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comfy-whumpee · 1 year

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Love Lets Go

The Birdhouse has occasional group therapy. CN: BBU, alcohol.

@neuro-whump, @rosesareviolentlyread, @whumper-in-training, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpsday, @firewheeesky, @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question, @highwaywhump

“Let’s talk,” Miss Kaur said, “about what love is.”

Avis sat on the edge of the windowsill in the living room. Beside her on the loveseat were Florence and Kamala, inseparable as usual. On the left, in the armchair by the old fireplace, Boo curled up with no apparent interest in the conversation around them. Against the opposite wall was the doorway to the dining room, and the dining chair that Miss Kaur had brought in for herself. Finally, rounding out the ring, was the green sofa with Tenten and Roman at opposite ends, sat in their identical straight-backed, hands-folded pose that was a mark of their similar training.

Group conversations were a new thing. It wasn’t strictly therapy for them, but it was a way to open topics of discussion and build connections in the group, as well as a way for them to learn from each other. They were trying it out to see who benefitted, who got nothing from it, and whether anyone would react negatively. Avis was mainly hopeful that being present would help Boo, even if they still refused to respond to anything around them.

They had picked a broad theme for the first attempt. One relevant for all involved, as best they knew. After the question, there was a long pause. They all had ideas to think through before daring to say them aloud.

Avis waited in silence for Kamala to speak. It was always Kamala. She couldn’t stand awkward moments like this. Her smile was kind and gentle. “Love is a strong feeling of care for others,” she answered. Avis would have bet money that it was the definition listed in the dictionary in the study.

Kamala didn’t seem to know how obvious it was that she often recited answers that she thought were correct, rather than give her own feelings. She also didn’t seem to realise how impressive it was that she could remember so many passages word for word.

“Love is being inc-cc-cluded in things,” Tenten offered after another hesitation. Avis thought of his occasional presence at other people’s activities. If they needed a second participant, Tenten was always willing. Perhaps that was love, to him.

The silence dragged on. Miss Kaur eventually broke it, looking at the others. “Does anyone else have any initial ideas?”

Roman stared at his feet. Boo stared into space. Florence was the one who spoke. “Love is when someone looks after you.”

Better than expected, Avis thought with relief, relaxing slightly.

“Thank you for sharing, Florence. Would you like to contribute, Roman?”

Roman glanced up, startled. His voice was whisper-soft. “Love is wanting something even if you try not to.”

Avis watched as Miss Kaur absorbed that response, nothing but the slight pause before her reply to give it away. “Thank you, Roman. Could you tell me something you love?”

“Attention,” Roman answered promptly.

“Beauty,” Florence supplied, sensing that the question was coming to the rest of them.

“Making other people happy,” Kamala put in.

There was a pause. Florence looked at Tenten while everyone else pretended not to.

He shifted in his seat, only a slight turn of his hips to give away his discomfort even as he held still in the formal sitting pose, the rest of his tics vanished under his focus. “I love - this house,” he said, looking at Miss Kaur and nobody else. “It-t’s old and has winding hallways and exp-posed beams. Everyone gets their own room and they’re all, all different. It, it-t has a range in the kk-kitchen and a fireplace in here, so it’s always warm.” He stopped, hearing himself talk, and scratched his cheek. “I’ve been um, been wanting t-to say that for a while,” he admitted.

Miss Kaur was smiling. “Thank you, Tenten, for sharing that. I liked hearing your reasons.”

Tenten smiled back, pleased at the praise.

Then, the seconds began to pass again.

Roman was checked out, staring at the floor with distant eyes. Attention was decidedly not something Roman sought in the shelter, but perhaps he was different before. Or perhaps he was told that he was, and believed it now.

Florence was playing with the hem of their skirt, drawing repeated attention to their bare thighs through the slight movements of their hands. The question had brought something up for them, too. Beauty and its form were always difficult for them to parse.

Reliably, Kamala spoke up. “I like this house too, but people are more important to me. I’m happy if I can make someone else happy.” She gave a picture-perfect Platonic smile. “And I want everyone to be well, of course.”

“Can you give us your reason for that, Kamala?” Miss Kaur suggested.

Kamala froze, briefly, subtly. It wasn’t an answer she had prepared, it seemed. “Well, that’s - that’s obvious.”

Avis knew the line. Platonic caretakers find nothing more fulfilling than being the best partner to their owner, and answering their needs with diligence and perfectionism.

“If people are happy I can feel happy too. It’s nice to know you helped someone.”

Tenten nodded in agreement.

Boo sat on the armchair, looking between them all without a twitch of an expression to show their thoughts. But at least they seemed to be following the talk, now.

“What do we think about the idea of self-love?” Miss Kaur said, when it became clear that the group had nothing else to add. “Roman,” she called his attention back, “I’d like you to start. What is your view on self-love?”

“Um,” Roman said, eyes skittering away. He wasn’t fully present, still. Some thought was catching at him. “Self-love is when you love yourself?”

“Yes,” Miss Kaur agreed, despite the non-answer. “What might that look like, to love yourself?”

There was a significant silence.

“I’d like us to think about what Kamala said,” Miss Kaur suggested, steering the ship back on course again. “Kamala said, and forgive me for paraphrasing here Kamala, that she loves people, and she especially loves looking after people and helping them. When you said that, Kamala, were you including the people in this room?”

Earnestly, Kamala nodded.

“I’ve had conversations with some of you about seeing yourselves as people. We have worked on that knowledge, that to survive the pet industry doesn’t mean you are no longer people. This means we are, according to Kamala’s principles, deserving of love, help and kindness.” She glanced at the woman in question, who looked alarmed by being used as an example. “That includes Kamala herself.”

The clock in the kitchen was audible through the doorway. Nobody else even moved. It was difficult for them all to think through this barrier, especially when she tied it to ideas of worth and support.

“We all have an idea of love,” Sunita said quietly, with the warmth she felt for this group suffusing her tone. “What we lack, and this is common of most people, is the ability to apply that knowledge to ourselves. When we love ourselves, we learn how to treat ourselves fairly. We learn how to make compromises and how to assert boundaries. We negotiate all of those things with ourselves, and it’s not necessary for us to do that before bonding with others, but it is invaluable practice for forming sustainable relationships in the long-term.”

Kamala nodded, because she thought she was supposed to. Florence looked lost.

“Only you can be your worst enemy, and only you can be your best friend,” Sunita summarised. “Learn how you like to be treated. Then you can teach those around you. Let’s take a pause now for reflection. Take yourselves off to wherever you’d like to be, and think, write or talk aloud through your thoughts. We’ll come back in half an hour.”

Florence sat doodling shapes on a piece of paper they’d found, with a stubby pencil Avis left in the kitchen for writing the shopping list. They were drawing hearts, one of the few symbols they knew. Hearts meant love. It seemed relevant.

It was a strange conversation they were having today. Loving others was easy for Florence; they had been made to, and the way that their love had changed hands was important to them finding their place.

They were made to give, not to keep. But they wondered if they could.

Could you love yourself without being able to see yourself?

It was too far to go up to their room. They could have gone up, and nobody would have said anything, but if they missed too much therapy, Avis would get involved.

They stayed in the armchair, staring at the emptied room as if nothing about it had changed. Their voice was miles away at the best of times, but today it may as well be on another continent.

No matter what they learned from Sunita Kaur, they didn’t know how to live differently. They would only learn everything that they lacked.

Kamala waited patiently to be allowed back into the therapy room, iPad on her lap. She had a comic book open, but between pages, when she could sneak glances, she was trying to find some information about the therapeutic conversation they were having together. Normally, Mrs Sunita followed a treatment plan or template exercise that meant Kamala could find all she needed, given enough time.

Searching what is love led to nothing useful. It was too common a question. She read some articles, but they all seemed vague and at times, in disagreement about what it was.

Still, she knew from Mrs Kaur’s expression that she had said some things right. There had been approving looks, and she had used Kamala’s words to explain something. So she was doing well.

She could be good. Good pet, good friend, and good at therapy.

The bathroom was quiet and private. Tenten liked bathrooms. They were designed to be easy to clean, and they were the only place nobody ever raised eyebrows when you locked the door. He could spend as long as he liked inside, and people would only give him vague, concerned questions about whether he was okay, without prying into specifics.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, resting his wrists on his knees. He breathed. He was doing well today, only his hand twisting erratically, everything else loose and behaving itself.

Mrs Kaur was asking hard questions.

He let the thought walk by. It wasn’t his place to try and predict what would happen, nor to practice what he would say. His job was to read and respond. Find what they want and provide it with the appearance of effortlessness. Mrs Kaur wanted his honest thoughts, and he could provide.

An arm goes around his shoulders and he doesn’t move. Carved from stone, he thinks to himself, as the lights of the television flicker over them both in the dim light. He doesn’t like that Tyler is tipsy. It makes him nervous, remembering the Christmas party last year where he got in a drunken fight with Phil. They were friends again the next morning, but it was still unnerving.

He has to be carved from stone. Unflinching, unfeeling.

But Tyler doesn’t hurt him. He just sits there, smelling of sweat and alcohol, watching the screen. They’ve gone to commercial, but Roman can’t leave now. He can’t pull away.

On the screen, two men are buying a house together, talking to a nice, smiley representative from a bank so they can get a mortgage.

“Are you gay?” Tyler asks abruptly.

It’s only after he’s processed the question that Roman realises that’s what the men on the screen are meant to be. His heart sinks. “I don’t…know,” he admits after a moment.

“Yeah, of course you don’t. You wouldn’t know unless you tried being with a guy, right?” Tyler’s voice is casual, but something shifts underneath, and Roman swallows. “You don’t remember anything, you wouldn’t know.”

“No,” Roman affirms, between numb lips. Dread is climbing up his throat with claws.

“Would you want to know? I mean, it’s not like you’re gonna date. But it’s – interesting, to know, right? It’d be good to know.”

Tyler still won’t look at him. Roman looks at his lap, feeling like the arm around him gets heavier every second, every breath, every word out of Tyler’s beer-stained mouth. “I don’t mind,” he whispers.

“’Course not,” Tyler agrees, except he doesn’t sound like he’s listening. “You don’t mind. You wouldn’t mind. And you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Roman opens his mouth to ask, tell anyone what?

“Half an hour is up, Florence.”

“Okay.”

They got up, leaving the scrap of paper behind. They returned to their seat, where Kamala had already returned on her own. Florence didn’t think Boo had moved.

Avis rapped on the bathroom door. “You ready, Tenten?”

“Yes, Avis.” The door opened. Neither of them commented on Tenten’s half-hour bathroom break. They both knew he’d needed the space.

With everyone else returned, Avis went looking in search of Roman, climbing the stairs. She had left him until last because she knew that, against her expectations, he had been hit the hardest by the conversation today. It would have, she hoped, a profound impact on everyone. But something had triggered for Roman, and she wasn’t yet sure what.

She didn’t find him in the bedroom. She checked the bathroom, and the music room. He wasn’t in any of them.

She circled the floor to the big window, but he wasn’t in it. She climbed to the third floor.

There, the library door was ajar.

The Birdhouse’s library was a long room with a wider bottom half, taking a chunk out of the third bathroom, which could afford the loss. It was lined down one wall with huge shelves, each one containing multitudes. There was fiction and non-fiction, sci-fi, fantasy, realistic stories, mysteries and thrillers and crime, fairy tales, myths, legends, poetry and drama, illustration and photography, craft books, art books, comic books, cookbooks, books on gardening, DIY, health and wellness.

On smaller shelves around the room were the personalised collections: Kamala’s riot of colour for all her Marvel needs; Florence’s photo collections from places across the globe and their easy reading novels; Tenten’s recipe books and the two history texts he had shyly asked for. Boo didn’t have anything on their shelf, but Avis knew they used the library sometimes, when nobody else did.

Roman was sitting in one of the eight armchairs scattered around the room. It was facing the window, but the curtains were closed from last night. He didn’t seem to be looking out of them.

Perhaps, Avis thought as she sniffed the papery air, this room was the most like an office.

She set herself down in the nearest armchair, nearly sinking into the plush fabric. “Hi, Roman.”

“Hi, Avis,” he said, his voice barely audible.

She sat for a minute, watching. He barely moved. He was sitting in the chair upright, feet on the floor, hands at his sides as though he’d forgotten to position them. His head was tilted down to place his gaze on the floor, but he wasn’t moving.

“I like this room,” Avis ventured after it became clear he had nothing to say. “I think it’s lovely. Things can get hectic with the others around and all the things to do, but your reading time in the library is always special. Peaceful.”

He didn’t unstick. She sensed that he wanted to, somewhere inside him he was straining to, but he wasn’t in control. He was being unobtrusive, that deadly word that both of her Help at Home rescues staked their lives on.

She rested her arms on one side of the chair, making sure she was as close to his direct line of sight as she could be. “I’m getting the sense that you’re paralysed right now, Roman. That’s okay. It’s not unusual to get stuck sometimes, when someone is faced with something that they can’t handle. They adapt, or they suffer through it. Often, they suffer in the same way as they have suffered other things before.”

Roman gave a slight nod, just enough to show he was paying attention. Was it genuine communication, or even a request for her to carry on? Or was it another trained motion? She wasn’t sure. He was still so new.

“This is because your brain learns how to survive. That’s like its superpower, like Ms Marvel. Have you seen Kamala’s comics?”

Another nod of five degrees.

“Your brain adapts. It learns what was safe and got you through a hard situation, and when you’re put under stress again, it uses that same technique. Sometimes, that technique is freezing.”

Sometimes, it was self-annihilation through service to others. Sometimes, it was emptying of thoughts and focusing only on sensory experiences free of trauma. Sometimes, it was becoming nothing at all.

Sometimes, though, it was talking. Sometimes, it was Tenten gripping his elbows and trying to explain where his head had gone, so he could find his way back.

Avis relaxed, reassured by the thought. If Tenten could do it, so could Roman. “Think about where you are, Roman. You’re in the library right now. You’re looking at the curtains. What colour are they?”

His lips moved, almost soundlessly. “Purple.”

“That’s right. A nice muted, dusky purple. What texture?”

“C-coarse. Sturdy.”

“Excellent. What about where you’re sitting?”

He looked down. It seemed as though he hadn’t seen the chair before. “C-Cream.”

Then his eyes went to her, and she waved. “Hi, Roman.”

He exhaled. She wondered how long he’d been holding that one lungful of air. “Hi, Avis.”

Mrs Kaur nodded. “I’ll talk through it with him in private next time I see him. I expected there might be some difficult moments, but I didn’t foresee Roman reacting so strongly. It sounds like he needed some help to come out of his memories, but he was able to go about the rest of his day normally.”

Avis felt tension drop away from her shoulders as Sunita laid it out so simply. “Yes. That’s true. How were the others after we left?”

Her words were edged with concern, which Sunita politely pretended not to notice. “Oh, fine. Boo listened, the others talked. They weren’t quite able to express things about themselves just yet, but we had a good moment where they offered love to each other, and saw it reflected back. I think that’s a very positive start.”

Avis chuckled softly to herself. “I can imagine. Kamala and Florence always have nice things to say about each other, and Tenten is nice about everyone.”

Sunita smiled, the coy smile of someone who has a surprise to reveal. “It was more than that, actually. Florence wanted to talk about Boo.”

Avis’s eyebrows rose.

“Apparently, Boo helped them on a bad night some weeks ago. They needed company, and help getting food. Boo provided. Florence, by their own admission, loves very easily and very loyally… But there seems to be a connection there.”

“That’s incredible.” Hope swelled in Avis’s chest as she tried to imagine Boo expressing feelings to Florence, even through pauses and movements. “That’s a big win from today,” she said.

“Exactly.”

“And what is love?” Dr Cerasale asked.

Her mouth hung open for a moment before she snapped it shut, folding her arms. Turn it back on her, would he? Typical. “Love is dedication, affection, patience and – and believing in them.”

The therapist nodded. “And how might you describe your love for yourself?”

Oh, doubly turning it back on her. He was good.

Avis shrugged. “I don’t love myself or hate myself. I am myself. I just am. All my love is for my – rescues. And my son.” She cut him a look as he stopped before he could get the first syllable of his next question out. “Those are the most important people to me.”

“Avis,” he said, almost warningly.

“I know what you’re going to say. I didn’t replace my missing boy with them. I would have ended up here eventually, even if Florence hadn’t found me. I had to help. Even if I couldn’t help him. I know grief plays a part in it, but I won’t listen to you making it sound like grief is the only reason I’m doing such a good thing.”

He didn’t interrupt when she paused, so she carried on.

“Besides, no matter my reason, they’re getting help. I’m far from perfect, but I can give them resources and equip them for their new lives as free people.”

“And how about when they fly the nest? How will you feel then?”

