Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
24 June 1020, L’École du Sorciers
My dearest cousin Armand,
It has been my plan to write to you monthly; but as I am sure the latter engendered in you a high degree of consternation I have chosen to write sooner to lend you the peace I am doing my utmost to feel for myself.
I continue to spend much of my time meditating in the chapel. It is quiet, and the light of day shines sublimely in through stained glass. Père Martin has introduced me to a kind of prayer called les Heures; he says that in houses of religion it is often sung in choir but that others may find it a fruitful aid to meditation, as it based almost in its entirety on the words of scripture.
It is helping. I think it is helping.
All of my tormentors have come to me in the past week to beg my pardon, even dear Claude, who had not been able to bring himself to do more than look at me disapprovingly and turn away. Janine Allard was in tears when she spoke to me; she has a kind and helpful nature, and Dr. Guisman found it necessary to work with her day by day, as though she were on the stage, and guide her to saying what would be most hurtful.
Hurtful? Helpful?
Helpful.
I hope.
I have had many conversations with Dr. Laguerre this week. With the others, I accepted their apologies and pardoned them with the best grace I could muster; her, I questioned.
Why? Why was it necessary to drive me to that? Why was it necessary to make me explode?
“Bien sur,” she said, “you must know how it feels; and you must know the cost. And now you have but two choices, n’est-ce pas? You may learn the control, not of your wizardry but of your passions, and then you may dwell in peace with your loved ones. Or, you may go dwell on the Edge of the Abyss, just you, seulement, and fling your passions out into the void when they grow too strong.” She shook her head. “Some have chosen that. L’École owns a place where such a one may live. I believe you and your Maximilian have passed by it in your travels. It is comfortable, though small. But it is no place to spend one’s youth or raise a child. Non, it is no solution for you.”
Before I left that day, I asked her, most plaintively,
“I must learn to control my passions, but must I still work on burning my name neatly into plaques of wood?”
She smiled for the first time. “Mais non! That has served its purpose. And should you ever wish to do such a thing, I believe you will find it helpful to write your name first, avec le stylo, to serve as a guide.”
I almost laughed. It was the first time since the explosion that I had felt so moved. “I am sure that is true,” I said.
I described this last exchange to Jérôme the next day. He had already apologized handsomely to me, with no fuss. Now he nodded gravely.
“One’s strength can be too great for the delicate work. For the rest of us the fine control is easier; and no one worries about us burning les cercles noir into the lawn. For you it will always be harder.” He shrugged. “Dans l’autre main, how often does one need to destroy a fleet of ships?”
When I mentioned this to Maximilian, he said, “That’s you, my darling wife. A regular bull in a china shop, learning to be the veriest calf.”
I tweaked his nose, and he said, “Now, now! Must keep your temper!” in his archest tones.
“I am certain that Dr. Laguerre would approve of me pushing you into a duck pond, provided I did not use magic to do it.”
“Would she? I believe I disagree. But I am certain there are no duck ponds on the grounds of L’École, for I should have seen them, and so I shall have no fear.”
Alas, he is correct on both counts—not that he has truly earned a ducking.
Your contemplative cousin,
Amelia
____
Photo by Jamieson Gordon on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 