She had written to Charles Macmillan, but the note remained unsent upon her writing desk. As undesirable as the chore was, Tatiana knew it was one that had to be done in person; matters had progressed too far for a mere owl to suffice.

Her face was a mask of serenity as she entered the parlour, but it did not shift into the usual smile she afforded Mr. Macmillan. It did, however, serve to hide the knot that had been in her stomach when she had awoken that morning.

My dearest. It was almost enough to trip her up literally; as it was, her face faltered ever so slightly at the endearment.

"Mr. Macmillan," her own greeting came, in comparison rather sterile. This, though, was appropriate, under the circumstances.