Avis was about to say fine, but a sudden grief knocked her thoughts clean off track, and the word was lost. She took a breath and she felt herself circling the whirlpool. She fell still.

Leaving the nest, letting them fly. Watching them soar. Seeing their plane disappear over the horizon, her baby leaving home for his first holiday without her.

Kids left home to find themselves, not lose themselves.

“I don’t know,” she said eventually. “We’ll see when the time comes.”

Cerasale hummed and nodded. “When the time comes for them to leave, as they all will.”

They might not, Avis thought to herself. Roman might not be able to cope with everyday living on his own. Tenten could always be vulnerable to exploitation. Kamala still recreated power dynamics that put her subservient to others. Boo was still mute. Florence was still barely literate.

“How does it feel, to think about that?” he probed gently. “Your rescues leaving the sanctuary?”

“Scary,” she said honestly. “Seeing them go. Not knowing what will happen to them, not being there if anything does.”

“Do you think that is likely?”

“Of course it is. Bad things happen to everyone, but ex-pets most of all. The survival rate in American shelters is horrifying.”

“Permit my ignorance, but is the situation here comparable to that of the USA?”

“Well, no. It’s better here, there aren’t WRU vans on every corner waiting to abduct them. They’re emancipated, they have distance, they have legal status. But it’s all in the data, and it’s bad. They’re gullible and overgenerous and don’t stand up for themselves. Letting them go isn’t just scary, it’s dangerous. Legitimately dangerous.”

“But people do it. In the USA, as well as here. Do they not?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course.” Avis frowns. “But my rescues are – the Birdhouse is for complex cases. Rescues who didn’t all want to be rescued, or rather, like, they wanted to be rescued but still want to be owned. Just in a different way. Rescues who wanted rescue, but wouldn’t have wanted it if their owners were different.”

Cerasale nods, letting that sit for a moment. She’s stated her case. Her argument is pretty sound. But she knows he’s not just going to let that pass.

“Again, correct me if I’m wrong. But I wonder if that description is accurate for all your rescues. You have often spoken, in admiration, of Tenten’s innate desire to be free. For example.”

“Tenten would have stayed with his family if they hadn’t made him wear a collar.”

He looks at her thoughtfully. She dodges his gaze.

“For a while, anyway,” she mutters. She knows she’s not being fair, and guilt prickles at her for fibbing about Tenten to get her therapist off her back. “He wanted to try living independently. If he can’t, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“Think of Tenten,” he suggests. He’s gentle, but firm. “He won’t be the only one, but perhaps he is the one you can see most clearly right now. He has many life skills, he is interested in learning and growing, he participates in therapy, and he wants this.”

She hugs her elbows, feeling chastised, the burn worse because she knows he’s right. She’s always known. Tenten will be the one who leaves first.

“It will be a scary, bittersweet day. But ultimately a happy one.” He checks the clock on the table to the side, angled so she can’t read it. “We’re about ready to wrap up. I want to pick this back up next week. How are you feeling?”

She thinks about it. It’s been a hell of a fucking week. They always are.

“I miss my son,” she says.

#bbu #whump #my fic #recovery whump #pet whump #the birdhouse #avis #roman #tenten #boo #kamala #florence #flawed caretaker #therapy #comfort #guilt #conditioning #deconditioning #tyler #alcohol

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free-for-all-fics · 15 days

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Part 4/7 💜📸📝

May 1936

Dearest Fanny,

Remember when I said I wanted to live like a cherry blossom? Cherry blossoms bloom within the grasp of death. With most flowers, the rot sets in…they fall… That’s the price of new life. Not cherry blossoms, though. They bloom beautiful, they fall beautiful. That’s how I want my life to be. To be beautiful and dignified for a fleeting moment simply by letting go of life. Daring to bloom knowing it won’t last, and so falling in vivid color. I wish I could live like that. I want to experience true beauty, if only for a moment.

I met someone who made me feel different. He showed me a whole new world, gave me hope. I honestly thought he could help me find a new me. I felt it with all my heart. But people didn’t understand us, didn’t want that from us. In the end, they took my hope from me. They took him away. People who can’t achieve beauty seek comfort in others. They fear anyone different. Hate them. Try to tear them down. I can’t take much more of this. Fanny, do you remember when we took apart all those abandoned mailboxes and birdhouses and built Bug Town? I first peered into Mr. Emory’s fascinating cases of beetles and butterflies at the age of six, in the company of Father. I recall my pity at each occupant, dead and pinned for display. It was no great leap to draw the same conclusion of ladies: similarly bound and trussed, pinned and contained, with the objective of being admired, in all their gaudy beauty. I’d go collect pill bugs and slugs and we’d put them in little houses, alive, and make up stories about their lives as we watched them until we got bored and released them back into the wild. Well, I went and set the whole thing back up. I even added new buildings. I just wish we could go back there. I wish I could keep building Bug Town with you. I wish you and I could run away together, Fanny. Just me and you... I just want to run to another place. A simpler, gentler place. A place of gentle pastels and beautiful, breathtaking, and perfect— Why do I feel like this? I’ve never felt like this before. It’s got to be because I lost that special person and the hope he gave me, right?

A long time ago, when I finally got to accept my feelings for Jim, I thought everything was going to change. But every day was still just like every day. He was still a drifter. I was still his friend. When you live in New York, people expect things to stay the same. If anything changed between us, it could ruin Jim and everything around him. So that’s how it went: Nothing changed when my whole world burned. I kept teling myself maybe after I got into college, I’d be able to express my feelings for him. I let the fire in my heart eat through my soul and body. I called myself a coward. But I chose to keep what little I had to enjoy. I was a poor kid crawled up in bed. Poor? Do I really deserve that charity title? Am I really the victim of all of this? Finding myself is the key to finding others, to realizing that I can form real bonds, that I can end loneliness and embrace a better future. Seeking a connection with others is a sign of weakness. It’s running away. The strongest animals don’t form groups; they act alone, and need only themselves to survive. Those who betray themselves to fit into a group are pathetic. There’s no beauty in living like that. But... I don’t really mind. I just want someone to understand me… For those I love, and for those who love me… I want to keep moving forward…and never look back... I wouldn’t go back, to the way my life was before. No. No, I can never go back to that again. Remember the time when I said that I don’t want to be trapped anymore? I think I’ve finally found a way to escape. You’re probably thinking, “Nothing too drastic, I hope.” It is drastic. There’s no going back once I’ve done it, but that's what I want. No going back. So I won’t. I’m far nicer than I was before I went to Cascade, you know. Running away is running a way, running a path both from and toward. It is all a matter of perspective.

Fundamentally, some people, like Mother, misunderstand the desire to escape the flesh. It’s not about escaping decay, or that the heart or the brain is less mutable than the flesh (foolish). It’s about the changeability! It’s about customization! It’s about being able to open yourself up to new things and swap parts around! This was what my spirit longed to do, to wander in strange lands. It couldn’t stand being trapped in one body all the time. It had wanderlust. I get butterflies every time I wander beautiful places I’ve never been. Dr. Jaquith once described me as a butterfly. ‘You are like a butterfly, beautiful to look at but hard to catch,” he said, “yet in that utilitarian life a butterfly of the soul dies, for we need the sweet nectar of the flowers and the warm rays of the sun. The sweet words, the laughter, the silliness and the spontaneous hugs are as needed as the air we breathe.” The sad thing is, I think cold types like Mother need it too, that’s why they seek us and cling to our warmth until our fire is extinguished. “If travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. A person susceptible to wanderlust is not so much addicted to movement as committed to transformation.” I am ready to transform, Fanny. These brick walls have been my cocoon for the years I needed their sanctuary, and I thank them. My eyes wander their rugged clay surface, their rosy color bright yet earthen. My hands feel the warmth of sun, imparted to them yet given back with a steady determination. Leaving home was never going to be easy, but it is part of growing, of moving onward into new challenges. It is so very bittersweet.

Luggage, to pack at this time, is bitter and sweet. Yet it is as the striking clock, hands move onward. When the time of change comes I can only embrace it and make the best of what comes next. Now that time has come again. It brings a sense of rebirth, of the coming of new adventures. It’s not even about wanting something badly, it’s wanting it more than death. It’s dying for something and being reborn. It is as if my heart and soul have climbed into their own luggage and buckled in as happy passengers. There is a time to stay. There is a time to go. I believe I am close to the latter. At a certain point I need to go wandering. My feet need to hit earth, again and again, that bone-filling drumbeat. I need the sky’s colored threads to tangle inside me, pull me somewhere new. Everything I was I carry with me, and everything I will be lies waiting on the road ahead. The road doesn’t rise and the road doesn’t sink, it’s me that does the walking. Every day it’s right there and I can ride it anywhere or sit here on this curb.

I’m leaving, Fanny. I’m sorry but I can’t stay. Sir John Talbot and I have broken our engagement. I wanted it to work, not for Mother’s sake, but for John’s. And, if I was older, maybe I could have made it. But I still have my youth and I can’t throw that away on him. I’m not the right woman for him, and he’s not the right man for me. It was a mutual decision, and came as a surprise to neither of us. We parted amicably, and promised that we’d still be friends and keep in touch. I’m relieved and very glad to know our friendship won’t suffer and that, despite our broken engagement, we haven’t truly fallen out. It feels like a weight off our shoulders, like the stars have aligned and the world has shifted back into place.

Now that things are going back to the way they were between us, I no longer feel dizzy and disoriented, like I’m living outside of my body. But something’s changed, in a good way. I can’t explain or describe it, but I can feel it. I hope John can feel it too. He’s a good man with an even better heart, but it still belongs to his wife. He’s so very lucky to have loved and been loved in return, to have his heart held by a woman who could really cherish it and keep it safe. True love stories don’t end in a wedding, Fanny, they end in a funeral. He had his love story and it had a happy ending, for a time. And isn’t he the lucky one? It is better to have loved and lost, than to not have loved at all. I don’t know if he’ll ever find another woman to love him, if he’ll ever make room in his heart for her in that way, but I wish him every happiness.

I’m so sorry, Fanny. I do love you, you know. It’ll be hard to go, to let you go, my last link with home. I know that I leave many things behind, but it is time to go towards a new beginning and go in search of my destiny. I don’t know what I’m going to find, but I’m sure it will be wonderful. Being the person I am, and feeling the way that I do, getting excited about going somewhere new can be terrifying. Of course it is, I get it! As much as I had always longed to be freed of my duties and obligations, being released from such bonds was as much a severing as an emancipation. Emancipation resulting in madness. Unlimited freedom to choose and play a tremendous variety of roles with a lot of coarse energy. I might be afraid of damn near everything at first, but I refuse to let it paralyze me. I won’t be the woman who cowers behind four walls, never taking chances. I am a world of uncertainties disguised as a girl, and I want to die like I’ve lived. I always wanted to be larger than life. If I don’t travel, I’ll regret it. My soul will forever be empty. Still, it’ll be scary and lonely…and half the time I’ll be wondering why the hell I’m in Cincinnati or Hungary or North Dakota or Mongolia or wherever my ambition takes me.

There will be boondoggles and discombobulated days, freaked-out nights and metaphorical flat tires. In the first few seconds an aching sadness will wrench my heart, and I know I shall be homesick for you…but it will soon give way to a feeling of sweet disquiet, the excitement of wanderlust. Still, living in this moment I realize that it is a transition that will live with me all my days. Yet I take these emotions with me, these memories of comfort and joy. I see the places we did hopscotch as kids, throwing down them stones, leaping in time to our rhymes. I see the road in the right here and now, these shoes feeling how the sidewalk pushes back softly, always supporting, never asking. And in that moment I hear it calling with its sweet song of other places, all of them connected by the breathing land that runs under that tarmac, under oceans and mountains. That’s how I know I’ve gotta go, go with the road, take her curves and junctions, pause at the red, go at the green.

I went to such great lengths to hide it, but I suppose I can tell you this now: I wasn’t a very good student. I wasn’t smart enough to just get by. I wasn’t focused enough in class. I rarely passed exams. I skipped assignments. I was constantly on academic probation. I can remember the complicated face Mother made when I told her that my college application was rejected again and that I didn’t want to go to school anyway. None of us were expecting them to approve an application of a dropout with a low grade point average. As much as I wanted to be, I wasn’t anything like Dad. Not that Mother would ever let anyone know that.

You and I always used to stick together, and then when we were in junior high... I would get into trouble here and there and our parents would always compare us. You were the good twin...and I was the evil twin, as I liked to say. Two halves to a whole, and I was the rotten half, they said. I kind of got this image. I totally played it up as if that’s what I had to be or something. But at the time, as Mother and Father were in the middle of their divorce that was neither smooth nor messy, but something in-between, I was already thinking of doing what Jim was accused of doing: selling all my belongings, maybe inventing a fake identity, sticking out my thumb, and hitchhiking to roam around the world to be with the other hippies and vagabonds who had dropped out of school and tuned in to their surroundings.

All I wanted was to live a life where I could be me, and be okay with that. I had no need for material possessions, money or even close friends with me on my journey. I never understood people very well anyway, and they never seemed to understand me very well either. All I wanted was my art and the chance to be the creator of my own world, my own reality. I wanted the open road and new beginnings every day. When no possessions keep us, when no countries contain us, and no time detains us, man becomes a wanderer, and woman, a wanderess. I know, in my soul, that a love for travel is a gift and not a hindrance. It feels like a burden when the bucket list is bigger than the bank account, but a thirst for more of the world is not something to apologize for.

Denying its presence feels like denying something good in me, something God put there. One learns most when one wanders the world. Experience teaches is such a lovely saying. Hypocrisy is something I have learned saturates every level of our society. I see it more now than I did then. At some stage I started questioning everything that I was being taught and turned against various aspects of my upbringing. Maybe I had my reasons and maybe I needed new ways to cope like Dr. Jaquith said. I needed pain, I needed blood. Pain is beauty. The more pain somebody has experienced in their life the more physically attractive they are. Judge me if you want, but I’m talking about my own body. My own catharsis. About marking myself with beauty instead of ugliness. Anger is a thing I channel into my passions, I make it my rocket fuel to create a better world. All those times I have lashed out, lost self-control… I’m so dreadfully sorry. I am learning from those past experiences - learning how to become more as our father who suffered so much and yet was calm and kind to all.

Jim was like Father, always pushing his limits. Well… It was more like he was always being pushed, but he was good at it. That’s why he naturally became a journalist, a travel writer, while maintaining a high for adventure, for exploration, for new experiences and the discovery of previously unknown wonders. Jim was the best chauffeur I could ask for. Seeing him all sweaty as he worked on a car triggered something tingly within me. Something that made me want to catch him behind his back and never let go. All sorts of feelings and thoughts were pumped restlessly into my brain with every heartbeat. It gave me a bad headache. A good kind of bad headache. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to never stop. But as soon as Jim gave me that “Hello” all those headaches were washed away. It used to be the best prescription I could ask for. Take away the pain and let only the good things stay.

I don’t want to start talking shit about her already but how can I resist? Every time I got in Mother’s view, it triggered an obvious backbite. I had an... interesting talk with Mother. One you’re never going to need to have. Well, of course Mother prefers you over me. Why shouldn’t she? I’m ugly and awkward, and I always say the wrong things. I fly around throwing away perfectly good marriage proposals. I love our home, but I’m just so fitful, and I can’t stand being here! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Fanny. I’m sorry about being as difficult as I am, my brain’s just…built wrong. There’s just something really wrong with me. I want to change, but I…I can’t. And I just know, I’ll never fit in anywhere. Why is it that I can’t be content to live a normal life? Why do I spiral into depression when I am away from the wilderness for too long?

I mean...you’ve known, right? Like... I’ve known. I’ve known ever since Father took us with him to Europe. Mother didn’t, I guess. But she saw Jim’s note, and the suitcase under my bed, and she asked, “is there something I should know about you and Jim?” Mother kept doing what she does best: digging into other’s secrets. She tried to use Jim’s ex-wife and four adult daughters against him, against me. But that backfired on her and blew up in her face when I told her I already knew all about Jim’s past. In that moment, I was proud to have rendered her speechless. It gave me great pleasure to watch her sputter, trying and failing to form words. I threw a wrench in her plans, just as she had thrown a wrench in mine. But here’s the thing. I was prepared for her to be mad, or disappointed, or start crying or something. But she was just in denial. “You're too young to know what you want,” “you and Jim are just good friends,” “you just haven’t met the right man...” “It’s a phase.” That's what I didn’t see coming. That she wouldn’t even respect me enough... to believe me.

