Dearest T,
I can't wait any longer for your presence. At night, I dream of you—the small of your back, the little dimple on your chin, the way I seem to glow when you look at me.
Tomorrow, I am going to the Underroot. The lamias there are friendly and they won't begrudge two lovers their secret spot by the moonlight.
Come quietly, though, and wait until nightfall. I think J might suspect us. Oh, I don't feel any guilt about it. The way he carries on about those cats of his, he doesn't need a wife. But be careful just in case. He may not understand love, but he certainly understands ownership.
I will be waiting.
Your ever faithful,
M.
