"Delightful," Juliana chirped with a grin. It occurred to her belatedly that he might be expecting her to return the offer, as a gesture of trust, so she felt inclined to continue with an explanation of why that would be quite impossible. "Oh, but — if you don't mind still sending mine to the post box? I live with my parents," she said with a sympathetic sort of expression, as though this was likely to be a terrible inconvenience for him and she was sorry for it. "They don't know about — well, anything, actually. And if I get owls during dinner my mother has this awful habit of asking who it's from and what it's about, so. It's best to limit my at-home correspondence with strange men," she joked lightly. She'd been lying to her mother often enough to cover up the prolific amount of mail Lachlan MacFusty had insisted on sending her and if she got too many letters at inauspicious times, the cover stories were bound to start falling apart — though she supposed, given the way their last interaction had left off, maybe Lachlan MacFusty wouldn't be writing her any more.

Or maybe he would. She'd told him not to, but she'd told him that before, and he wasn't very good at listening to her directions when it came to things like this.