Maybe Mother thought...thought that Jim only took an interest in me because I was just a “rich but clueless American girl” who was lonely enough to do anything for anyone who was nice to me. Jealousy is a strong creature. It quickly devoured her mind. Soon, anger took control of her, and it took control of me too. And she just needed someone to be mad at, someone to blame for her misery other than herself. Sadly, coping with her bitchiness wasn’t the hardest part of the day. Even after Jim left me, anger stayed. It devoured me whole. A phase, she called it. Well, joke’s on her, because she is in for one very long phase. I only stayed as long as I had because Mother suddenly contracted diphtheria and depended on us more and more. Manby, Uncle George, you, me…all of us. She was ill and getting worse. And there was you, Fanny. I didn’t want to abandon you and leave you alone in that great empty house with Mother. Even if I could’ve chucked everything— But Jim wouldn’t let me. Jim. Jim. What’s the feminine for his word? That’s what I am. I knew he had been married with children before, that he abandoned them, and I walked right in with my eyes wide open. I said he would make me happier. And he had.

But now my beloved Jim has gone away. He left on a train and hasn’t told me where he’s going. I’ve lost touch with him. He vowed never again to step foot on the territory of New York or Wales, wishing for me to be free of him so I could be happy with John. How was he to know we’d break our engagement? And though I haven’t lost everything - I still have you and Uncle George here in New York and Father in Berlin (God, I hope he’s safe. I pray for him every night), my beloved family who lights up my life - If I don’t go after him, it’ll only seal my fate of never seeing him again, and the thought is too much to bear. I lost him twice already, but I can’t survive it a third time. So now you will never see me again, for I am on my way Northeast, there to start the rest of my life. I will never return to the territory of New York, not even when my mother, whom I despise with every part of my being, has left this Earth - unless she changes her ways. But I’m not holding my breath.

Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out. As of now, it looks as if I’m right about one thing, that Mother is never going to change. Even if she told me she understands my need to move out of the city, I don’t feel guilty for leaving her alone in New York. I hate to add to her unhappiness, truly. But she won’t change. Not until she’s happy again, at any rate. She’ll come around when she’s not lonely anymore, if by some miracle Dad comes home. But not before. Our parents smile from the old photographs, full of the promise of youth. Mother stands in her wedding dress, modest by today’s standards, simple and white. Father is the proud man holding the arm of his pretty bride, the sunlight reflecting from his unwrinkled face. That was before...before the illusion shattered. It was before his infidelity and her hypocrisy surfaced and came to a head. I want to see them smile like that again, to find that love hiding inside their aching bones.

Bravery is the sweet spot on a spectrum from cowardice to fool hardy. There are times when running away is that sweet spot, when it is the brave choice. It is all a matter of circumstance, trust your instinct on which it has arisen. This is the moment. It’s time to take matters into my own hands. I tell myself, you aready used up your last chance to change your mind about running away, Miss Skeffington. Get yourself together. if not for you, for Dad. Mother sought her refuge in London and abroad when she was ill, while I found a place in the great wide somewhere. And so I stepped over the divide between childhood and all that lay beyond. I won’t be defeatist and say it will be my last time in this house. I’ll be back. Someday. Maybe. For now, I cautiously regard home as a place I’m leaving behind in order to come back to it afterward. It’s selfish, but at the end of the day, that's what we are - selves. If we don’t look out for our own interests, there are plenty who’ll be more than happy to chip away at our core, piece by piece, until we forget what we ever wanted.

Although I do not have the time to convey my good wishes to you in the way that I would like, I hope you know that you have been the kindest of sisters and although you may not want to hear this after what I’ve done, I am very grateful to you. I am sorry to be leaving home like this after so many years. I know I’ve said it many times in this letter already, and maybe you’re tired of reading those two words, but I feel like I can’t say it enough. Please forgive me for running off and leaving so abruptly without a proper goodbye. As much as I would’ve preferred to have taken leave in person, the matter was urgent, and I had no time to wait for you to get back from your date with Johnny Mitchell. It was decided just that very day, and my boat was scheduled to set sail so soon, so I had to leave rather abruptly to catch it.

By the time you read this letter, I will be halfway across the world, on my way to India. There’s something Jim said in his letter…it might be a hint as to where he is. Or it might be nothing. But I have to try. Besides, it’s not just because of Jim that I’m going. It was a thought, that. Not to attach myself to a man, but to confront instead the open world, the wide fields of France and Spain, the ocean, anything. Not just to hitch a lift with the first fellow who looked as though he knew where he was going, but just to go. I haven’t told Mother or Uncle George this, but there’s an art exhibition in Delhi, and I just received a letter informing me that I have a place as one of the featured international artists! I’ll be able to present my artwork in front of hundreds - no - thousands of people!! It might actually be my crowning achievement. But once this is done…then what? Do I have it in me to come up with something even better? How much longer can I enjoy the fame and praise I get now? Is there despair and disappointment waiting for me right around the corner...? No point in dwelling on what ifs now. I’ve already booked my ticket and it seems too good a chance to miss, so I will be starting my journey there. I must go for the adventure.

Perhaps a slightly perverted adventure of questionable consent, but beggars like me can’t be choosers. I wish to study painting abroad. All I want is a chance to pursue my passions, and I hope that gives me enough to live on and time off for fun with family and friends. I want the kind of work-life balance that has eluded our family for generations. India… It sounds so far away and different. I like different places. I like any places that isn’t here. If Jim is not there, I don’t know where I’ll go after India, but I just know I’ll have to keep searching. For him, for myself… Even if it takes months or years, I will find him - and if and when we can prove to Mother that all we ask of her is her consent - nothing more - then, and only then will I come back home. No sooner than that. I could give up the search, it’s the easiest option. But I’m not going to give up on him so easily, just when the going gets tough. What would I achieve? Many sleepless nights holding regret of all I didn’t seek? That option will never exist to me. My dreams are far too real. Down the hard road I find my place in the world, the closest to home I’ll ever feel. I’ll look for Jim around every corner. I’m taking back my life, and it’s due to him.

It is important, I feel, to give thanks to what has been, for in doing so the future walks upon a clean pathway. You and Father and even Uncle George have always fought my corner and been my allies. Even when I was failing almost all of my other classes and eventually dropped out of school, even when I received rejection letter after rejection letter from countless colleges, you continued to encourage and support me in my pursuit of an art and photography career. You believed in me, always told me that I am talented in my own right, and I am forever thankful to you all for pushing me to pursue my passions, even when Mother didn’t understand and was against them. I would’ve given up without you, Dad, and Uncle George. Not just on my art and photography, but on myself entirely. I leave with thanks for your and their many kindnesses.

In a way, I will carry you all with me. You will be my muses, my inspiration, and I will represent you and the love I feel towards you all in my artwork. If I don’t make the papers, I hope to show you my artwork myself someday. Darling, forgive me and rejoice for my mind is made up. In time you will understand and my prayer is that you will always accept that this was my decision, my free decision. Who would have dreamed taking a semester off to visit landmarks in Switzerland would result in meeting the love of my life and chasing after him? Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I know you must be so worried, but I will be safe and well. No matter what you hear, nothing is going to happen to me. I will be fine and Jim and I will be together soon, I promise. I dare not call home at the risk Mother may pick up the phone, but I’ll write you every week, though there’s no telling when my letters will actually make it to you with how erratic and unpredictable the post can be sometimes. I’d write you every day if I could. I need space, so I believe this time away could be good for me. Leaving is my form of self-protection. There is no other way to accomplish it, or to give myself a chance to recover. My leaving is not only a choice, but a duty.

Anyway, you know Uncle Fred is in Diamond Stud, South Africa, so I have somewhere to go if something goes wrong. You know how much he loves us as if we were his own daughters of his flesh and blood (Dad had to rein him in more than once lest he spoil us too much, especially on Christmas and our birthday. Remember our eighth birthday? It’s very funny to think back on now but, at the time, Mother and Father were mortified. The words “Simple” and “Small” are not in Uncle Fred’s vocabulary). He always used to say our invitation to come live with him over the summer was open, just to cable or call him beforehand so he could prepare a room. He has plenty of space, so I’m sure he would love to have my company, should I ever want to stay with him, if my travels ever bring me around to South Africa.

Though I know he’s of no blood relation to us, and it may sound terrible to admit, there were times when I did wonder if he was my biological father after all. When I was growing up, I felt a certain way towards him, like there was an invisible connection or kinship between us that nobody else could see. I can’t describe it, but I felt it. I felt I was more like him than Father. He’s unmarried but never had and still has no interest in ever settling down and taking a wife, just like me. While he’s no virgin and loves the company of young and beautiful women, he never thought himself a family man. He wasn’t cut out to be a father and would much rather stay the “fun uncle”. Just like how I never wanted and still never want to be a mother. I’d much rather be the “fun aunt”. He was and still is built of different stuff, cut from a different cloth, just like me. He’s free, living it up as a rich bachelor, unbridled by marriage prospects. I envied him for so many years because he had the kind of life I could only dream of. When you receive this letter, let my words be the butterfly and the envelope their cocoon. Though I leave home, our bond remains, traveling different pathways yet eternally connected. Know, too, that I miss you terribly, and always, always will.

Love,

Your sister xx

P.S. Enclosed is a picture of the vilest woman ever born.

May 1936

Dear John,

Wanderlust is the pretty onward road when the duties that kept one anchored are lifted. It is neither running from nor running to, yet a sense of easy adventure, a gentle curiosity, a growing inner peace. What an unfortunate time for the wanderlust to strike! Although we were friends first, we never really had time to discover the souls of one another without the rest of these strong emotions. Perhaps then we would have seen how our passions and purpose would always take us in opposite directions...unless one of us sacrificed who we really are...then what? How could there be a relationship if one of us became a shadow of our former self, or worse, a sort of annex of the other, or a fading echo struggling to find self-worth?

In the carefully scripted wedding rituals, I detected bad faith. I felt less like a bride and more like a person pretending to be a bride, the way a little girl might process through her living room with a pillowcase draped over her head toward some imaginary groom. I refused to take engagement photos because who would ever believe that we were spontaneously bounding through a field at sunset holding hands? Or kissing in front of a brick wall? Who was that photo for? It couldn’t be for us because anytime we looked at it we would know all the work that went into it: A long afternoon spent smiling to the point of jaw exhaustion.

In this breakup I won’t break up. I refuse to because I choose to seize this opportunity, this chance you have given me, given us, to live and love again. I choose to love again with full power because anything less would feel anaemic. In my pain I thought you close to an adversary or oppressor, yet in truth you’re drowning in a sea of your own uncried tears. How can a soul be healthy if you refuse to feel your pain? Over the past four weeks I forgot what it was to smile from joy instead of painting a smile upon my face for others, one that felt empty and wrong. The truth is, we were simply wrong for each other. It takes a lot of healing to feel a spark again, to have the courage to let it grow and burn...so you can be sure I’ll keep on walking, exploring, making a new life with others who spark and flame. So, remembering the good times, cherishing our laughter and smiles, letting the quarrels fade to nothing, farewell, be strong, for I loved you in my own way. Not as a wife or a lover, but as…

Your friend,

Miss Skeffington

May 1936

Dear Jim,

Not every road untraveled is worthy of the imprint of your soles. Some are best left that way, forgotten and erased by the passage of time. For every soul there is a road not traveled by others. There are times we are called upon to take the road not traveled, as a sort of scout, checking its safety, ensuring that it leads to someplace of greater love, than to stick to well-known routes. Such exploration takes a degree of courage, a pure seed of faith, and a complete determination to do what is right for others. For it is the road that your love and passion will call you to explore, it is the reason you were called into existence.

When your soles meet that road, regardless of the challenge, your soul will rise, igniting a fire within. You walk this road not for yourself, yet for the good of others, to make discoveries that bring greater health to your community, to creation, to mother nature. So, I hope you have the courage to walk your road when it is revealed to you. Yet when we find the entrance to new, untraveled roads, when the urge to travel them comes from the loving impulse, from the callings of the heart, when they echo the soul in ways that feel like home, I say we travel them together. Let us be explorers on these paths that lead to greater birdsong and the regeneration of nature. For this sense of love we are all born to seek, is real sense, real sanity, and our inbuilt navigation system.

Why won’t you see me? Why won’t you return a simple message? I miss you so much. You’d love India, I think, probably. The nature here is totally different than back home. I keep thinking about the story you told me, about Allegra and the first mate lost on a mysterious island where even the plants are out to get them…and then I think of them together, out there in the wilderness together…and I start thinking of you again… I lie here in bed and I can almost feel you. I’ve been trying to save it up for when we’re together again.

I haven’t done a good job, okay?! But I tried… The love letter is so underrated. It’s challenging to write a love letter, for when we do the soul is naked. They take courage to write and so are incredibly elevating to read; for to render yourself so emotionally naked is a profound act of love. Without knowing why or how, I found myself in love with you, this strange wanderer. While I won’t lie and say I fell in love with you the day we met, I fell for you harder than a slip on black ice. You were funny, always cracking jokes. You had me in stitches on every date. People flocked to you like you were the only light in the room, hanging on your words, buying you drinks and slapping your back. After a time I wanted more than the “happy guy” persona. I already loved you, and I wanted to get to know the man behind the punch lines. At first you distracted me with jokes and I followed each one, laughing down every blind alley.

Then one day Fanny asked me some things about you, where you grew up, what your parents were like, who your best friends were, and I froze. After six months I knew nothing about you other than your alcohol and bed preferences. Maybe I was just in love with the dream you were selling me: A life of destiny and fate, as my own life up until we met had been so void of enchantment. Those things - mystery, fate, enchantment - they are things that young people offer us as soon as we get close to them. And if we’re not careful, we can be seduced by, and drawn back into, the youthful world they preside over. The freedom of the open road is seductive, serendipitous and absolutely liberating. I sat with you, reached out with my open heart and invited you to reciprocate, to make that connection. But then I walked away and went back to New York. I had to protect myself from the pain of the emotions. I had to make some effort to get over you. Then, just when I thought I’d made progress on that, you came back. You came back on the exact day I was going to make a bigger effort to move on. So, that was that. The universe wants this. I want this. It feels like you want this too. I fell in love more deeply upon meeting you in New York, but I couldn’t say. I thought you wanted to be friends and that was all. It broke my heart. It was rough. But I’d take you as a friend than not at all. Love is that way. You stay, you do all the good you can for them while you do the best for yourself too, get on with your life, pursue your passions and talents...

Your goodbye letter is the boots upon my feet and the bag upon my arm, yet come the calling of the black heavens and stars, it is the bed I rest upon and the pillow that welcomes me to dreamland. So it’s a matter of time and patience, I suppose. I never met a lover before who made every other man appear as if he were a two-dimensional paper drawing, men who would melt in the rain and burn on the first rays of a strengthening sun. And this confidence in your soul, in who you were born to become, as the man who stands with me, is the finest love letter I can ever write. For words are only the crude tools of emotion and it’s my heart you’ve won. With you I’m both completely free and completely in a cage, though it’s a cage I want to be in, because I feel safe there. My imagination is free, my creativity and intellect have no frontiers, it peeks in glee at infinite possibilities for ideas and learning. My romantic love, however, has entered the cage, locked the door behind herself and put the key out of the bars. That’s that. I’m done. I’m yours. I’ve found you at last. When you left I was scattered to the winds. But now... I feel almost whole again. Wanna know how much I love you? I love you to the moon and back. I’m crazy about you. I’m lost without you… I’ve been lost a long time... Let’s go back to our small world, where I placed my hearts at everywhere you loved. Let’s go back. I’m coming for you. I’m coming. I’m coming for you, Jim. Hold on just a little longer. I know this isn’t real, but the pain sure is. I keep hearing a German man’s whisper in the wind. After weeks of trying to decipher something, anything… I heard the word “Wald”. A little elbow grease at the library turned up a German dictionary. Wald means “forest.” I’m coming for you. I’m coming. I’m coming for you, Jim. There’s just one thing left to do. Take me with you. Please. Please, take me with you this time. You won’t leave me again, will you? You can’t just shake up my whole world and leave.

All my love,

Your storyteller Xxx

You turned, headed for the stairs. You ran down a busy train station, pushing your way through a crowd of stevedores and waving families. But it was too late. By the time you arrived at the platform, the last call had been announced and the train had pulled out of the station. You stood there, panting, defeated, watching the train receding. But little by little you became aware of another presence standing close by. It was Jim. Shocked, flustered, you backed away. He followed closely.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Skeffington.”

“Mr. Masters.”

“I thought you might find me sooner or later. No one can keep a secret these days.”

“I knew where you’d be. It was hidden in plain sight in your letter. If you didn’t want me to find you, why did you write it? When have you condescended to hide from a woman, especially me?”

“Darling, you really shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to see you. I don’t trust you. I’m giving my regards to Chief Mahabu in person.”

“Well… You might as well know. There is no Chief Mahabu.”

“It’s all right. We’ll find one.”

“I don’t want you with me.”

“Please don’t. I liked you much better when you were blunt and natural. You’re such a bad liar, Jim. I’d never have got anywhere if I were as rotten a liar as you.”

