The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords, Old Rose Harbor
Aremu was not in the habit of wasting paper; he wrote his drafts in his mind, if he felt he needed them, wrote and rewrote. Once the words emerged from his pen and took shape, he kept them; he did not try to double back again. Sometimes he wrote in shifts, in stages; sometimes the letter would come carefully pouring out. Only when writing in code did he ever blot out and begin again, and then only when the code demanded it.
This was not a coded letter; it should, he thought ruefully, have been rather straightforward. The first two words had been something of a commitment; he had spent rather too much time today thinking about whether or not to write, and he had hoped that by putting them down, he would commit himself.
Aremu glanced at the small plate on his desk, the three cookies left remaining, with their browned spots, the cracks through them, and the little dollop of jam in the center. He looked back down at the paper, and set back to his words.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I doubt you expect to hear from me, and can only hope you do not mind.
I write to tell you of some experiments I have done and to ask your help. I have found myself with some unexpected time and an oven, and in an idle moment tried to recreate the cookies which you had gifted me. (I enjoyed them very much). After some trial and error, I have made a serviceable result, but they are cracked on the sides, and there is a bit of greasiness to them. This is better than my earliest efforts, which spread out into a thin, strange cracker. I note this to tell you that I am not, I think, an entirely hopeless case.
The addition of cinnamon to the batter has proved very pleasing; I prefer these cookies to those which are available here in the Rose, even though they are lacking in other ways. If it is not too much to ask, your guidance in the improvement of my efforts would be much appreciated.
With best regards,
Aremu
Aremu sat back; he winced, shifting, feeling the stitches pulling at his side. He closed his eyes for a long moment, looking down at the paper on his desk. The imbala took a deep breath, and left the letter to dry, rising carefully. He would, he promised himself, mail it that day to the care of Professor Harper, with the envelope for Aurelie enclosed inside.
If she did not respond, Aremu thought, he would understand; he couldn’t quite have explained why it was he wished to write her, why it was he had been so determined that he had written those first two words. He took the pen in his hand once more, bending carefully over with a quiet grunt at the ache in his side, settling the tip to the paper, and hesitated. It would be easy to add a postscript – a careful note, telling Aurelie that she did not need to respond, or that he was sorry for disturbing her in this way, if she did not wish to…
After a moment, carefully, Aremu laid the pen down.
Instead, he took a cookie from his plate, and took a bite of it as he left the room, palm tilted to catch the crumbs. He chewed, carefully, and grimaced faintly, and kept about his day.