I could no more throw that letter away than I could throw away a piece of my own heart.

It is the most valuable thing I own, and it did not come with the check.

It came with the pen.

Chapter 11 — Dear Julian

Dear Julian, the letter began, and the sight of my own real name in her hand nearly finished me before I had read a word more, because it meant she had learned it, had asked someone, had wanted to know who I actually was.

She wrote that she had known from the very first afternoon that I was not Arthur.