“Don’t act as if you’ve made a great discovery, I’ve known it for years. It did not serve me well.”

“That’s why I’ve appointed myself your guardian. When we get to Los Angeles, I’ll make it legal. It’s a big world. Two can travel in it.”

“So what do you wanna do? Spend the rest of your life with tramps? Derelicts? No goods?”

“Sure. I’m a socialite and you’re a social climber.”

“No. I’m not gonna let you do it. It’s too lonely a life.”

“Not if we’re together, it isn’t.”

"You don’t even know where I’m going."

"I don’t care. I’d like to go anywhere. How can there be any adventure, any exploration, if you let somebody else - above all, a travel bureau - arrange everything beforehand? Is there really nothing I might say so you’ll take me with you?”

“I confess that…I was hoping that I might have a reason to take you with me, but congratulations on the celebration of your marriage. I saw the announcement in the papers. I’m very happy for you.”

“Oh, no! No! No, that’s…that’s Fanny. You remember my sister, Fanny! And Johnny Mitchell, actually. No, I’m… I’m not married. Please don’t go so far away. Not without me.”

“What? What about Sir John Talbot? He was your fiancé when I left.”

“About that... Jim, Sir John and I broke our engagement. We broke it the day you called me.”

“What? Why didn’t you marry him? Don’t you love him?”

“Not like we do. Not like us. He’s like you in many ways. Not your sense of humor, nor your sense of beauty, nor your sense of play. But a fine man, and a kind of refuge I thought I could never have. I thought my fondness for him might grow to be love or something like what we have. When my sister and I had to leave Berlin because of the Nazis and we parted for the second time, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. We’d made our pact, and we were living up to it. Mother thought that, with my engagement, I would get over you, Jim. But when you came back, my feelings for you that I tried so hard to bury came back full force. They never truly left. But then you left again.”

“I couldn’t stay and watch you ruin yourself. I only wanted to stop you from throwing away your future.”

“May I remind you it’s my future to throw away.”

“You talk about the future like you’re flipping through a magazine. I asked you to marry that man and be happy. I didn’t ask you to go against your mother and tag along after me. But thank you for defending me and proving that you do care.”

“I didn’t know how much until she said those dreadful things. She thought the only way to break us apart was to show me what a deadbeat you were. I kept hearing the disgusting words she said, but at the same time, I felt something. A reminder…of how I felt when I fell for you. How it felt so right and terribly wrong. Screaming into my pillow never helped with making the feelings go away.”

“So you’re not angry with me?”

“No. Only with Mother. On the other hand, I thought she described the way you left me rather accurately.”

“If it’s any comfort, I’ve always regretted having let you go. I was a cad to make you care for me and then because of some noble sense of duty, to leave you to get over it the best you can.”

“Don’t blame yourself. Please, darling. John and I weren’t right for each other. But this? I know this is right. Just as I know we’ll regret delaying when we could have made it happen. You’ll regret it. I’ll regret it. ‘He who loves the most regrets the most.’ But we don’t have time for regrets now, Jim. Only love.”

“It’s different.“

“It’s not. Shall I tell you what you've given me? On that very first day, a little bottle of perfume made me feel important. You were my first friend. And then when you fell in love with me, I was so proud. And when I came home, I needed something to make me feel proud. And your camellias arrived, and I knew you were thinking about me. I could’ve walked into a den of lions. As a matter of fact, I did, and the lions didn’t hurt me. I’m reminded of a promise. Didn’t you say you would take me across the world and kiss me in one hundred countries before we die?”

“Let’s not live in a fantasy. Give it up. Give me up.”

“Is that an order? Jim, you should know by now that I don’t follow orders very well. Never have, never will. If we can’t be happy here, we must leave for a place that will accept our love.”

“But, my darling, is there such a place? Think... I can’t bear to see you hurt.”

“Let me tell you a story then. There once was a man named Sidney. He was a big explorer and naturalist who went all over the world. He did a lot of exploration on the Amazon. There was a lust of wandering in his feet that burned to set out for the ends of the earth. ‘On! On!’ his heart seemed to cry. Evening would deepen above the sea, night fall upon the plains, dawn glimmer before the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills and faces. Where? He wasn’t very close with his son, who was also an explorer. They’d only see each other by chance in weird remote places like Samarkand or Walla Walla. One day, he met a woman on his travels. She was a botanist, but was completely daft - she’d wear really bizarre outfits and she was one of the first women to ride on a steam train. He didn’t want her with him, and kept trying to push her away, but she kept coming back. Then he fell in love with her, and she with him. Together they roamed the world, two halves made whole. They never legally married, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t need rings or a piece of paper to tell them that they were husband and wife. To them, they already were. Now there’s a plant named after her, and a monkey they adopted that they named after him. That monkey became famous and went on to have many offspring. He has grandchildren and great-grandchildren that are still alive today.”

“The naturalist or the monkey?”

“Yes. Oh, you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? If our love has no home, let us spend our lives searching together! If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone. So I beg of you again... Don’t send me away. Don’t send me back. I’ve come so far. Please, Jim. Take me with you. I promise I will make you happy. And I know you’ll make me happy too. Please give us a chance.”

“You...just won’t give up, will you? Of all the crazy...stubborn...foolish women...”

“Jim, answer me, please! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to have an outburst. I mean, give me your answer. Let us go to Africa with a sense our tomorrows are beginning. Please. Take me away. Take me to a place where we can be happy.”

“But if we run away together or elope, won’t I ruin your reputation? Won’t I be an anchor around your neck?”

“A very nice anchor around a very willing neck. Now, I know what I really want. Jim, let’s just not get married yet. You never wanted marriage anyway. I know that. Let’s just get out of here...and just see the world. Okay? All right? My darling,” you exhaled as he reached you, pulling you into his embrace and holding you close. You clung to Jim, the gentle thrum of your heart against his chest reinvigorating him after his long journey.

“I love you. I love you, sweetheart. I’ve been in love before. I won’t pretend that I haven’t. But I really do love you.”

“Then I’ll take that as a yes.”

“The trouble is, I’m not as simple as I used to be. My life is not as simple. I...just need to be sure I’m being realistic, not living in a fool’s paradise and dragging you into it with me.”

“I’ll still take it as a yes. Please take back what you said in your letter.”

“If you can stay by my side and have a full and happy life, I will. Will you have me?”

“With all of my heart.”

“But I have nothing to give you. My hands are empty.”

You took his hands in yours. “Not empty now.”

“It seems I missed my train. On purpose, darling. I couldn’t go - not yet.”

“When, then? When do you leave?”

“I don’t know. I truly don’t—”

“What do you mean? If you don’t know, who does?”

“You, darling. Only you know.”

He pulled you close and kissed you. You were thrilled. You pulled away.

“I intend to eventually go to Europe one more time, and I need a companion. How would you like to be the person I take?”

“I’d like that more than anything! I’m ready to travel...and you’re my ticket. To get away from that house, away from that life— Leaving has the sense of adventure, coming home to you however, would be my heaven.”

At that moment, you were interrupted by a whistle from a passing train. A train’s lights moved on the sheer curtains. Obeying an old habit, Jim checked his pocket watch - and smiled. “It’s a great day for the tramps of the world. They’re getting new blood.”

“How are we gonna start out? Under the train or in it?”

“This time in it. Just for the novelty.”

The emotion of your reunion sealed as a perfect photograph in your soul. Adventure grinned at you as a new friend, as an old friend, as if he knew the answer was yes before he asked. The ideas would come later, probably when you least expected it. The goal of your life was to tie adventure to your feet, stock memories in your pocket, hold imagination in your palms like fairy dust and sprinkle it on your tales. So you laced your boots and took a step onto the train. The backpack had broad shoulder straps that felt quite natural even with the weight added. With it you walked a little taller, felt the straightening of your back and your head rise a little higher. Somehow it was easy to carry, almost easier than having been free of it. The backpack had that well-loved look, the canvas of spring flowers showing signs of being washed many times. It took the form of your shoulder in the same way a friend’s hand might, gentle and warm. Your luggage hugged at your hips as if it was filled with future good memories. To the heart ready to travel, the backpack brought a frisson of joy. The backpack upon the compartment seat was the color of bright yellow petals, the sort of yellow that got brighter in the rays of the dayshine. It was a sort of bold, "Hello," something that was confident to glow in all weathers. It was the most welcome of sights, for it told of a new adventure afoot. Your luggage bags were plain and well loved, yet what mattered most was not your destination, but the journey. Your luggage bathed in the warm light that entered the window of the train, as if it spoke its contents of good times ahead. You took comfort as the bag hugged itself into your gentle form, the train rocking its maternal rhythm, anchored to centuries old rails. The train ride rocked you so gently as if you were a sweet babe in this carriage. Whatever was ahead could be a great challenge, and there could be tears, but it was your adventure to take and so you smiled.

Dear Fanny,

Here I am at the railroad station with a handful of other bypassers, about to board a train bound for who knows where! The only person who knows where we’re going is the conductor. I’ve found Jim and I’m feeling close to him as I’m back to traveling again. The road and the sky feel full of life. Wish me luck!

Love,

Your sister xx

Just before Fanny left, your mother suffered the ultimate humiliation when Edward Morrison, one of her old beaux, made what she at first believed to be a sincere marriage proposal, only to withdraw it when he began to suspect, incorrectly, that she was no longer wealthy. Without her husband, without her daughters, Fanny was left alone with her maid, Manby.

“Manby!”

“Why, Mrs. Skeffington. What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Manby. Manby. Don’t leave me.”

“Why, of course I won’t.”

“Promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“Of course I won’t.”

“You’re the only one I have left.”

“I’ll never leave you. Never.”

“You see. You see, I’m all alone. I’m all alone.”

“Mrs. Skeffington, wouldn’t you like to rest?”

“Yes. Yes, I think I would.”

“You’ll feel better after you’ve had a little rest.”

“You’re the only one I have left.”

Half a year passed. Not knowing who else to turn to, your mother made one last desperate plea to your sister, Fanny, who had moved out to Seattle with her husband, Johnny Mitchell, and, like you, went low contact with her.

“Fanny, please talk to your sister for me. Please. She hasn’t replied to any of my letters. This is no place for me. The men are cruel, and the land is cruel. I beg of you. I beg of her. I will do everything, anything, to make amends. If she will not take pity, ask if she truly wants to leave her family name to die out here in the dust? You’re our family’s hope now. Your sister is sick, a lost cause. I fear she has had her head turned and her hand claimed by that penniless charlatan, Mr. Masters. Please, say something to her.”

Fanny wasn’t going to defend your mother or take her side. However, though your mother was never particularly nice to her, or to you, she did bring you both into the world. So Fanny thought it’d be nice of her to write just one letter to you on your mother’s behalf, at the very, very least. Not just for her, but for you too. She thought maybe your dad would want it that way. Though Fanny couldn’t promise your mother that you’d listen to her appeals or entreaties, or be swayed into coming back to New York, she could try. And so that was what she did.

November 1936

Darling sister,

I am writing on behalf of our mother, but I do not think you will I miss you terribly, but it seems like Mother misses you most. When you left, Johnny and I went to a play and it was so late by the time it ended that we didn’t return home until the next day. I heard Mother and Uncle George talking. You ran away from home. You took all your things. And then I got your goodbye letter from India some weeks later. Mother still hasn’t opened hers. Though it’s been half a year, Mother is still hopeful that you’ll come home someday. She keeps telling Manby and the other servants that you’ll write to her or call any day now, that you’ll ring the doorbell and she’ll beat Soames to it and answer the door herself. But I had a feeling even then… I don’t think you’re coming back. Not anytime soon, at least. Your room is just the way you left it, though Mother and Manby have kept it impeccably clean for your arrival. Not a speck of dust or askew wall painting in sight. She’s never had much interest in cleaning or helping Manby before, but lately she’s been doing it almost obsessively. I can’t count the number of times she’s plumped the same pillow on the old chair you used to sit in. I think she does it to give herself something to do, to ward off her loneliness and the sad thoughts of you that come with it. She always seemed happy during the day, but at night, I often woke up because I heard something. It was Mother crying. She was always saying that she was sorry while Manby hugged her and tried to shush her with comforting words and pats on the back. I heard her crying even after she dismissed Manby and let her retire for the night. When she called me to ask for help, she was crying in her room again. I wanted to ask her if she needed help from a professional, but I think she doesn’t want anyone else but Manby and I to know. I’m worried. Should I talk to Dr. Jaquith about it? I know that come the morning, she’ll keep talking to herself and go on telling Manby that she’s going to personally make up the guest room for Jim to stay in, even if you come home on such short notice that she won’t have much time to do it.

If you ever come home, Jim can use my room if he wants. I won’t be needing it anymore. You remember Johnny Mitchell, don’t you? One of Mother’s (former) admirers. I didn’t wish to be courted by someone who was still in love with Mother, but he assured me that he wasn’t in love with her. He and I were married shortly after, and we left for Seattle. Johnny opened a branch office there. Mother had no idea, just like she had no idea about you and Jim. She told me the same thing she told you, that I should’ve talked it over with her and that I hadn’t known him very long. But I’d known him for several months, as long as I’d known her. It’s funny in an ironic way. You’ve known Jim far longer than I’ve known Johnny, yet she didn’t put up as much fight with me marrying as she did with you. I wish I had been there the day you left. I knew that one day soon you would go and I wouldn’t have been able to stop you from leaving, but maybe I could’ve stopped you and Mother from having such an explosive row. Maybe I could’ve mitigated the damage done so you wouldn’t have had such a destructive falling out. I won’t try to justify Mother’s actions. I never approved of her meddling in your love life.

Besides your flighty nature, I can only guess that she was so hard on you and pushed for a “suitable” marriage because she thought if you were married, you’d become solid, grounded. I can only guess she chose Sir John not only because he was well-born with money and position (and an ancestral castle to boot!) but because you already liked him immensely and he was a dear friend to you, so she thought he’d make the perfect husband for you. She imagined his homestead in Wales should’ve been enough to cure your wanderlust, that the prospect of spending the rest of your life abroad in a European castle should’ve pleased you as much as it pleased her. But it wasn’t enough and it didn’t please you. There was something much greater you needed to feed your soul. Now you and Jim are both traveling for your own self-care and to feed your wandering souls…existing in other places so that you could remember who you are and then come home to yourselves. You used not to know where you were going, but you knew you would arrive, you knew there would be an end to the long, blind road. Mother didn’t suppose secrecy would have even occurred to you. Ironically, her being so hard on you is what drove you to it. It was also possible, her distaste for Jim was at least partially fueled by her own humiliating experience with her former lovers when she invited them over after her illness. Their declarations of having their breaths taken at her beauty, omnipresent smiles, and devoted facades had her fooled, until after she lost her beauty and she realized most of them had wives and children of their own, and none of them ever truly loved her.

Though she was wrong about a lot of things, she was right about one thing though, in a small way. Sir John would’ve made the perfect husband for you. But only on paper. Not in practice. He was a dear friend, but that’s all he was. There was no spark, no flame. You wanted a love match and she knew that, but she wanted an advantageous match for you and prioritized convenience over love. She tried to appease you with assurances that love would come later, that you’d learn to love him in time, but you knew that this was a lie. Your love and affection for Sir John would never bypass warm fondness, no matter how much you wanted it to. John knew this too, so you both did the admirable thing and called it a day before either one of you got hurt. You parted as friends. Though I didn’t have a chance to tell you in person, I thought that was very classy of you.

Beyond the trails and hikes, there was so much to explore, especially since you were into foraging. Due to the merciless unpredictability of nature when combined with people and their knack for losing possessions, it was advised that you keep a camera with you at all times so you could take photos of memorable sights. Looking back, I think that’s around the time your love for photography was realized. And look at you now! You became a great explorer just like I said you would be! I still remember when you used to take me “treasure hunting” when we were children. I still have our treasures safely wrapped up and put away. I’ve taken great care of them. Hmm, where should I put them? They might look nicer a little closer to the light. They will catch the light from my desk lamp so nicely. My shelves would look much more interesting with your treasures on display! Mother hid most of your discoveries away. I pestered her for weeks to let me bring some of your treasures out of storage when I moved out. Oh, I almost forgot! When I came back inside from searching for your treasures in the shed, Uncle George showed me some of Jim’s published articles that he came across and saved in the travel section of the newspaper! Who would’ve thought we’d have such a talented writer and journalist in the family? I also saw the article printed about you!

‘Her art continues to captivate the hearts of the young, so we reached out to her for comment. Keeping her eyes fixed on her new piece, Ms. Skeffington had this to say:

“All I’m doing is showing what these girls feel on the inside but can’t show on the outside. If any of them connect with a girl in the art, it’s probably because they’re experiencing the same thing.”

She added that the flowers she depicts on the young girls she paints bloom out of the scars they bear. The flowers represent the girls overcoming past traumas, or at least their desire to do so.’

