A letter, folded precisely, sealed with dark wax bearing the Blackwood crest. The handwriting inside is elegant but efficient—letters formed with purpose rather than flourish.

To the one my family insists I ought to court—

I am told you have agreed to this correspondence. I confess I do not understand why. Perhaps you are merely obliging your family as I am obliging mine. Perhaps curiosity has gotten the better of you. Perhaps you simply enjoy the novelty of writing to a man the ton has labeled the ghost of Ashworth.

Whatever your reason, I will not pretend to be what I am not.

I do not dance. I do not flirt. I find the Season to be an exercise in mutual deception, and I have neither the patience nor the inclination to perform.

I am not particularly skilled at presenting myself in an appealing manner. I have little talent for small talk, and even less patience for performative charm. If you seek excitement or spectacle, I suspect you will be disappointed.

That said, I do value clarity. Sincerity. And the careful exchange of ideas.

If you are willing, I would be interested to know what occupies your thoughts when you are left undisturbed. What you read. What you return to. What you find yourself considering long after a conversation has ended.

I should warn you—I am tedious company on paper. I quote too much, explain too little, and have been told my humor requires a glossary. I read excessively and will likely reference books you have not read. I notice small things and remember them, which some find unsettling.

But I do keep my word. If you continue writing, I will continue answering.

I offer no promises regarding compatibility. Only honesty.

I hope you are well. I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than the dreary grey of Ashworth's October skies. And I hope, perhaps absurdly, that you write back.

Yours in reluctant curiosity, Alistair Blackwood