Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
12 June 1020, L’École du Sorciers
My dearest cousin Armand,
It is fortunate that the grounds of L’École boast of nothing resembling a duck pond, for, as the Divine is my witness, if such a body of water existed here I make oath that I should have introduced any number of well-deserving persons into its depths.
Individually, or in groups—I care not.
It is outside of enough.
It is worse than that. If enough were marked by the boundary walls of L’École, then the actions of these people, these, my so-called friends, and this, my loving husband, should be consigned to the ice fields of Proxima Thule!
I shall give you witness.
Janine Allard has developed the rudest, most ironical, most barbed tongue imaginable. I can do nothing without being subjected to her little darts. “How many plaques today, cherie? One hundred? Two hundred? Un mille?”
Claude Bergeron grimaces and runs when he sees me coming.
Jérôme has become utterly patronizing. When I showed him my latest charred plaque of wood, he said, “Oui, oui, c’est tres difficile,” in soothing tones, as if coaxing an infant. “But it can be done,” he said, and drew a plaque of his own from his pocket. It had his name neatly inscribed on it, a thin graceful line of char. The monster had used his skill at forming to harden the plaque as well.
My husband, the wretch, has taken to leaving for the Embassy early in the morning and not returning until late. And when I try to tell him of these perfidies, all he will say is, “They are right, my dear.”
And then, when I consider how each morning begins—I could not speak of this to my brother Edward, but you, Armand, you are a father; you will understand that as motherhood approaches me, dawn has become my least favorite time of day. And then, when I leave our apartment and am subject to the sarcastic hissings of these Provençese serpents—
Oh, it is nearly too much!
Yesterday, I discovered the perfect way to burn my name into a plaque: if I write my name on the plaque using a graphite pencil, I have found that I can use the pencil marks as a guide. Once I learned to do this, I was able to repeat it ten times without a single scorch. I was so happy!
I took my ten plaques to Dr. Laguerre, my face shining, and showed them to her. Her servant brought us tea, and I sipped as she examined them, fanning the stack like a hand of playing cards. My heart was racing, and as I watched I was planning an excursion out into the streets of the Albertine, my first since arriving here in March.
“Bon,” she said at last. “Now, you must learn to do so sans le stylo.”
I gaped at her, mouth open. “What?”
She raised a sardonic eyebrow, waited. I begged her pardon and did my best to school my features.
She handed the plaques to me, and said, “Without writing your name in pencil. You are a healthy woman. You must walk without the crutch.”
I could not help myself, Armand. My hands shook, and steam rose, and it was not until Dr. Laguerre gave me a pointed look that I realized that the tea in my tea cup was boiling.
“Voila,” she said quietly.
I put the cup down on its saucer and then put my face into my hands. When I lifted my head at last I saw that Dr. Laguerre’s expression had not changed.
“Sans le stylo?” I said.
She nodded calmly. “Sans le stylo.”
Your embattled cousin,
Amelia
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Photo by Thomas Kinto on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 