I managed to read them all before Mother took them away and gave them back to Uncle George. Darling, it was fascinating! It almost felt as if I were there myself! It made me think about how I would have loved to go with you so we could’ve gone treasure hunting again like we used to. Even though I was so young I still remember our adventures together in Europe after the divorce. Would you like me to share my memories of them? Well, I’m going to whether you like it or not! We talked about some of them already. It seems like such a long time ago. You were incredibly excited about each one. You were so happy about them, showing them to me and Father, you didn’t stop talking about some of them for hours. I thought, how can my sister be so excited over some old broken pottery or a heart shaped rock or fallen antlers… But it wasn’t long until I understood. I remember you being so proud of each and every find, no matter how small. I remember the first treasure hunt you took me on. The day that started it all! We found a pair of old dog tags. Dog tags are usually fabricated from a corrosion-resistant metal. From the looks of it, that pair must’ve been quite old as they were already starting to rust and deteriorate by the time we found them.

Mother was so upset when we brought those dog tags home, wasn’t she? “Darling, that simply will not do! Regardless of its condition - buried, corroded, or damaged - a dog tag has value to its owner or their loved ones. We should try to locate the owner.” I think seeing those tags reminded her of Uncle Trippy. Then there was the time you brought home that creepy clay mask. You found it wedged behind a stone near the river as you ate your sandwich. It must’ve washed up at some point. It was cracked and chipped in spots, and was a ghoulish green color. The paint was worn away in some spots, revealing its gray base since it had been under the swampy water for who knows how long. Mother was so repulsed by it. She probably thought it was cursed or haunted. Mother took away all the knick-knacks that used to sit on those shelves. “They’re taking up space on the mantelpiece! Take them away!” Once Father moved them to his study, I remember us creeping in to take a peek at them. You tried to scare me with the mask by pretending to wear it and be a monster. Even if there isn’t a specific story attached to that mask, just the sight of it was still creepy enough that I wanted to take a photo to show my friends. Do you still wear the empty locket you found? Does it still hold that picture of us? I hope it reminds you of those adventures we had together when we were children, and how thankful I am for everything you’ve taught me. I’ve had to beg Mother to let me visit you, you know. But now that I’m an adult and a married woman, I don’t need her permission or her money. I shouldn’t worry you with that kind of talk. I know we’ll meet again someday. Now, you must tell me about your visit to Delhi!

Love,

Fanny xx

In response to Fanny’s letter, you surprised her with a phone call. Sticking to your vow, you, of course, didn’t call your childhood house on Charles Street, but the firm Johnny worked at. From there, you asked for him by name and, when he picked up the other line, he happily gave you his home phone number so you could call your sister.

“She’s counting on you to bring me home, isn’t she.” You didn’t make it a question.

“They all are,” she said quite honestly. “But they won’t hold it against you if your heart says otherwise. They—we—wouldn’t want you there if it’s not where you want to be.”

You looked back to the road just outside your window. “I appreciate that,” you said in a quiet but steady voice. “More than you know. More than I knew. Fanny, I don’t think I’d bear it if you tried giving me a piece of your mind. You wouldn’t, would you? Even though Mother asked you to?”

“I would not. I gave Jim my bedroom, and that’s enough.”

“Please don’t tell Mother I called you. I’m not ready to come back, Fanny. It’s too soon. The people in charge of the exhibition arranged for me to meet with Brady Mueller, the agent. Quite a young man for what he has accomplished. During our meeting, Brady asked me many things, as if he was interviewing me. The brief introduction tumed out to be hours long. However, by the end of it, he said he had everything he needed and would get things moving right away. He called to meet with me today. He has the papers ready for me to sign. He said that the location of the new exhibition has been approved. All we need is the down payment.”

“That’s great!”

“I have a good feeling about him. I’d sign the papers almost immediately if Jim wasn’t here to help me look them over first. After that, I’ll inform my accountant, Helen, to transfer the money from my savings, since I’ve saved up quite a bit of money just on my own. Brady has been a great help since I brought up the idea of an art gallery for the public. I’m not sure if things could have gone so quickly if it had been some other agent. I owe him that much. The art gallery will open in three months. I’m so excited about it!”

“I’ll bet! I’m excited for you and I’m not even there to see it! How’s it coming along?”

“We have received most of the artwork from the contributors and artists. All I need is to ask Margot if she would be willing to donate some of her paintings. If this exhibition succeeds, it would be good for me and for Jim. I haven’t felt this alive in a very long time. I have a purpose now.”

“I told you that you would find it someday. I’m glad that day has finally come. Not to sour or dampen your good mood, but have you given any thought to coming back?”

“Oh. That. As for going back home… I don’t know if I ever will. I want to, someday. But…as it stands now… My mind still hasn’t changed from what it was when I wrote you and Mother those goodbye letters. The truth is, I’m not ready to go home… Oh, sure, I’ll travel and go abroad again but future trips will not stretch toward infinity like this one. They won’t contain so many possibilities. Heading home is the full stop marking the end of adventure and the beginning of a responsible life. And despite months of traveling, I’m not ready to be responsible.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stay and help this exhibit get launched, and then… I don’t know. I may stay here in this town another day or I may go on to another town. No one but you knows where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way for the time being. I don’t want Uncle George to worry, so as far as he knows, it’s just rainbows and butterflies here in India. Can you tell Mother to please just…stop? Just… Just stop. Good for her. She’s figuring her shit out. And that’s great. I’m really, really happy for her. But I’m…I’m tired. I don’t want to hurt anymore. And for some reason when I was with her, it just… It just hurt the both of us. So let’s just go our separate ways, okay? Just tell her to let me go. I’ll come back when I’m good and ready. I just don’t know when that’ll be.”

“Okay… I understand. It’s your life and you can choose how you live it. I’ll tell her you wrote me a letter saying that you still need space and to be left alone. And as for everything else… My lips are sealed. She’ll never know about this call. Take all the time you need. It won’t be easy for me, but it wasn’t easy for me either when your stay at Cascade was extended from two weeks to two years. But I survived our separation and sporadic in-person visits back then, in large part because of the frequent correspondence I sent to you. All the drawings, letters, and postcards I sent you helped me to uphold our connection. It tided me over until you could come home. I imagine it was much of the same for you. If we did it once, we can do it again. But that won’t make it hurt any less than before.”

“Thank you for understanding how much I need this, Fanny. Give Uncle George and Johnny my love. I’ll write to you.”

“I will. And I look forward to those drawings, letters, and postcards.”

“It’ll be painful, but we’ll make it through this, Fanny.”

“I know we will. You know as well as I do that we Skeffington women have a capacity for enduring.”

“You’re damn right about that. I love you. Bye.”

“I love you, too. Goodbye.”

“Mr. Martingale, urgent, sir.”

Mr. Martingale read the slip of paper. “Oh, put her on.”

“Mr. Martingale is ready.”

“Oh. Hello, darling. I was just thinking about you.”

“Oh, really? Have you missed me, Uncle Fred?”

“Well, I haven’t heard from you in a while. Not a phone call, a letter, or even a postcard.”

“Right… Sorry I haven’t been able to write or call you before now. My life has been…eventful…and it’s hard to make time for myself lately.”

“Oh, apology accepted, darling. You know I’m only teasing. I do love giving you a hard time on occasion. Did you get the postcard I sent you?”

“Yes, I got your postcard. Have you been having a pleasant holiday, Uncle Fred?”

“Very nice of you. But you and I both know you didn’t call me out of the blue to ask me how my holiday was.”

“…No. Sorry to interrupt your holiday, Uncle Fred, I’m giving you so much trouble, but—”

“Prerogative of a beautiful woman.”

“—we are headed to our next destination, Casablanca. And we know that’s close to you, so—”

“‘We’?”

“—who better to ask but you?”

“For how long?”

“For how long? That depends! It’s not generally known, Uncle Fred...but I’m very hard up. We’re running low on money…”

“I had no idea. I was under the impression that your father...”

“He did, but… Well, you see, he left most of his fortune to Mother and, well… All the best people make the worst investments.”

“That’s true.”

“Luckily I have a man I can trust to advise me. I should have returned to Diamond Stud a few years earlier, Uncle Fred. I could’ve used your advice. You would’ve been of immense help to me.”

“If you need money, all you need to do is ask. But you’re not in any trouble, are you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. Though we have come across some…unruly characters on our travels—”

“‘Our’?”

“—I promise I’ve been smart and keeping myself safe at all times. I’d never force you to testify in court for me or bail me out of jail. And while I appreciate your generosity, I wasn’t asking you for money. Just merely stating a fact.”

“You’re not asking me for money?”

“No. It’s not money that I want from you, Uncle Fred.”

“So you don’t want money, and you don’t need me to bail you out of a sticky situation. But you want something. So what exactly are you hoping to get from me, sweetheart?”

“It’s just…you said that your invitation to come visit or stay with you in Africa was always open. I was hoping that’s still the case and I could come stay with you? We’ve had a wonderful time in India and on the beaches of Barcelona. I think you would like the Gaudi architecture. It’s from a strange alien world—”

“Hold on. You keep saying words like ‘our’ and ‘we’. Who is ‘we’? Not you and Sir John Talbot, certainly? I followed the story of your engagement to him. Of course, the papers say one thing but the rumor mill says another. They do so love to contradict and misconstrue to keep people guessing as to who to believe. Both the papers and the rumor mill say a great many things, in fact. The papers say you called off your engagement, the bored housewives say you ran away from home—”

“That’s about the size of it. I wouldn’t trust either of them to get any of the details right, let alone all of them, but I can tell you both of those statements hold some truth to them.”

“And where have you been?”

“Oh, too many places to name in one breath. But I’ve had company. I’d be bringing him with me. I want you and him to meet properly, face-to-face.”

“I see. I’m not quite sure what you believe I am to do about your situation. You’re asking me to house a stranger, someone I’ve never laid eyes on before. And a man, at that! Well, plead your case.”

“Right. Uncle Fred, may I present Jim Masters? He’s my…partner. Say hello to my godfather, Fred Martingale, Jim.”

“Hello, Mr. Martingale. How do you do, Sir?”

“Very well, thanks for asking. Now, Jim, you can tell me truthfully, man to man. When my goddaughter said you were her partner, did she mean business partner or intimate partner?”

“Neither, but I lean more towards the latter. It’s a long and complicated story, Mr. Martingale. One I’m sure would be much better told in person. That is, if you’d be kind enough to let us stay. I’d like to meet you in person and put a face to the stories I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh, she’s told you stories about me, has she? She’s a very immersive storyteller, I’ll give her that, but nothing compares to hearing stories from the source. I have many more stories that she hasn’t heard yet.”

“I’d like very much to hear them, sir. And I have stories of my own you’d probably call fantastic, but they’d keep your attention.”

“Is that so? That would be very amusing. But tell me, what do you think of her?”

“What do I think of her?”

“If you’ve spent as much time together as you’re leading me to believe, then you must’ve formed an opinion of her. She said you’re partners, but you’ve all but outright told me you’re not sexually intimate, so tell me, what do you think of her? When you look at her, what comes to mind?”

Afraid Jim was about to fall into a trap, you grabbed the phone from him. “Uncle Fred, I assure you that we love each other very much. While I was deeply flattered by the attention of Sir John Talbot, I… I simply could not ignore my long-standing affection for Jim. You see, Uncle Fred, it wasn’t love at first sight for us, but it was love. What I mean to say is that love is surely the greatest force of all. Once Jim and I realized we were completely enamored with each other, nothing could stand between us. Not even, I’m sorry to say, the attentions of a good and kind man such as Sir John Talbot.”

Jim snatched the phone back from you before you could react. Before you could so much as ask what he was doing, he was already speaking impassionedly to your godfather. “Mr. Martingale, she’s correct in that it wasn’t love at first sight for either of us. There was attraction, certainly, at least on my part. But Miss Skeffington thought me presumptuous, arrogant, insincere. All fair, really. And I thought her a young lady barely out of leading strings. She was so much younger than myself, and so romance was entirely out of the question for both of us. But in so removing it, we found something far greater. We found friendship. You see, Miss Skeffington and I had been fooling all of Charles Street for some time. We had fooled them into thinking we hated each other…when really, all along, we simply enjoyed each other’s company so much we couldn’t stay away from one another. I’ve never been a man that much enjoyed flirting, but I’ve always very much enjoyed talking and storytelling. The trouble was getting somebody to listen, somebody to share with. But with her…Miss Skeffington…conversation has always been easy. She took chances. With every wall I built, she saw a canvas to be painted, a story to be written. Her laughter brings me joy. To meet a beautiful woman is one thing, but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful of women is something entirely apart. To answer your question, whenever I look at her, I’m a little overwhelmed by such beauty. She’s beautiful not just in her face and body, but in personality and spirit. And it’s with my sincerest apologies, I must say it took Sir John Talbot coming along for me to realize I didn’t want Miss Skeffington to only be my friend or traveling companion. I wanted her to be my wife. I still want her to be my wife. Not today, not next year, but someday. For twenty years I was lost, aimlessly wandering from place to place, without roots, without a home, without a purpose. But when she’s with me, when she holds my hand and looks at me with that “come and get me” grin, there’s no need for words. The sky's brighter looking at it through her eyes. Her eyes utter the sweetest love songs. Every time she turns around to face me, I know she’s singing only for me. I know I’ve found where I belong.”

“Well put, Mr. Masters. You are wise…or perhaps unusually lucky to understand friendship to be the best possible foundation a relationship, especially a marriage, can have. Even if that foundation should crumble as quickly as it was built. Put her back on.”

Jim handed you the phone. He couldn’t hear what your godfather said to you, but from your relieved smile and what you said next, he must’ve given in. It sounded to Jim like he passed the test.

“Oh, thank you, Uncle Fred! What? No, you don’t have to do that. Really, we can pay our own way. We will look for a cheap standby ticket and call you when we’re headed your way. Are you sure? We can manage on our own. We don’t need— Oh, all right. If you insist. You and I are the same. Once we set our minds on something, it’s impossible for anyone to change them. Sorry again for the short notice! Can’t wait to see you again, Uncle Fred! It’ll be good to be in Africa, for you and Jim to meet… Oh, I’m so excited! Right, you have a plane to catch early tomorrow. I won’t keep you any longer, then. Goodbye, Uncle Fred. And thank you again. I love you!” Once you hung up the phone, you turned towards Jim. “He’ll be up by plane in the morning so that he’ll be there to receive us. I tried to tell him he didn’t have to, but he’s insisted on wiring us the money to travel from Casablanca to Diamond Stud.”

“Well, goodbye, Captain Jorham. It was a splendid voyage and I enjoyed it.”

“Mighty smart navigating too. The last time I hit South Africa I was aiming for Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Oh, welcome. Welcome for the good Captain Jorham.”

“Hello, Mr. Martingale.”

“And this, I’m certain must be my goddaughter. Though you’re much taller than when I saw you last.”

“The last time you saw me, I was eight years old, Uncle Fred. I hit a growth spurt since then,” you laughed.

“And this must be…hold on, don’t tell me. it’s on the top of my tongue… Oh! Mr. Masters. Jim. Delighted to greet you.”

“Thank you. And thank you for giving us a place to stay, Mr. Martingale. I’ve never had anyone be so kind.”

“And how’s the enchanting Mrs. Jorham?”

“She’s waiting for me on board. Well, God bless you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Goodbye, Fred.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Martingale—”

“Pablo, My servant, devoted to me. He’ll help load your luggage into my car and drive us to my house. My house is yours, for however long you need use of it. We shall drink to the past, forget the future, and pleasantly live in the present. I have a million questions about Europe to ask you both.”

“Yes, but time is—”

“Oh, please, please, time is unlimited in South Africa. It’s always early in the day, and we still have plenty of time. I’m a gentleman of leisure, with a house full of servants and a charming disposition.”

“And an overwhelming power of persuasion,” Jim noted.

Uncle Fred laughed. “Yes. You’ll be glad I persuaded you, my friend. But wait till you see South Africa, my home.”

“I’m going to write to Fanny and Uncle George once we settle in.”

“An admirable ambition, dear, but quite futile,” Uncle Fred said as he took a puff from his cigar.

“Why?”

“Because the people running the post office in Diamond Stud have quit, gone away. There is nothing left of it but an old abandoned building. Empty. Nothing decorating the brick walls. You can probably have it, but who wants it? It’s only good for squatting. The nearest post office that’s still active is in De Aar.”

“Well, I shall have to go there, if need be.”

“Now let me see. Yes, you’ll need a bit of tailoring the first thing and then… Jim, did you hear me? Jim.”

“What?”

“I said you need compeletely new and different clothes. I shall arrange with my tailors to…”

Jim laughed, interrupting whatever your Uncle Fred was going to say. “You remind me of my aunt. The first time I met her, she thought I needed clothes too.”

