The Crocus’ Stem • Cinnamon Hill, Thul Ka
Early Morning on the 24th of Bethas, 2720
T
he balcony was thick with greenery shivering in the morning breeze; it tugged at his shirtsleeves, whispered at his ankles and his bare feet. He looked back down at the letter in his lap, ashing his cigar and leaning heavily on the arm of the chair. He scratched his jaw; his lip twisted. He blinked, squinted through his glasses, until the words rearranged themselves.
He had dreamt of Mircalla, the night before. Not of either of the lasses. Of learned doctors, stiff-lipped Anaxi, with lives’ studies in the unrestful dead. Of long, wicked-sharp wooden stakes.
He knew he’d write before he left for Dkanat; that it would come spilling out of him this morning, with the paper on one knee and a dictionary spilling across the other, Mircalla open to the prologue on top, he hadn’t guessed. Something about the dreams. There’d been some knot in his stomach, some sense of urgency.
But he’d smiled writing it, though his hands were tired and the pen was hard to hold, though it was slow going. Now, just before the sun had spilled its heat proper over the rooftops, he looked down at the ink glistening and drying in the lamplight.
To the one and only Cerise Vauquelin, ensconced in the red brick towers of Brunnhold in the south of chilly Anaxas –
Upon a paper attached to the Narrative which follows, Incumbent Vauquelin has written a rather elaborate note, which he acompanies with a reference to his Essay on the strange subject which the missive illuminates… … … …
… …. .. (n so on)
The sun swelters. I shall be red and peeling. I sweat. I chrove about it.
Hows Anaxas?
My first days in Thul Ka have had me visiting Ire dzosat with a dear friend and scrambling round Cinamon Hill to beg tailors for anything that isn’t a three piece suit. All that security arranging with the hotel too. I’ll be gone across the desert tomorrow til the end of Bethas and I can’t tell you where until I see you in person. You know why. I hope you will come to see Thul Amat as it has some things I think will interest you.
I read the first few chapters of Mircalla on the air ship. I’m not the fastest reader of such like this but it was good reading for the cold air ship nights and I am damn sorry to leave it behind.
So she came to Elizabeth when she was a little child. She isn’t described cruel or ugly in the least. It’s all gentle and sad. “I don’t know which should be most afraid of the other.” I know how it ends but I don’t know how to feel. I know I can’t hope but I do. Elizabeth is lonely too.
Let me know how dueling is going + how you have felt about the books. Or what else you have been reading if not those.
He had paused before the end. Sincerely didn’t seem right, not here in the seat of honesty – though, he thought, sincerity was a mant sight different than honesty. Still, he didn’t much like it. Yours truly? Regards? They were all stock. There was another, but the thought of it made him antsy.
Instead,
With hope,
Your father
he balcony was thick with greenery shivering in the morning breeze; it tugged at his shirtsleeves, whispered at his ankles and his bare feet. He looked back down at the letter in his lap, ashing his cigar and leaning heavily on the arm of the chair. He scratched his jaw; his lip twisted. He blinked, squinted through his glasses, until the words rearranged themselves.
He had dreamt of Mircalla, the night before. Not of either of the lasses. Of learned doctors, stiff-lipped Anaxi, with lives’ studies in the unrestful dead. Of long, wicked-sharp wooden stakes.
He knew he’d write before he left for Dkanat; that it would come spilling out of him this morning, with the paper on one knee and a dictionary spilling across the other, Mircalla open to the prologue on top, he hadn’t guessed. Something about the dreams. There’d been some knot in his stomach, some sense of urgency.
But he’d smiled writing it, though his hands were tired and the pen was hard to hold, though it was slow going. Now, just before the sun had spilled its heat proper over the rooftops, he looked down at the ink glistening and drying in the lamplight.
To the one and only Cerise Vauquelin, ensconced in the red brick towers of Brunnhold in the south of chilly Anaxas –
Upon a paper attached to the Narrative which follows, Incumbent Vauquelin has written a rather elaborate note, which he acompanies with a reference to his Essay on the strange subject which the missive illuminates… … … …
… …. .. (n so on)
The sun swelters. I shall be red and peeling. I sweat. I chrove about it.
Hows Anaxas?
My first days in Thul Ka have had me visiting Ire dzosat with a dear friend and scrambling round Cinamon Hill to beg tailors for anything that isn’t a three piece suit. All that security arranging with the hotel too. I’ll be gone across the desert tomorrow til the end of Bethas and I can’t tell you where until I see you in person. You know why. I hope you will come to see Thul Amat as it has some things I think will interest you.
I read the first few chapters of Mircalla on the air ship. I’m not the fastest reader of such like this but it was good reading for the cold air ship nights and I am damn sorry to leave it behind.
So she came to Elizabeth when she was a little child. She isn’t described cruel or ugly in the least. It’s all gentle and sad. “I don’t know which should be most afraid of the other.” I know how it ends but I don’t know how to feel. I know I can’t hope but I do. Elizabeth is lonely too.
Let me know how dueling is going + how you have felt about the books. Or what else you have been reading if not those.
He had paused before the end. Sincerely didn’t seem right, not here in the seat of honesty – though, he thought, sincerity was a mant sight different than honesty. Still, he didn’t much like it. Yours truly? Regards? They were all stock. There was another, but the thought of it made him antsy.
Instead,
With hope,
Your father
