“Do you think we’re being too dramatic? I feel like I’m writing a historical manifesto instead of a letter to a toddler who currently thinks eating crayons is a hobby.”

Celeste sat at the antique writing desk in the library, the soft glow of a Banker’s lamp illuminating the ivory stationery spread before her. She held a fountain pen poised mid-air, a smudge of ink staining her thumb. Beside her, a half-empty cup of chamomile tea had long since gone cold.

Lucian, sitting in the armchair opposite her with a leather-bound journal on his lap, didn’t look up immediately. He was focused on his own task, his jaw set in...