“And did you?”

“As I recall, I was two years old and stark naked.”

The men shared a good, hearty laugh. Their laughter was infectious as you found yourself laughing too. Though you tried to cover your mouth with your hand to hide it, there was no missing or mistaking the mirth in your eyes, which gave them a special sort of sparkle in the sun’s light that could rival the world’s largest diamond.

Back in the United States, your sister, Fanny, received two letters in the mail from somewhere in Africa. A place she had never been. Who did she know in Africa? There was Uncle Fred, but why would he write her? She knew he loved her just as much as he loved you, but she was Uncle George’s goddaughter, not his. At first glance, the envelopes looked to the rest of the world as any other but, upon closer inspection, she noticed the envelopes came with airmail stamps. They actually bore several stamps from African countries that she would likely never see, and were easily a couple months old, having taken their time arriving at their destination. The long-awaited envelopes came at last.

Upon opening the first one, she recognized the handwriting immediately. It wasn’t a letter from Uncle Fred. It was a letter from you. The handwriting was absolutely yours, and so Fanny’s heart leaped for joy. You were a more seasoned traveler already than most she knew. She was trembling so hard from either nerves or excitement or maybe both that she had to sit down. Never before had Fanny read a letter so quickly in her life, her eyes darting frantically from word to word, trying her best to take them all in, but her eyes inevitably skipped around. She was so eager and somewhat anxious to know how you’d been getting along that it was difficult to be patient, to resist the temptation to just skip to the end.

March 1937

Dearest Fanny,

I was right about the hunch I had about Jim’s letter. I found him and, when I did, I told him, “I want us to pack up everything we can and get in the car and let’s just drive... until we find somewhere... for us.” And he asked me... if I could really do that. And I said yes. Yes! It’s been a few months since our travels started. We sure get around. At one time my material possessions fitted in one suitcase. Do you know that I have a story for each of these places I’ve been? Well, I don’t know if they’re all true…but they are my memories.

Jim and I are now in the African desert proper, and the heat is beyond belief. It can be so hot here come summertime, yet in truth it’s simply giving back what went in, finding balance as the dawn approaches, ready for each new day. Consider this place for a minute if you will. There is nothing but desolation outside, mountainous crags amidst endless waves of sand. It’s a place as blank as a sheet of paper. It often reminds me of the interior of a whale’s belly. It’s only an intellectual association, of course. But it’s just from the whale’s sordid interior that we scavenge to base for the most exciting perfumes. And that can turn we confused with desirability, with virtue, with great passion. It’s the place we had always been looking for. Flat expanses would call to me… These are the places where the desert is most itself: Stark, open, free, an invitation to wander - a laboratory of perception, scale, light - a place where loneliness has a luxurious flavor... Drifting across the vast space, silent except for wind and footsteps, Jim and I felt uncluttered and unhurried for the first time in a while, already on desert time.

Say, why are we here? I mean Jim, me, Uncle Fred, any of us? Why do we stay here in Diamond Stud? Simply because we’re infatuated. Yes. Infatuated. Plucking at the skirts of this woman, this desert, this heartless courtesan. But we…we stay here, eternally hopeful for some small glittering favor. Amazing place, this place here in the desert where the gems lie just a few inches below the surface, free, free for the taking. Were if not for certain unfortunate restrictions. When we first arrived in Diamond Stud, Uncle Fred had warned us of the dangers of the desert, especially the prohibited areas. He told us stories of different types of djinni that are rumored to have been encountered in the desert.

The ifrit is a djinni of fire and flame, a vengeance called upon a murderer, implacable, unstoppable, the death of cities. It rises from desolation, from broken lands, and its sign is a shining light. It scents the vitality of its victim and seizes them with its burning eye until all life is drained, as a spider husks a fly. A du'a al-mas'alah, a prayer of asking, and true penance is the only defense. There once were men who had taken shelter in the courtyard of a ruined fortress until the sun was lower. But when their bodies were found, their skin was so dry and wrinkled that they looked like dried raisins. The official cause of death was dehydration, but others say it was the Ifrit that got to them and drained them dry, leaving their bodies to overbake in the sun. Then there is the ghûl and the hatif. The ghûl is a base djinni, a thing of fear, of trickery and shadow, dwelling in the deep places of the world. When it scents human flesh, it digs through the sand to the world above to snare the unwary traveler. It is tricksy, speaking with the voice of men, leading its victims into harsh places, there to slaughter, devour, and drink their blood. It doesn’t always kill its victims directly. It takes delight in manipulating its victims, sowing seeds of doubt into its victims’ minds, instilling paranoia and turning them against each other until they’re driven to murder. Similarly, the hatif is a djinni of calling, the voice alone in the desert; the cry of one bereft and in need of aid. Yet this voice is bodiless and unfleshed, spun of air and dreams; it assails the weary and the beleaguered, luring them from their path and into the wilderness. There they may search in vain, lost and thirsty, until they are bone and dust. Many men have died gruesome and unusual deaths in the pursuit of diamonds or hidden treasure, and many bodies were never found, theorized to have been reduced to easy pickings for vultures and other wildlife or otherwise reclaimed by the earth. If the gunfire of the guards stationed around the prohibited area won’t get trespassers, the elements will. The desert, the mountains, and the sea are sisters, tenacious triplets of nature, and once they have you, they won’t give you back.

Uncle Fred has made us feel quite at home. He has taken Jim under his wing, treating him like an unofficial apprentice while we’re here. He has expressed his interest in business to Uncle Fred, who was impressed by his ability to demonstrate his competence in being both personable and persuasive. They’re both “deliciously unscrupulous” (their words, not mine), and have a mutual respect and admiration for each other. They have quickly become close friends and have been showing each other the ropes, trusting each other to divulge the secrets of their respective trades. It’s no surprise to me that they’d warm to each other so quickly. They have a lot in common. So much, in fact, that if I didn’t know any better, I would assume they were two halves of the same person. If I didn’t know either of them as well as I do, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart! They’re a real Tom and Huck to start. Pretty ironic, huh. Uncle Fred has spent his whole life searching for diamonds when all along he has possessed something far more valuable - his uncanny knack for making friends. As for me, I felt bold on leaving Charles Street. I thought my life at home in New York was miserable, but after coming here, I realized I am blessed more than I could ever imagine. When I envisioned my trip, I imagined exciting adventures, exotic locales, a jet-set lifestyle. I never thought grief and doubt would climb into my backpack and come with me. I pictured someday standing with Jim at the top of the Sun Gate, looking down at Machu Picchu, without ever thinking about the steps it would take to get there.

Jim and I had previously been staying in Casablanca but, despite being a neutral zone, corruption and illegal activity ran rampant and it was anything but safe. While we were there, we witnessed a man get shot to death in broad daylight and everyone around us was desensitized to it, like it was just another Tuesday afternoon! And the French Prefect of Police, Captain Louis Renault, kept flirting with me and trying to get me into his bed despite me refusing him over and over and over again! He was nonplussed by Jim being right there! The nerve of that man! With the help of Uncle Fred, we made a plan and moved on within the month. A good thing we left when we did too, because, just a few days after our departure, I read in the papers that Nazis flew in from Berlin. I can’t bring myself to imagine what might’ve happened to me if I had still been in Casablanca and they discovered I was the daughter of a Jewish man! I’ve seen what happens to refugees. I’ve seen how a wicked and corrupt system has given one man the right of life and death over his fellow man. I’ve seen a man beaten, tortured, killed because he was unfortunate enough to have been born poor. I become quite melancholy and deeply grieved to see men behave to each other as they do. Not just in Casablanca, but in Diamond Stud too. Though Uncle Fred has done everything to shield me from it, I know it’s happening here, and I’m sure in other areas of the continent too. Nobody warned me about this part. This is the curse of wanderlust, when the postcard image becomes a brutal reality. While Africa is a large continent, and there’s many parts of it that are perfectly safe and incredibly beautiful, there are others that are not at all what I thought it would be. No. No, it’s more savage, brutal and cruel than I could’ve ever imagined.

I think… I think it odious and unfair that some people are so well off and others are so poor. And beyond Africa, everywhere on the planet, I find nothing but base flattery, injustice, self-interest, deceit and roguery. I often feel I cannot bear it any longer. I’m furious, and it makes me want to break with all mankind, though I know this feat is impossible. Instead, I channel my fury, my frustrations, and any and all emotions that lie in between into my art. It’s the only way for me to cope with everything that’s going on around me. To stop myself from getting crushed under the weight of the world’s suffering when it feels like everything is falling apart at my ears. To stop myself from going insane from overthinking. It’s not up to me to save everyone. It’s not up to me to save anyone. I know this is the truth, but it’s a truth that’s hard to swallow.

I confess I find Diamond Stud rough and strange, and myself strange in it. By now, Mother has probably received word from Uncle George or the grapevine of gossiping ladies that I’m in Africa with Uncle Fred, and believes that I am here for a brief interlude of sensational experience before succumbing to a matrimonial fate. And while there’s surely no lack of sensational experience of every kind available in such a city, I hope that any experience I gain here will strictly go towards my pursuit of becoming a better artist and photographer rather than becoming a wife, and that all events of a romantic or sensational nature will be entirely confined to Jim, or to a sketchbook, canvas, or photograph. I wanted to do something for the people here, something meaningful without ulterior motives of expecting glory or praise and, though I had no luck at first, Uncle Fred has found me an opportunity to teach children. Well, I did not expect opportunity to knock so soon.

My students are dear boys and girls. Some of them remind me of myself when I was around their age. How curious to grow up with no mother or father, and your own older brother or sister having to act as parent in their stead. At first I was only teaching children, but some of the adults expressed an interest in learning too, so that they and their children or younger siblings could do it together as a bonding activity. Now I’ve been teaching both children and adults how to draw, how to paint. Whenever anyone gets discouraged in their art, I reassure them about the importance of not needing to be technically proficient in an activity to enjoy it, that there’s no such thing as mistakes, only happy little accidents. That not everything needs to be clear or easy to comprehend, that there’s beauty in all art, even the most abstract. I never thought I’d ever be good at teaching or giving pep talks, but my words tend to lift their spirits right back up. It isn’t easy, the work I do. Nothing but broken souls around me, and the ones that aren’t broke are greedy. Bone-tired. Life here is hard, but meaningful. I’m doing my best to bring a little joy to the world, what with all the gloom.

I dreamt that we were soldiers, Jim and I. We were dressed as soldiers are, in combat camouflage, guns at the ready. It was nighttime and we stared up a mighty cliff face, yet as we tried to climb, the bullets came from all around. Together we fought them, shot dead each one, then resumed our task of reaching the higher ground. I found a coin, old and covered in dirt, the engravings worn and the head of the king so tarnished as to be stolen from view. I held it in my left hand, watching the mud dirty my skin. So close to my face the coin had the aroma of stale blood. I turned to my right hand and in the palm was a new spring leaf, crowned by a perfect sphere of dew, reflecting an image of my face, softened and relaxed. When I turned back to the coin, the image of the king had freed himself and journeyed over to the leaf, igniting the growth of strong roots and new foliage that reached for the sunlight, robust, virescent.

Maybe Heaven is helping me find my calling? With all that has happened these past few months, my wish to make a difference, no matter how small, might just come true. I must be doing something right, because I feel useful for the first time in my life, like I’ve given children and adults a spot of hope as they try to survive the dark days of the looming threat of war, and that must be a good thing. They need me just as much now as they did a minute ago. And I’ve never been needed before. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll stay, but I hope that, after we leave, my students will remember me fondly. Maybe some of them will still be around when I come back, whenever that day may be. It’d be nice to reconnect with them, see how they’re doing someday in the future.

I miss you by the way, if that wasn’t obvious. I sure hope this letter reaches you before Jim and I move on to Ouagadougou and Nairobi. The post can be unpredictable at times, but I haven’t received any letters from you for a while now. In case this letter doesn’t reach you in time, I feel I should tell you we’ll be going to Algiers afterwards, but I’ve already said more than enough about me and Jim. I want to hear about you and Johnny. I hope you both are doing well in Seattle. How is everything going for you over there? I miss you. I wish I was there with you. Did you find more rocks to skip across the water? I remember when we were children, we would go to the lake to practice. You were worse compared to me then, but now I can never beat you in a match. I’m so proud of having such a hard working sister.

Love,

Your sister xxx

The second letter was much shorter, as if it could’ve been a post-script message for the first letter, but was written separately and at a later date, which told Fanny that you had made a spur of the moment decision.

March 1937

Dear Fanny,

Don’t tell Mother or Uncle George just yet, but we were supposed to only stay in Africa for one more week’s time, but we recently decided that we’ll be extending our stay in Africa for another six months. There’s so much to see and do in this beautiful continent, we want to experience as much of it as we can by committing more than enough time to exploring it. The plan is to still move on to Algiers afterwards, we’re just putting it off for the time being.

Love,

Your sister xxx

In September of 1937, you and Jim left Africa and moved on to your next big adventure. Ever since you left home, months passed, then a year, then two, then two and a half. Nearly three years passed, with you, Fanny, and Uncle George keeping in contact by exchanging letters and postcards back and forth with an occasional phone call along the way.

September 1937

Dear Fanny,

We’re finally in Algeria, and the stories don’t do this place justice. It is amazing! I’ve never seen anywhere as busy as the market in Algiers. The smells, the flavors, the colors and, oh, the noise! Some other highlights:

History. - The colonization of Algeria was rendered difficult by the presence of a native population which already had its own civilization, and was nomad and warlike in its instincts. A start was made in the region of the Tell, and then the mountains and high plateau land were taken in hand. There has been a spontaneous flor of Italian and Spanish immigration, and a system of land grants and other concessions have attracted large numbers of immigrants from the south of France who have settled down well in the country. Between 1904 and 1914, 206,000 hectares of land had been settled, of which 91,200 were free grants.

Mines. - The country is rich in minerals, which, however, have not been thoroughly exploited. The chief mineral resource is iron, the exports of which in 1920 amounted to 1,114,438 tons, valued at 33,879,000 francs. There are large phosphate deposits in the Constantine Province, which exported 334,704 tons in 1920 to a value of 18 million francs. There are also copper, zinc, lead, and antimony mines. Coal deposits were discovered during the war, and the work of British and American prospectors in the Oran indicates the possibility of existence of oil fields of some size.

Native rights. - The valuable help given by the native population of Algiers to France during the last war led, as it did in other parts of the French colonial empire, to a wider recognition of the political rights of the native. A law was passed on February 4, 1919, conferring French citizenship on any native of Algeria who had either served in the French army or navy, was a landowner, farmer, or licensed trader, knew how to read and write French, or was the possessor of a French decoration.

I may have picked up a little something for you and Johnny. You never know your luck! I like this place a lot. The people here are nice to me. Bringing the polaroid camera I bought years ago during my camera-obsessed phase seems like a good idea now. I am wandering through this life of mine, writing snapshots of my life. For me, the real win was the photos I took of Jim (watch out for Miss Skeffington, the rising stalker!) We all carried bottled water and day packs. I brought my camera, but Jim didn’t bring one. He said he didn’t believe in taking photographs; he planned to store his memories in his head, an idea I found incomprehensibly radical. My impulse to record was almost on par with my impulse to travel. But Jim has got every sunset that he’s ever seen memorized. “The best traveler is one without a camera,” he said. Well, I’m taking tons of photos. We’ll have to spend so much time together in the darkroom!

Can you believe your own sister was recently standing face to face with a real mummy? The tour guide was telling us some of the legends surrounding the desert. They tell you to stick with the group on tours. There’s a reason for that. I can’t wait to see you back in the States where I can fill you in on all of my stories. As promised, I’ll save the best stories for next time we meet in person, but I’ll share one of legends with you now, just to give you a taste of what you have to look forward to when I’m back in the States.

In life there was Setyamutef, an Egyptian prince and the only living son of the Pharaoh Senusnet, after his wife had suffered multiple stillbirths and miscarriages. He had seen wonders most men only dreamed of. But when his son was born at midnight, breathing and healthy, he was instantly more precious to him than all the wonders of the ancient world. On that day, the people thronged the byways of the city. When the doors of the tower opened, the name of their new prince rippled through the crowd before him like dye into water. “Setyamutef, Blessed Setyamutef.” Senusnet’s own father died before he was old enough to really remember him, but he grew up with his older brothers. However, the ones who lived past infancy and childhood all died prematurely sometime after they turned eighteen, either from foul play or tragic accidents. He feared his son would share the same fate as his brothers, doomed to die before his time if he ever came of age. He had alchemists from all over Egypt summoned to the palace, and they all came bearing a litter on which rested seven crystal orbs. But despite their best efforts, the rituals and spells they performed on the infant prince all failed. Their combined power wasn’t strong enough. To achieve what he wanted, Senusnet would need a great deal of power. Power that mortal men couldn’t ever hope to possess. The power of a god. So he called upon Khoret, the Goddess of Youth, sometimes called the Mistress of Eternity or the Childlike Empress since her mind was that of an adult woman, but her appearance was that of a perpetual child.

