Dear Jo—
Of course I love you. How could I not love you.
I am not angry. I am
disappointed
I do not like this pen that I have borrowed from Sam, whom you do not know, whose family name I do not recall at the moment. She is a perfectly pleasant enough person who has been assigned by whom I’m not entirely certain to assist me with a thoroughly unnecessary process that has been imposed without my assent or, frankly, understanding, but that is neither here nor there, at the moment, this pen, this pen this blaste
THIS PEN
will always turn of a sudden in my fingers and decide quite suddenly to scrath scratchily impede the flow of its ink
It is frustrating.
I sit here.
I sit here, writing, I am writing, to you, with a borrowed pen on a stolen pad, outdoors, in a park, and the sun is shining, the air is pleasantly hot, I am neither hungry, nor especially thirsty, and I slept very well last night indeed, and yet. I took this pad of paper and Sam’s disappointing pen and came out here because I was suddenly seized by the desire to write, to you, but now that I am here and doing precisely that, I find I do not want to write, to you: I want to speak with you, to laugh with you, even to argue and fight with you, I want to seize your hand in my own and draw you close, I want to kiss your cheek even as you turn away, embarrassed, I want you to put your arms about me
I want you to hold me
I want to wake from sleeping very well indeed and hear and feel your sleeping, dreaming breath beside me, and all I have is this paper and this pen. Nor did I not bring the letter you wrote, and oh my heart I thank you so much for even such a meagre scrap of you, that I did not bring with me on this utterly unnecessary errand, and so I do not have it with me now, to read, once more, in the sun. I shall answer my memory of your questions, instead.
How did the Mason Luys become King?
I want to say
accidentally
but that would be rude.
I’m not, I admit, entirely familiar with the details: I was not there. No one I might speak with was there. Agravante; Pyrocles, the Anvil; Luys, of course
but also that, that thing, that pretended to be Pinabel, and
and Annisa
O you supernumerary princess! Imported from the Court of Engines at great cost to, well. Replace me. I gather she had encountered some difficulty and Luys, gallant that he is, stepped up to assist, and somehow in so doing did quicken her, and in that process somehow harmed, or burnt, his hand. Details, as I said. As I have written. —It was not an especially fecund affair, and her subsequent attempts have been thin, at best: they yet ration out portions from what they stole from me
from us
It feels almost wicked to be writing this down. As if I ought to use a cipher, or dip my pen in lemon juice, so that you must hold a seemingly empty page over a candle-flame to reveal my hidden truths, but why would I, why should I bother? What I write is only what everyone already knows, though they may well be more circumspect: they would not say so, to me, but they speak of it, I am certain, with each other. The Queen is not the Queen. Annisa Engineer, so far from home, with no Gammer and no Bride, given the hive and hailed as the Rose, yet fails in her most fundamental royal duty. And I, who am no more Queen, yet still manage to
I have now returned to what now must pass for my home. I have a new pen, as you might see. I must remember not to lose that other pen; I should return it, however dispensable it may seem. I have divested myself of the day’s ridiculous indulgence
She offered, did Sam, to lend me appropriate clothing for today’s utterly unnecessary errand, which despite her kind and generous intent did greatly annoy me. I was once a Queen beneath the stars above! The most spectacular outfits were made for me at a moment’s notice. And might yet be, again, as it turns out. I commissioned a most elaborate ensemble! You would have laughed to see it. You would have laughed at me. You would have told me me to take it off and I might even have listened to you, but you are not here, and so I could not. It was ridiculous and it was uncomfortable and I looked fantastic
It might not have been quite the thing for the errand of the day, but it did feel good to put in the effort, I must say. I must say, because I must admit: of late, it has been
I have not
Your Shrieve
—I am not changing the topic, bear with me—
Bruno has with my assent made what use he can of those of my formerly royal coffers he might access, as well I must admit, as the proceeds of your ducal portfolio, I did not think you would mind, as it is all in support of what has become of
no, no, I should be, I must be fair
what Gloria Monday has made
of what was once my palace
my house
she has
It is a good thing she has done, and a vital and even a necessary thing, to help and support those who need help and support, and Shrieve Bruno has put our monies to work, purchasing among many, many other items an assortment in bulk of sturdy white undershirts, which have been given out to any and all who might be in need of them, because when you have nothing it turns out one of the first things you most appreciate is clothing, clean clothing. These days, most days, I make do with precisely one of those. They are comfortable, and warm enough for the season, and terribly convenient, if not terribly flattering.
I find I cannot abide shoes.
I have your letter before me, now. You asked about our King; I have answered. I have not had a chance to speak with Bruno since you’ve written, though I’ve told you what he’s been about; I doubt you would wish me to delay this reply merely in order to fulfill that one request. Marfisa
Marfisa spends her days working with a professor from the city’s university to catalog the myriad books that fill this tiny apartment to overflowing. She grows quite perturbed if ever I sit down to read even just one. I disturb the books, she says. I alter their situation and position, their, I suppose, posture. Books must be read, but what she wants her professor to read I suppose is the relationships these books all have, have had, with each other, to better understand the woman who kept them, the author, Abby Tinker, who is gone.
Still. I cannot see the harm in taking up this one, or that, from time to time, just to read them. So long as they’re put back.
It is Friday night. Tomorrow, or Sunday, I will go to our old rooms on Hawthorne, to see what might be made of them. You asked me, when you returned from that awful trip you took with my brother, you asked what color the building had been painted. When next I write you, then, I will tell you the color of it now.
Though I would much prefer to show you. How much better it would be for you to take my hand tomorrow, to catch a bus together, to go and see it for ourselves.
how I do miss you
