Have you ever wondered why sometimes I don't like you? You must have noticed, and if you haven't Cassie may have pointed it out to you, because Cassie is so good at noticing things, especially when it's among people she cares about. And it does no good to pretend these sorts of things don't happen, does it? One can sometimes rather dislike the man in the life of one's dearest friend and relative, while still noticing that that they somehow, quite mysteriously manage to rub along rather well together, can't one?
But that's neither here nor there. The question is whether you've noticed, and even if you haven't, I think you've probably got the point by now that it is in fact the case that sometimes I rather dislike you. (But don't worry, it's not all the time. Only sometimes. Like now!) And if you're wondering why, this is it. That letter! What kind of a letter is that? First you say Cassie is ill, and then you don't say anything about how ill she is or what kind of illness it is or anything at all except that she's staying in bed and resting and can't even dictate a full letter, which I wouldn't think would take any effort at all really, and I wish I had someone to dictate my letters to, though I suppose I could try the house elf. I hesitate to think what would happen to my correspondence if I did, but I suppose I could try.
But I can't tell if it's you or Cassie telling me not to come (not that I'd listen to either of you if it wasn't for Sam still being missing and I feel it's my duty to track him down no matter how long it takes). But if this lasts any longer than a day or two, of course I'll come. As if I'd let my dearest friend and relative be seriously ill in London and stay here, no matter what was going on here. (And not that it matters (you are rather easily distracted, aren't you?), but I happen to own a country house. It may possibly qualify as a stately home, but only if you stretch things a little. It's definitely not a castle. That would be quite dreary, don't you think? All that stone, so cold.)
But returning to the subject at hand, which is your excessively dreadful letter, after failing to tell me anything pertinent about Cassie, you then write on and on about a friend of yours, as if I care about men when my dearest Cassie is ill.
Oh dear. I suppose if you think it's a bad idea (and you're there and I'm not, more's the pity) I won't write her (are you jealous? please don't be so silly, I swear, men) But I do expect you to write back with more details. Please? I won't come right away, but you can't think how awful it is being stuck here with people disappearing all round me and then getting ill in London and I can't believe Cassie is ill. She's never ill. Not even when I had mono for months when we were young and she was right there in the same house and never got a thing except for a fever for one evening. And she's so strong, and she always knows what to do. She can't really be ill, can she?