She stepped down, bare-headed and bare-handed, dressed in a simple robe, and she walked amongst the people. Some cried out with joy, some wept openly, but they all kneeled before her as she passed. Behind her came Mnisiria, another childlike deity who had the body of an adult man but the mind of a boy, who was her consort and thought to be a protector of households and, in particular, mothers and children. When they came to the palace, the royal guards and the Queen and Pharaoh themselves knelt before them in respect. They heard Senusnet’s entreaty, but they warned him that there was a heavy price to pay for granting his son eternal youth since it wasn’t a gift that could be given freely to just any mortal, not even ones touched by the gods. Even the gods themselves were bound to laws and rules more ancient than themselves, put in place by an invisible but omniscient being or force that came into existence before them, in order to maintain an always delicate balance. The balancing act that was their eternal obligation was precarious. One misstep too far to one side and the consequences could be disastrous for humans. The Pharoah, desperate to save his son from dying young, didn’t heed Khoret and Mnisiria’s warnings. They fulfilled their end of the bargain, but took all of the Pharoah’s memories from when he was a child as payment, including those of his brothers. He wouldn’t discover until later that, because of him, his son would pay a much greater price.

Like Khoret and Mnisiria, he was cursed to be perpetually a youth and could never age physically or mentally past the age of eight, trapped in a child’s body with a child’s mind. During a tumultuous time period of his father’s reign which included a great famine from which many died, the prince miraculously discovered a source of food in the desert that saved his people from their suffering. A Sifar tribe was founded and, as a gift to the young prince for his act of bravery and heroism, they called upon Tairin, the Goddess of Growth and Harvest, to provide them with special seeds so they could plant a juniper tree to allow the prince to grow to be an adult and purge the desert of rot and infidels. Before he could grow to his full potential, he was stolen away in his cocoon by a rival tribe and brought to what is now Algeria. They wished to have the child elevated to godhood with their leader as his consort. However, regardless of how much blood they tried to share with Setyamutef, there was no response because Setyamutef had in fact stripped himself of his flesh and traveled to the Land of Shadow. This tribe opposed to the Sifar, the Nanaki, called Setyamutef the Childlike Emperor or The Child Who Cannot Die. They were a people that refused the call to Islam, for their own ancestor, Kanebti, a bringer of healing and fertility, walked the sand, and how could they disbelieve the evidence of their own eyes? There was fighting, as there always is in such matters, but the Nanaki were wealthy, and made their peace through trade in salt and meat.

Even in his cocooned form, it’s said that Setyamutef has the ability to compel affection from others. Though originally thought to be a blessing and a sign of benevolence, this is referred to by his modern day followers as terrifying, as benevolence is not always synonymous with harmlessness. Perhaps this is why he is known as the most fearsome of all the Pharaohs and Princes who ever lived. Nevertheless, his tree where he once hibernated is known to provide shelter from the desert’s elements to those who are lost, but only to those pure of heart and free of ill intent. Anyone with a soul or heart that’s been blackened by greed or violence is said to be attacked by the tree, strangled to death by its branches and their bodies claimed by the desert, never to be found beneath the sand. Setyamutef is said to be awaiting for a promised mortal who is worthy enough to be his consort. He will guide them in the Land of Shadow, where he hopes to finally be reborn and manifest into adult form.

Though time has made it little more than folklore, perhaps there was once a real person called Setyamutef, a leader of his people. There’s a mountain named for him, and indeed his body may lie within or underneath it, hidden in the lost ruins deep beneath the surface. But it is speculated that there is more, much more, to that structure, wherever it may be. It is theorized that the deeper ruins are Roman in origin, and it’s there that archaeologists may find a mithraeum, set by the Romans to protect the gateway they seek. Once within...what wonders will those archaeologists see? While skeptics may chalk it up to hallucinations brought on by heatstroke, I think these are ancient memories of what truly happened in that place eons ago. Don’t most legends have some grain of truth to them? I don’t know for sure though. There are other, much older stories that have been conflated with his. Legends of the Gray Lady. The Sifar talk of their guardian spirit, a woman all in gray, who haunts the desert and protects their people against the specter of death. Perhaps the right word for the woman who walks the desert is goddess. She is a deity of healing, of succor in the wilderness. She has many names. People call her the Woman of the Tents, the Daughter of the Desert, or the Mother of Us All. She is wild and capricious; she cannot be summoned, but if her sympathy is roused she may choose to bestow her favor, giving of her body to quench the thirst of the dying, and guiding those who wander in the soft places. So people leave her gifts of desert flowers. There were also legends of a healer and weary travelers who were tested and saved by the Gray Lady as they struggled to survive in the desert.

But Jim and I stopped paying attention after the legend of Setyamutef. To be honest, the tour guide wasn’t the most talented of storytellers, and we eventually grew bored listening to him drone on and on. So we snuck off on one of the unmarked side paths while hiking in Chrea and got a little lost. Okay, a lot lost. For hours. I was running and deliberately lost my way. The world far off and nothing but my breath and the very next step and it’s like hypnosis. The feeling of conquering my own aliveness with no task but to keep going, making every way the right way and that’s a metaphor for everything. Wandering aimlessly, I love the thrill of unknown paths. I am a nomad. I am a wanderer. I am a drifter. Why do I keep on drifting? Yes, I wish I knew why? I am not aware of the reason myself. Why do I keep on drifting? I usually don’t mind getting lost, especially when I’m with someone I love. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t panic a little bit as it started to feel like we were walking for ever and ever and I couldn’t tell if we were getting any closer to where we started or if we were going in the opposite direction or, even worse, going in circles.

Luckily, Jim kept a cool head and right before the bus left, we found a trail, and came running down the path, soaked and covered in mud and sand from head to toe, shouting for the bus not to leave. The dirt was even packed under our fingernails, the skin around them raw and bleeding, and our shoulders ached. We knelt and plunged our hands into a cool stream we found along the way. The cuts stung like fire for a moment, and then cool numbness washed it away. Delay and dirt are the realities of the most rewarding travel. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Jim and I find beauty in the thrown away and broken things, the morbid filth that glues together our world - the necessary decomposition that life must arise from. Still, I can only imagine what Mother would say if I called home and told her about this... “you didn't get in trouble like this before you met Jim!” but I don’t think she know-knows about us.

Mother thought too hard. It’s not like that with travel. We can’t work too much at it, or it feels like work. I eased into the idea of letting go of control and simply letting life take the reins. And when I don’t hold it so tightly, it doesn’t thrash against me so wildly. It calms to a trot and allows me to take in the scenery, experience love, and learn what is important in this world: People, places, memories - not things or perceptions. Jim and I have to surrender ourselves to the chaos, to the accidents. Travel, we agreed, was a litmus test: If we could make the best of the chaos and serendipity that we’d inevitably meet in transit, then we’d surely be able to sail through the rest of life together just fine. So far, we’ve done pretty well, minus the times we overslept and missed our trains. Keep walking, Fanny, for sometimes the detours may find you a door, a route opening into a pathway that you never knew danced inside the buried layers of your wandering soul. The unruly characters we sometimes meet though... I’m really afraid that’s a whole other story. Moral of today’s story: Stick with the group, Fanny. Stick with the group. The tour guide is there for good reason, even if he is dull as dishwater.

Love,

Your sister xxx

June 1939

Dear Fanny,

Our third “anniversary” is coming up. Three years of traveling together. Last year, Jim invited me to my favorite restaurant. It was a complete surprise, and I was so happy. Things had been so hectic, I thought he might have forgotten. After dinner, we went back to our room, but we couldn’t sleep, so we drove to the ocean and spent the rest of the evening taking a turn along the beach. We were walkers of the velvet night, we were lovers of the light and each floral blossom. Our well traveled soles were born to embrace each onward path and seek horizons others dare not gaze upon. Walking was our most beloved way of waking, to stride out each dawn bare soled upon the beach jetty. But seeing it at night… The water was so beautiful as the light from the moon shone down on it. We talked and we played as if we were teenagers in love. Sprinting across the sand, leaving sinking footprints, splashing into the froth of a wave, laughing at the spray, pressing oyster and seashells into the beach, making patterns in the sand…

I sat down in the sand while Jim talked to me about someplace he had been. Every time he looked back at me, I felt a surge of happiness inside. So I sketched him doing just that. Talking, smiling with his hands behind his back… It didn’t take too long for him to figure out that I was, in fact, not paying any attention to what he was saying. He stopped talking and began staring at what I was doing instead. The odd silence made me look up to find Jim with his eyebrows raised, eyeing my sketchbook. “You’re supposed to draw something that inspires you! That’s the only reason why we are here, my dear!”

“I know!” I held the pages up to my chest, hiding it from him as he began to walk to me, motioning for me to show him my sketch. “And I am doing just that. So leave me be!”

He immediately stopped, “I inspire you?”

I nodded, holding back a laugh. “Yes. Now, stand just as you were before I run out of inspiration. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“I wouldn’t dare dream of such things.”

Once I was done and had set my sketchbook safely aside, he flung his arms under my knees, and picked me up bridal style. He looked up at me and grinned, “Darling,” he said, “come and see what I’ve made for you!” The wanderlust crept up again inside me like a shooting star, a sudden, violent urge to escape disappearing into darkness again. I pushed down the afterglow and focused. I could not remember the last time I felt that carefree. Ultimately, I have come to think, travel teaches us about love. It teaches us that the very best we can do with our lives is to embrace the peoples, places, and cultures we meet with all our mind, heart, and soul, to live as fully as possible in every moment, every day. And it teaches us that this embrace is simultaneously a way of becoming whole and letting go. When the world has become a pencil drawing, a masterpiece on the easel of the creator, I await for it to fade to black and arise anew. It is as if the nightfall were the curtains closing, and the dawn were their opening each day, the birds singing on cue with their beautiful serenade. While others sleep through the dying of the light, my task is to remain awake and witness its rebirth, to see how the pencil sketch becomes the greatest of technicolor movies. As the blackness comes I calmly watch myself be erased, eyes open and seeing nothing at all. The only evidence of my being is the steady thump of my heart and the cool air in my lungs.

Love,

Your sister xx

August 1939

Dear sister,

So much has changed, even just since you’ve been away. And my twin sister being gone for three years doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t feel real. But I’m not going to let it phase me. I used to tell you everything, and if I can’t do it in person, because you’re off gallivanting around who-knows-where with Jim, I’ll just tell it to this letter. Just like I was talking to you. I love you and I miss you.

Love,

Fanny x

October 1939

Dear Fanny,

Do you remember when you first wrote to me to tell me of your upcoming nuptials to Johnny Mitchell? Though it took a while for it to make its way to me, when I finally received it, I was ecstatic to hear such wonderful news! Of course, it was announced in the paper, but hearing it from you was all the more meaningful. Though I missed you, I was glad you weren’t there to witness my embarrassing display of excitement. The sounds that came out of me were indescribable. In Jim’s words, I was like a little kid who had too much sugar before bed but, once I told him the reason for my giddiness and showed him your letter, he understood and let me have my moment to celebrate you and Johnny. By the time you received my next letter, I could safely assume you were no longer Miss Fanny Skeffington, but Mrs. Fanny Mitchell. I hoped my letter would reach you by the time you and Johnny got back from your honeymoon.

There were many things I could’ve said, but to keep things short, sweet, and to the point, all I said was something Uncle George once said to me about Jim, and that was that I only spent an hour or so with Johnny, but I could tell you with confidence that there was nothing really wrong with that man. I knew he’d love you and treat you right, as a husband should. Although you said you weren’t going to have a big wedding and were just going to get married at the registrar’s office, I still regret that I could not be there with you. But I had a gift sent to you, enclosed with a card that emphasized how much I love you and wished the both of you every happiness. It was no surprise that you got married before me. You were always the practical one. Do you remember the wishes we made when we were children? Yours was to get married and have a family of your own, while mine was to roam the world and meet new people.

Speaking of marriage… Neither of us are sure how or who brought it up first, but the topic of conversation turned to just that. Nothing particularly happened to push Jim and I to this decision, but we keep having our best conversations while the world is asleep, trying to find ourselves somewhere between dusk and the sunrise. We were talking about anything and everything, even things that were trivial and inconsequential. We reminisced on how we met. We laugh now when we talk about the beginning, how I fell out of a tree and practically into his arms that day in Wakeforte Park! Even if we had nothing important to say, it was lovely just listening to each other’s voices. Now we’re wide awake. Except this time, we think we know what we intend to say to each other. Fanny, Jim and I have decided that… Well, there’s no use trying to win Mother over. She’s too sensible, so we’re going to elope. We’ve decided! We are going to get married while we’re here. I’m ready. I wasn’t sure before about eloping, but Jim thinks that Mother will never come round until after the wedding. I hope you’ll be happy for us, because it’s what we both want. I was surrounded by doubters. Mother, her old friends and neighbors… The only way to silence them is just to get married and have done with it. You can’t leave everything up in the air indefinitely. At least that’s a decision. Uncle Fred once told us he could have a Bedouin ceremony performed and that he’d be our witness. We weren’t too sure of the legality of it, but Uncle Fred said he’d look into it. We’re just going to go to a registrar’s office, just like you and Johnny did. I’d love to tell you more about it, but it can wait until I’m back in the States. Registrar offices don’t allow personal vows and get you in and out within ten minutes, so we’ll probably come back at some point and renew our vows on American soil, just so we can make our wedding a bit more personal and be certain our marriage is legal in both Europe and the States. Things with Mother might be different by then. I hope it will be for the better.

Though we will still have separate lives outside of our marriage, our destiny is by each other’s side. When Mother organized my wedding to Sir John, I was very angry. But, with this year, I’ve learned that I’m ready, that I want to love Jim as a wife loves her husband. We’re best friends, kindred spirits, and we’ll soon be husband and wife. We’ll love each other, and while we won’t be attached at the hip 24/7, all 365 days of every year, we will always be there for each other when it really matters. As I finish penning this letter to you, the wind howls, but I am warm, cocooned under the blanket by the fire in Jim and I’s motel room. We smoked cigarettes until six in the morning and I listened as his words flowed; plans, hopes, dreams, fantasies, everything that we know is possible and impossible, but I know that it doesn’t matter, for we will be together throughout it all, and that is everything. Now I need to stop writing because I’m falling asleep on his chest.

Love,

Your sister xx

October 1939

Dear Fanny,

It’s so insane to me that most of the people you meet in life are just passing moments. You’ll know them for a brief period of time before they’re a stranger again and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it because that is just how it’s meant to be… Hardest part of life honestly. I don’t want to be a temporary moment or experience, I want to be with certain people forever. I realized that people, from new-made friends to life-long family, inevitably come and go in the composition of our lives, but that once they have appeared, they never really leave. And I realized too that the people we love - the memory of the people we love, their enduring, pulsing presence in our lives - is like those violins that street performers play. Every day, in one form or another, we take them out and play them, if just for a while. We become them, swooping, spiraling, soaring to the apex of our minds. We honor them and keep them alive - as they do us, intertwined. I welcome my journey with a strong heart. I stand tall and love the fresh air that comes from following this ever onward road. I stride in bold steps, feeling a sense of pride in each one. And this journey is not about a destination, nor arrival point or finish line... for there is no such thing. This journey is about the traveling, the traveling companions and the reason for the noble struggle. Friends come, friends go, often times I am alone, yet I have my compass, I have my path and I have two well clad feet each dawn.

The path doesn’t care about the terrain, that’s for me to deal with. The path is the path. So whatever comes I keep going. When I get knocked down I have to get up, because there’s no other way. I know what’s out there though, I know because the universe told me. It said, “just walk” and so I did. I still do. It says at the other end is peace, real happiness for everyone, and I gotta keep going even if the path makes me bleed. Sometimes it has, sometimes so much I just wanna stay down and feel the cold... then I remember why I started this journey and find my feet again. It’s lonely though, and I think some company would be nice if you can be brave enough. It’s freedom, it’s duty, it’s leading and following. I can’t promise comfort, but there’s plenty of stuff to kindle my soul and bring the sorts of smiles I thought only belonged to the stars. Jim and I have been going steady for many seasons now, steady in our hearts and souls, sailing quietly onward as ships together upon calm seas, sails always filled by onward breeze. So, as we love one another so much, as we can only see a future together, can we agree that the time has come to settle down, to accept that our stories are forever weaved.

