A Barbed Olive Branch

Catherine paced the drawing room. The only sounds came from the great clock and the swish of her skirts as she marched back and forth. Her quick footsteps were muffled by the thick Persian carpet lining the room. Anxiously, she sat at the writing desk.

Dipping her pen in India ink, Catherine steadied her hands. She knew that pen was mightier than sword; often it was her only weapon. Today, however, she did not need a sword. Today, she needed something craftier: Cleopatra's snake in a basket of fruit, a lion in a bush. Today, her pen must be a wand to craft black magic and disguise her venom with honey-dripped words.

She exhaled slowly and tapped her heel. The letter began smoothly enough. Catherine had some difficulty writing such an insincere apology, but deceit had become a necessary custom. She played a dangerous game with men stronger and more cunning that she, and if she were to win this game, she must steel her heart and focus her thoughts. Apology led way to soothing promises of friendship and neighborly love. Catherine's writing flowed more easily and she grinned wickedly in spite of herself.

When the letter was done, Catherine read it aloud in the empty room. She surprised herself; there was not an ounce of irony and the words sounded with genuine charm. It was perfect. She was counting on her reputation as an honest and honorable woman. If she was suspected, if she slipped and her treachery was discovered, she would be ruined.

Catherine handled the gift that was to accompany the letter. She'd paid a year's income for the forgery, but it would be worth the cost if her ruse succeeded. No one must ever think that this was more than just a bottle of fine wine.