Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.

14 December 1020, L’École du Sorciers

My dearest cousin Armand,

You have a new cousin, once removed. We have named her Jane, for your mother and for my dear sister-in-law. She is pink and fat and bald, and she cries like the daughter of a follower of the Fleuve de Johannes. This does not surprise my mother in the slightest.

Beautiful Jane was born on the 2nd of December, at about two in the morning. I thought it an ill-omened hour at the time, and so it has proved to be, for I am more familiar with the small hours than ever—though as a father I presume you are no more surprised at this than my mother was at Jane’s noisiness.

You will perhaps be pleased to learn that we had her baptized in the Old Religion, and that I myself have “crossed over,” as they say, with Maximilian’s permission; for without the assistance of Père Martin and my time spent in front of the tabernacle at all hours I do not think I should be safe with my own child. I do not wish to sound like an enthusiast, but there is a peace there that keeps me balanced.

I have not spoken much of my progress in “keeping my temper” since the conflagration in June. (The spot outside Dr. Laguerre’s cottage is still black, though now it is covered in snow.) I have made progress, but as my progress has been blessedly free of fiery events there has been little of interest to tell.

Each since June I have resolved, with the Lord’s help, to think before I speak, to act only with deliberation, and to never, ever, encourage myself to grow angry.

I have sometimes had to resolve this seven or eight times a day.

You see, it is not enough to restrain my irritation, my impatience, my pettishness; I must learn control in all things, so that it becomes second nature. This is to say: if I push a man into a duck pond in future, it must be a deliberate, well-considered act, undertaken with all due concern for the consequences, in the coldest of blood, and with the certainty that it is the proper course of action.

Which, of course, it would be.

Maximilian is not entirely comfortable with the change in my demeanor, for he likes me light and sparkling; and I do hope I shall one day learn to be light and sparkling as heretofore while maintaining a due deliberation within. As you can see, Jane and I will be taking our baby steps together.

My mother and father have been with us in Toulouse this past week. I do believe Mama had Papa on a packet within minutes of receiving Maximilian’s note—for today is the first day since Jane came to us that I have felt awake enough to put pen to paper. They are not staying at L’École, of course, but we have met with the pair of them frequently in a snug room in the porter’s lodge that is available for such visits; for L’École is very like a monastery, you know, and it is rare for visitors to be admitted into the grounds. Maximilian’s presence is a singular privilege.

Papa was distressed to learn that little Jane and I had “crossed over”. I am not sure whether his dismay was solely on religious grounds, or if he simply fears that his granddaughter will grow up to consider herself Provençese rather than Cumbrian. He was taken aback, I fear, when I explained that if I had not “crossed over,” he and Mama might be raising little Jane on their own for it would not be safe to have her with me.

There is a coal fire in the small visitation room, and it was burning cheerfully; and having explained all this I carefully and deliberately, with all due control, allowed the fire to rise in my eyes. I waved a finger—I could not spare more than a finger, for I was holding Jane in my arms—and the coals in the fire collapsed into ash. When the wave of warmth had subsided I let my internal fire recede with it.

“You see?” I said. “I cannot allow that to happen thoughtlessly. Or, say, in the middle of the room.”

Papa grimaced at the thought. “But the Old Religion…” he said, sadly.

I shrugged in a most Provençese way, which I am afraid did not comfort him in the slightest. “Here He has led me,” I said. “I can but follow.” And with that Dear Papa has had to satisfy himself.

I should say a few words about events here in Toulouse, for I am sure you are curious. The assembly of worthy men called by King Charles continues to meet, and has expanded to include men from every district of Provençe; and to everyone’s surprise, Charles is still presiding. They are, it is said, hammering out an agreement for how Provençe is to be governed; and Charles’ constant refrain, I hear, is “No, no, no. That is good for the nobles, but how is it good for the people of Provençe as a whole?” For “nobles” you may substitute “merchants” or “farmers” or “tradesmen” or what have you.

It has not gone unnoticed that Charles has never once asked, “But how is that good for the monarchy?”

There is a provisional government of course, and a new city guard, mostly drawn from those ex-soldiers who were on the barricade, to keep peace here in Toulouse; and it seems that Charles is keeping as close an eye as he can spare on the magistrates and their decisions, at least here in the city.

I must go—Jane has decided that I have written enough.

Your increasingly deliberate (but no longer increasing) cousin,

Amelia

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