Love,

Your sister xx

December 1939

My darling sister,

I hope this letter finds you well. How are things going? It’s been a while since I heard from you, so I decided to send another letter. You’re always in a different place all the time, so it’s hard to know your exact address. I hope things are going well. Just don’t get discouraged. I know things aren’t easy for you, and how hard it is to find an opportunity for this type of work. Your friends always ask about you. You should write to them too. I always hear them telling others how you took your car and set off on your adventure to chase your dream of being an artist. Oh, I guess now I know why you don’t write to them. I know you don’t want to disappoint them. Mother and Uncle George are fine. Uncle George misses you, and Mother doesn’t talk much about you. You know how she disapproved of your idea, but she loves you. And I love you too. Johnny and I are doing well in Seattle, but we miss you very much.

How delightful to hear you and Jim might elope! Other ladies might find it irresponsible and foolish, but I think it’s so romantic. We always used to say we couldn’t be any more different from each other, and that still holds true, but at least there’s one thing we have in common: Neither of us were ever attracted to the idea of a big, traditional white wedding with all the trimmings. Fashionable weddings reminded us too much of Mother’s extravagant parties and lost whatever appeal they might have had. To be with the one you love and exchange vows and rings signifying your love for each other only in front of someone with the power to bind you together under God… To share a kiss and sign your names on a piece of paper… To seal that bond no man can turn asunder in the privacy of a registry office… That was enough for Johnny and I, and it’ll be enough for you and Jim too, I imagine. All the rest of it - A church, flowers, a towering cake, and an overpriced white dress we’d only wear once… It all seemed so wasteful, just an excuse to throw money at something, to throw a party and be the center of attention to keep up appearances for people you barely know or don’t know at all. You must write to us and tell us of all your adventures! But save the best stories for when you see us again in person – soon, we hope! Your last letter got to me the day before we started riding the train back to New York, and I was reading it while on my way home! If you come home, we can read all our letters together and share our memories!

With love from your sister,

Fanny xx

As promised, you’d save the best stories for when you met again face-to-face. In the meantime, between 1936-1940, you sent both Fanny and your Uncle George snippets of stories in a trail of modest envelopes. Little more than tantalizing teasers for greater epics to be told and shared, yet their contents were always beyond expectations.

December 1937

Dear Uncle George,

Austria has been wonderful so far! Uncle Fred called, he wants me to get him a souvenir while I’m here. We’ll be going to many sites, among them Moosham Castle before we head back to Switzerland, and from there, the United Kingdom. It’s said to be haunted, so I’m expecting some good scares and mysteries!

Love,

Your niece xx

December 1937

Dear Uncle George,

So much for our skiing plans in Switzerland! We arrived here at Moosham Castle last night, just before a blizzard swept in! We didn’t get hit with the worst of it, but the mountain is completely shut down, and the surrounding roads are closed. I think Jim and I are one of the few guests who made it to the castle at all. The castle itself is private property, but there’s apartments and inns nearby and we were able to secure a room. The place is huge and old - and slightly creepy under the circumstances. You should hear this wind! What’s more, the owner is away on business. I tried to ask the caretaker how I could contact them, but he said he didn’t know. Doesn’t that seem odd? I couldn’t help feeling like there was something he wasn’t telling me. All this makes me a little nervous, but I’m determined to enjoy myself. I have big plans to explore the castle, once it opens again to the public after the storm passes and most of the snow melts.

I’ve been reading up on the castle’s history. The original owner must’ve been quite a character to have built such an extraordinary place. It’s filled with strange, dead-end corridors for one thing, and I noticed that one of the towers is totally different than the other ones. I heard from the radio that Switzerland is on high alert for any avalanches and search and rescue is on standby. I fear for anyone who may live in proximity. Avalanches happen so quickly…they’ll sweep you away and kill you in seconds, before you even realize what’s happening. There have been so many deaths and disasters in the past… Hopefully everyone close by was given ample warning and able to retreat to safer ground. Of course, Jim and I are safe where we are, but we may be stranded here for the foreseeable future, until the roads are cleared and safe to drive on again. Once the danger passes, I’ll have to save some time to meet Jacques Brunais, the French ski instructor, while we’re in Switzerland. Tell Fanny she’ll be the first to know if he'’s half as gorgeous in person as he looks in his photo. So Uncle George, I guess things never go quite according to plan! But at least this time, the culprit is just a snowstorm. I could’ve asked Matteo who works at the front desk to mail this letter for me, but I think it’d be best if I just hold onto it for now and send it at a later date. It is just as well, since the blizzard is preventing outside contact. Me? I’m still determined to mail this letter to you, then go out and enjoy this snow, once it’s deemed safe to do so. Talk to you soon! (I hope!)

Love,

your niece xx

August 1938

Dear Uncle George,

I’ve been taking some gorgeous shots while Jim and I are in France. Lush forests, endless hills, and a lake that I’m certain is hiding a couple of dead bodies. I was just joking when I first said it, but after talking to some locals, turns out the lake does have a myth surrounding it involving a dead body that may or may not be in there. The story goes that there was a French violinist and composer, Erique Claudin, who went mad after he was dismissed from the Paris Opera House. In a fit of fury over falsely believing his concerto was being stolen and plagiarized, he strangled a man to death. Acid was thrown in his face, permanently disfiguring him. To evade police, he ran through the Paris streets until he returned to the Opera House through the underground tunnels. Donning a prop room mask and a black cape, he assumed the identity of the Phantom of the Opera or the Opera Ghost, a mysterious figure that lived up to its title. While he was rarely ever seen beyond a silhouette or the end of a black cloak as he turned a corner, his voice was heard and his looming presence was felt. But the managers were skeptics. When he sent them threatening notes, they didn’t heed his warnings. When his demands weren’t met, he sabotaged stage sets, drugged the performers, and even murdered the prima donna and her maid. He kidnapped Christine DuBois, a beautiful singer who was his object of obsession. He caused a deadly diversion by bringing the crystal chandelier down on the audience and, in the chaos and commotion, kidnapped her. He took her down to his lair in the sewers where he intended to keep her with him forever, but she was rescued by police. However, the whole place was dilapidated and falling apart, on the verge of coming down. When the policeman’s gun went off, it caused a terrible rumble. The Phantom pushed Christine out of the way of the falling rubble, but was crushed to death. The policeman and Christine escaped just before the entire place caved in on itself.

The Phantom’s violin and mask were recovered many years later and are on display in a museum today but, after the rubble was cleared away, workers were both baffled and horrified. There was no body. A terrible chill went down their spines and the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up. They felt a presence with them. A presence they couldn’t see. It’s said that Claudin’s body is still down there, hidden somewhere. Maybe he survived the cave-in but, without hope, without love, without Christine, he drowned himself in his beloved lake where he once sought refuge, peace, and solitude. His body may be lost somewhere in the deep, inky black depths of the lake, but his spirit won’t rest, watching over his Opera House as a spectral spectator, a ghostly guardian.

The stories vary. Some say he’s friendly, a protector. A ballerina let her curiosity get the better of her and went down below and accidentally got lost in the underground caverns of the Opera House. She spent so long in the concrete labyrinth she was confused as to which path to take. She sat there all day, lost, figuring she’d never get out, when Erique just walked right through the walls. He stood and stared at the ballerina as he passed through. He smiled and beckoned her to come. “Follow me, child. I’ll show you the way back,” he said with one of his warm smiles. She wrapped her fingers into his cloak, her heart flooded with relief. She could have walked through them herself she supposed, but it was wonderful to have a guide. Others say he’s malevolent, a vengeful spirit seeking to scare away, harm, or even kill those that disrespect or otherwise desecrate his Opera House, his eternal resting place. I know it’s meant to be scary, but I couldn’t help but feel deeply moved by the tragic tale. I was sympathetic for Claudin. The poor man. I know the stories say otherwise, but I hope his soul is at peace.

Ghosts are one thing, but Jim and I have been following the story of Marie Antoinette’s missing diamond and journal ever since we stepped foot on French soil. During the French Revolution of the 1790s, Marie liked to frequent a particular tower in Chateau Rochemont. For her birthday, Louis gave her a tiara with a ruby, an emerald, a sapphire and a diamond in it. It was so extravagant that she refused to wear it, calling it her crown of ruination, as the French public was starving in the streets and it presented her as apathetic towards them. Marie had the tiara dismantled, with the sapphire and emerald sent to family members who lived in other countries and could thus keep the precious gems safe. She wanted the jewels to be returned to the people of France where they belonged, but she knew it couldn’t happen until the country had healed from the tumultuous revolution it was undergoing. We know she sent the emerald to her cousin in Austria, and the sapphire to her sister in Spain. However, Marie and the King were advised to take jewels in case they needed to bribe for their escape, so she took the ruby with her. However, they were still captured by Jean Le Bouef on June 25, 1791 and everything Marie had was taken. She then hid the diamond and her journal in a contraption, in a secret compartment underneath her tower that hadn’t been discovered until only recently, when a gang of diamond thieves attempted to steal both the diamond and the journal, but were thwarted by Auguste de Lancret, a museum curator and French Police when the heist was bungled.

Everyone in France, especially near Versailles, is resting easier, now that Marie Antoinette’s journal and her famous diamond are safe and sound. The journal and the diamond are going to be featured in a new Marie Antoinette exhibit in Paris. And it looks like everyone who contributed to recovering both artifacts will be rewarded! Those involved in the conspiracy are going to be charged with attempted grand theft. Juliette Blauschild, a French-born American author, historian, and museum curator, is thrilled because the French government has granted her permission to publish Marie’s journal in the US before it gets returned to France. This ought to help prove her theory about Marie’s character once and for all. Thanks to Auguste and his great-grandfather's efforts to find the journal, their family name is being celebrated all over France. Meanwhile, Auguste was showed the poem that his father, Jean-Luc, wrote him and he was relieved to know that his old man didn’t carry any hard feelings to his grave. All the talk shows want Auguste to tell his story on national television, but he keeps turning them down. I guess he doesn’t want to be famous or infamous. But, when Penelope Lane called and asked Auguste to be her business partner, he accepted! With her business sense and Auguste’s expert knowledge of the castle, I think they’ll make a great team! So, you know what they say Uncle George: “Il n'est jamais trop tard de changer l'historie.” It’s never too late to change history!

Vis ta vie!

Love,

Your niece xx

October 1938

Dear Fanny,

We are in the Chunnel! This is our second passage through the Chunnel! We’re on our way back from London, this time going to Brussels, Belgium. Sorry I didn’t write you on the way to London but I was too excited about the CHUNNEL!! London was great. I know you’ve always wanted to visit and I think you really should. You’d love it! If you and Johnny wanted to come back here as a family sometime I guess Jim and I could be convinced.

Love you!

Your sister xx

February 1940

Dear Uncle George,

Greetings from jolly old Wales. Although right now I’m not so sure about the jolly part. I’m afraid I come bearing bad news. If it were good news, I’d have telephoned. Jim and I have made an impromptu trip here to attend the funeral of John, Sir John’s elder son. He unexpectedly died on Monday following a hunting accident while on holiday in the Grampian Mountains of Scotland, where he was a frequent visitor. Poor John. He was only thirty-nine and they all knew the girl he was going to marry. I had rather a sad letter from Sir John a few days ago, announcing the death. In one of his passages, he wrote, “I dreamt last night I was in the park at Llanwelly, walking with John under the great trees, listening to the pigeons cooing in their branches. And when I woke, my eyes were filled with tears.” It was very moving. There were darkened spots on the parchment that smudged the ink. It’s a dagger in my heart to imagine Sir John, the charismatic community leader, who always held his head high with a stiff upper lip, crying while writing to me. Poor darling. He’s so unhappy.

A great part of living is expecting the unexpected. Considering our way of life, Jim and I thought ourselves masters of the art. We were living our once upon a time. Every day felt like a lifetime; every moment was alive. Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We thought we knew everything of travel, that we knew everything of loss. Ours was a world of eternal summer, until the autumn came. I’m so sorry for John’s loss. Grief is a journey, long and painful, but he doesn’t walk the road alone. Life is certainly a queer business—so brief, yet such a lot of it; so substantial, yet in a few years, which behaves like minutes, all scattered and anyhow. If humanity ever conquered mortality we would go, knowing that whomever we left behind we’d see again in the future. Time seems so infinite when you’re young…a month is an age, a year is a lifetime…it is a strange feeling, to realize how little of it one might have left. Our time on this earth is finite. It’s common knowledge, yet it’s a strange thing to realize and accept your mortality, to be confronted with it. It’s just one of those things you ignore. The days tick by and you just expect they will keep on coming. Until the unexpected happens.

That’s the thing about life; it is fragile, precious, and unpredictable. Each day is a gift, not a given right. However much you expect death, it’s still painful when it arrives. But that’s just it, we don’t know how much time we have. Jim and I are using ours to love. There’s nothing else worth living for, fighting for, or dying for. Believe me. We love each other, and we love our families, even if we’re estranged from them, above all else. The paradox of love is that to have it is to want to preserve it because it’s perfect in the moment but that preservation is impossible because the perfection is only ever an instant passed through. Love, like travel, is a series of moments that we immediately leave behind. Still we try to hold on and embalm against all evidence and common sense proclaiming our promises and plans. The more I loved him the more I felt hope. But hope acknowledges uncertainty and so I also felt my first premonitions of loss.

It took expensive train and cab rides to get here on such short notice. John sent us the money necessary to travel, and arranged transportation to and from the service. Jim and I are so grateful for his generosity. He doesn’t want anything more in return than our presence here. It will mean a great deal to him to have our support during this difficult time. We’re about to be picked up and dropped off at Talbot Castle, a huge, centuries old castle in the middle of a dark, foggy moor. Since Sir John and I are such close friends and care for each other deeply, (we were almost married, after all) he has invited Jim and I to stay for a couple weeks following the service. In his letter to me, he said the castle is too big for just him, Larry, and the servants, and that it’d be nice if he had an excuse to finally use guest rooms for their intended purpose: To house guests. All these years, they’ve just been collecting dust and he’s itching to air them out. He also said they’ve been having a really cold autumn up there and that there might be snowfall, so Jim and I should pack accordingly. “Usually if I’d wanted to freeze my backside off in the autumn, I’d have gone to Scotland. But lately, it’s been as cold as a bishop’s arse and twice as white, and London isn’t much better. I don’t mind saying it: I’m very disappointed,” he said in his letter.

But it looks like we lucked out and the storm didn’t reach here. There’s no snow falling. It’s a clean, crisp night. Just gone midnight. Feels like we’ve been here forever. Looking at it, this train station, this village is lonely and forlorn. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The station looks like it hasn’t been used in years. There’s not much here except a pile of luggage, including mine. I just dumped it there because it seemed like the right thing to do. The car should be here any moment. I’m surrounded by forests. The trees are completely bare in the winter months, but for now, the leaves are still clinging on to the branches for dear life in colors of orange, red, yellow, and brown.

It’s strange to think I was almost married to Sir John, yet I’ve never been here before. I should explore when I’m back from the service. I imagine there are plenty of forests in Wales to explore, full of treasures waiting to be uncovered in this mucky old moor. I’m reminded of when Tina and I went camping with Charlotte and discovered a moss-covered boot! I remember Tina bringing it up to her face to look inside…and shrieking in horror! “There’s a bloody rat in there!” she screamed! I used to love walking in the forests, going on hiking trails in Europe with Dad and Fanny and… Yeah. Yeah, maybe I’ll go walking in the forests when I’m back, if I can convince Jim to come with me. You should never hike alone. But we won’t stay out too late. Whether they’re to be believed or not, there are many legends out there about forests and the weird discoveries found in them. I was supposed to call the castle from the station to let John know we arrived here safely. So, there I sat, listening to the phone ring, waiting for someone to pick up. It wasn’t John, but his butler, Kendall, who told us that John’s gone! He’s been disappearing a lot lately, going on long walks without telling anybody where he’s going, but he always turns up before dark, so everyone leaves him alone to grieve in his own way. He left a note that suggested something terrible happens here in the moors at night, something about a wolf. The connection was getting really bad, and I could barely hear him, but I’m pretty sure he used the word “prowling” (or was it “howling”?) along with “dangerous” and “be careful”.

Accidents are one thing, but wild animals? Oh dear. I hope I know what I’m getting into. Do I belong to the city or the wilds? Am I human or animal? Am I sane or lunatic? Both? Neither? Yes. It’s nighttime, and although part of me is dying to know what frightened John away, another part of me is starting to feel a little uneasy. I can’t tell whether the uneasiness in my stomach is because of my grief, or because I’m a tad creeped out. Frankly, as beautiful as Talbot Castle is, I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this place. Uh-oh. I have to put this away because the car is here. I’ll let you know what happens when (and if!) Jim and I get back from the service.

Love,

Your niece x

#Jim masters x reader #claude rains #bette davis #mr skeffington #now voyager #the wolf man #rope of sand #crossover fic #crossover #crossover au #pls tag me if you’re inspired by this #I’d love to read it

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