Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
16 March 1021, L’École du Sorciers
My dearest cousin Armand,
Mama and Papa’s wish has been granted. We now have a wet-nurse, her name is Margaux, and if her provenance is something of a mystery I hope I shall be delighted to have her.
A mystery! you say. Yes, indeed it is so.
The first I knew of it was late yesterday afternoon. I was in our quarters, sitting by the window with little Jane in my arms, and looked up to see Maximilian standing by the door; and beside him a short, dark woman I had never seen before. She stood with downcast eyes, but I could easily see the signs of great sorrow and fatigue; and signs of worse than that for someone had blackened her left eye.
“This is Margaux,” he said. “If you agree, she will move into the chamber next door and be a wet-nurse for Jane. She has recently lost her own child, and needs a new position.”
I raised an eyebrow, for her countenance and dress inspired pity rather than confidence. “And Dr. Guisman has agreed to this?” I said at last.
“I have already arranged matters with Dr. Guisman,” he said. “He has interviewed her himself, and is willing that she should join the staff here indefinitely.”
That cast the affair in a different light.
I questioned her briefly, as any young mother would, but I found had little difficulty reading Max’s tight-lipped expression. Doubtless this Margaux had been in the employ of the Embassy, and now needed to disappear for her own safety; and doubtless the latter, and likely the loss of her child, stemmed from the former.
A servant came then to show Margaux the ways of L’École; and before they left on this errand I showed her the chamber next door, empty since King Charles decamped last fall. “Please, take your rest tonight,” I said, for she was swaying on her feet. “It is time enough for you to take up your duties in the morning.”
“Merci, madame,” she said, and followed the servant away.
After she had gone, I braced Maximilian; and though he refused to give me details, he said enough to verify my conjectures. Not to mince words, Margaux had been part of Alec Gainsborough’s information network; and her man—for he was not her husband, she is unmarried—had learned of this and responded violently.
“I can see that Cumbria must offer her succor,” I said. “But how did you persuade Dr. Guisman to take her on?”
Max shrugged in the most Provençese way; I do believe he practices it in the mirror when I am out of the room. “Jane needs a nurse so that you can continue your studies. Margaux is Provençese, and will do very well here at L’École when you have no more need of her; and she brings no child with her. It is as simple as that.”
I have my reservations. Margaux is in need, and my heart goes out to her; but one doesn’t know whether she can truly care for an infant. Still, she is here, and will be under my eye; and between the two of us I suppose we can work things out.
I have continued my reading of Florissant, and by the diligent creation of word lists I am coming to be able to read some of the text in Old Provençese. The grammar is odd, and amusingly stilted in translation; but it is reasonably regular when compared to Cumbrian. My chief difficulty now is the declensions of the nouns. I had read of such things but had never met them until now; and having met them I quite understand why Cumbrian and Provençese both lack them.
Still, I am making progress; Dr. L’Auberge says that in another month he shall start me on another text, one possibly more helpful to my search. I wonder where I shall find room to keep it. The shelf over my desk—for all chambers at L’École are equipped with desks and shelving—is beginning to appear overstuffed, occupied as it is with texts on Provençese and Cumbrian wizardry, Provençese and Old Provençese grammars and lexicons, and, of course, Florissant. The novels that Maximilian reads to us of an evening have perforce been stacked on the floor.
Your possibly soon to be better rested cousin,
Amelia
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Photo by Micaela Parente on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 