Leon sits at the desk in his study, filling up an inkwell. An open letter is set before him, a blank sheet and envelope beside it. He had begun a correspondence on utter accident, the result of a letter sent to the wrong estate. A coincidental connection. At first, the mystery had merely intrigued him—trading no names, merely initials, sparse details of the writer’s life. Then he started to develop a genuine fondness, an excitement for the rare occurrences a new envelope was delivered to him. This latest one mentions the sender would be attending a ball in the capital; though Leon tends to avoid frivolous affairs, he thinks this may be the perfect time to finally suggest a formal meeting.