Clementine, my thorny darling,
You’ll laugh — or groan, or possibly both — when you hear what I’ve done this time. The Alchemist’s Cottage has been buzzing with activity ever since I dragged the chifforobe inside. You remember how this place gets when something with a real story crosses the threshold. Well, the studio is positively mad with excitement for what’s coming!
Anyway, I’ve found a wardrobe with a temperament. It reminds me of you my dear friend. It’s one of those small, slightly secretive pieces that looks like it’s been keeping a secret for decades. The mirror practically dared me to do something interesting with it. So, I’m doing a reverse decoupage — Alice stepping through the looking glass, mid‑stride, as if she’s just slipped into another room and left the surface shimmering behind her. It felt like the only appropriate thing to do. You know how I get when Wonderland calls and if this turns out the way I expect it to, this will be beyond alchemy. It will be epic alchemy.
I can already hear you muttering, “Marigold, for the love of all things lacquered, rein it in.” But it’s far too late for that. The sides are getting raised stencils — the Queen’s suits of cards, each one subtle but unmistakably Wonderland. Hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades, arranged just so, like they’ve been waiting for someone to notice their importance. It’s giving the whole piece this quiet, confident nod to the Queen’s deck without shouting about it, you know how I hate static noise— and the whole thing is going creamy brown and tea‑with‑milk soft. It’s turning into a portal whether I meant it to or not.
And then there’s the back. Oh, Clem. I’ve built a secret door. A proper one. A door that leads to… well, that’s the fun of it, isn’t it? It could lead anywhere. A reading nook. A hidden room. A place to stash mischief. I keep thinking of that night in Oxford when we snuck into the Ashmolean after hours and you insisted the Egyptian wing was “absolutely whispering.” This wardrobe has that same energy — the sense that if you pay attention, it’ll tell you what it wants to be.
I wish you were here to see it. Or better yet, to roll your eyes at me and then immediately start sketching improvements. England has you tucked too far away, and I’m convinced your moody skies are hoarding you out of spite. Oh — and before I forget, life here has been its usual circus. Rowan Thorne stopped by the cottage again under the guise of “checking the alignment on my workbench,” which is hilarious because we both know he built the thing to survive an earthquake. He stood there smelling like cedar and rain, looking entirely too pleased with himself while my magic misbehaved in the background. And Juniper, bless her feral little heart, has decided she’s my emotional support herbalist this week. She turned up yesterday with a jar of something glowing and a lecture about “energetic balance,” which I’m fairly certain was directed at Rowan and not me. I adore her, even when she’s a menace. Write soon and tell me everything. . I miss you terribly!
With paint‑stained fingers and entirely too much tea,
~ xoxo, Marigold
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