Ella Claire Gainsborough {Beauty} (bookshelved) wrote in bellumletale, @ 2010-01-26 17:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | beast, beauty |
[Sent immediately after Bellum Black]
The package is in plain brown wrapping, as per usual, but it isn't a normal book (Inside | Front | Back) Inside, there's a letter in Ella's normal handwriting, the same script as in the note left with the tea given to Rosalie during the blackout (Directions and The Apology by Ralph Waldo Emerson) and the directions and poems on the box of bottles delivered to Daniel previously. The Return address is listed as Gainsborough, E.C. - Bellum Letale.
Daniel, I have not heard back from you, but I hope this letter finds you well, and I hope the items I sent you helped in some little way. Mr. Quinn assures me that you are in the prime of health, and I shall have to take his word for it, as I have nothing contrary to compare the information to. You should be receiving a letter soon from another copy editor, a Mr. Stevens, who is thought to be more persuasive than I. I find him to be heavy handed with his compliments and too kind in his critiques. I asked you once if you thought I was too nosy. You agreed that I was, but claimed that I pulled it off somehow. I'm afraid my winning streak in that department has finally come to a brilliant end. You see, much like Alice, I found a rabbit hole in my apartment. (Before you ask, I have taken no hallucinogenics). I encountered a literary version of bottles that said Eat Me and Drink Me, and though I knew I shouldn't, I did. In the end, I found the White Rabbit was quite dead, and I was so very sorry for it. I took one of the literary bottles as a keepsake, and I left payment (along with a memorial of sorts) for the Mad Hatter in the rabbit hole, should he arrive and require it. I left the rabbit hole and returned to Dinah and mother. As fate would have it, the White Rabbit returned, alive and well, and he feels betrayed in ways I completely understand. The harmlessness of my motives doesn't change the fact that I trespassed on secrets he didn't willingly share, and could I take it back, I would. However, I cannot, no matter how I will it into being. He shall never forgive me. You must wonder why I am baring my soul to you like this? Simply put, I didn't want our communication to end with you angry with me for poking at wounds that were not mine to poke. I do not retract anything said, because all of it is my truth, but it is mine alone - you did not ask me for it. I need to learn to curb my nosiness as well as my opinionatedness, I fear. Is it too late to learn, do you think? You are a brilliantly talented author, and should you wish to reply, I welcome it. I hope you do not think my interest in you was due only to our working collaboration - on my part, at least, it was not. Claire, who hopes you do not think too badly of her, despite your continued silence. P.S. It feels wrong to send you a letter that does not mention elderly spinsters in it, so consider the mention fulfilled in this post-script. P.S.S. There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends. (Shel Silverstein) |