Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
17 Rue Thomas, Toulouse
10 November 1017
My dearest cousin Armand,
If Maximilian and I wished to purchase one of your wagons, would it be possible to get a family discount, so that we could afford it in our academic penury? Possibly with some unusual modifications? And could you send it to us, possibly on the Amelie, by the beginning of spring?
My beloved and I have just returned from a harrowing excursion to trace ley lines to the northwest of Toulouse, the better to flesh out Maximilian’s map.
It all seemed so simple while we were sitting at our table here in our little flat. We would go, we would take notes, we would learn much, we would return.
When Maximilian and Jérôme essayed something similar, they rented ponies, took very little gear, and slept wherever they found themselves. Maximilian has his military training, after all, and Jérôme was unwilling to be shown up by a Cumbrian. But for my part I have no such skills, nor any desire to sleep on the ground, even if my wizardly skills can ensure that we remain warm enough; nor would it be considered seemly.
And yet, we could not afford to hire a carriage; nor would a fine carriage long survive on the roads we were planning to take.
Consequently, we chose to travel by common stage from Toulouse to a town called Aussonne, there to find lodgings in one inn or another; and then to rent ponies by the day in order to investigate the ley line routes and nodes in the vicinity.
This was not a perfect plan; ideally, one would choose a ley line and follow it from nodal point nodal point, taking measurements along the route. But it was what we could do.
Shortly after we embarked for Aussonne it began to rain. We remained warm and dry in the stage—much to the delight of the other passengers, who were used to different circumstances while traveling—but what with the mud and the strain on the horses, and one broken trace, it took us much longer to complete the day’s journey than we had foreseen.
Maximilian had written ahead for our lodgings, so that was all right; but then it continued to rain.
It rained for seven days straight, in fact, except for one bright sparkling treacherous morning when we rallied, mounted our ponies, and sallied forth—to meet an even greater downpour before noon, so that we were compelled to return to Aussonne in mire and disarray.
I will not say that our excursion was an utter waste, for the inn was comfortable, the food was excellent, reading material was plentiful, and my company, of course, was excellent. But the cost was dear and our findings non-existent.
And so we have admitted to ourselves, albeit with great reluctance, that winter is fast approaching; that traveling by stage and pony is unsatisfactory; and that mapping the ley lines by these means would be far too costly.
And so to business.
We would like to commission a specially designed sky-wagon: or perhaps one might better call it a sky-caravan. It must be small enough to travel both city streets and country lanes; it must be enclosed, like a caravan, to keep off the weather and for privacy; it must sleep two, with room for clothing, cooking gear, and the like; and though it need not fly high, as your sky-chairs do, it would be delightful if it could ride high enough to go over hedges, fences, and fields without causing damage, the better to follow the ley lines whither they run.
And I may say I like the thought of elevating the wagon at night; one might sleep without fear of bandits if one were ten or twenty feet above the ground.
From all that you have told me, I would think that this could be built onto one of your standard wagons—by which I mean that it seems to us to be a matter of carpentry rather than forming.
What do you think? And could we have such a thing by, say, the beginning of March? And what would it cost? The masters of L’École have agreed to provide a certain amount of funds, and Mama and Papa have agreed to help, as have Maximilian’s people.
Your designing cousin,
Amelia
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Photo by Erik van Dijk on Unsplash
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