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
Stomping across the floor, I sat at my writing desk and pulled the dusty ink bottle closer.
◇ ◇ ◇
A letter arrived for me.
It was from Lord Leonardo.
My, my. His first letter. It might rain tomorrow.
—“Send the next letter quickly.”
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