Darker London

Sometimes Klara wished she wasn't a Courtlandt, wasn't her father's daughter, wasn't a wolf born of two wolves. Because if she hadn't managed all these things then she wouldn't be dragged across Europe by different groups of werewolves to settle all their bullshit as some sort of infallible mediator. Klara was so far from infallible that it might have been hilarious were it not so frustratingly stressful.

Not stressful was the idea of dinner with Con. It was, on a low level, complicated but that wasn't stressful. Her feelings for Con still remained and she couldn't exactly say they'd gotten less over time, especially since the night they'd almost had sex last year. But she didn't see her old friend nearly as much as she wished she did, especially considering how easy he was to worry about.

Klara pulled up in front of the Home of Unhealthiness with a sigh, and wished once again that Con would find somewhere else and get out of this mausoleum to Patrick Ravensdale.

She had wine in hand and inside the front door she called out Con's name into the echoy house.

My dearest Klara,

(This was how the letter began, written in Dutch and in Viola's small and neat print.)

( I wish you were here, Klara )