Clementine, my steadfast voice of reason (and occasional enabler),
Your letter arrived this morning and it brought my mood up considerably. It came tucked beneath a stack of invoices I have absolutely no intention of addressing until the moon changes her mind about what we discussed. I’ll spare you that detail for now. I made gingerbread tea (don’t be jealous) and sat by the window. I read your words twice — once for sense, once for the pleasure of hearing you mutter in that elegant, exasperated British way you do. I miss you silly girl.
First of all: Your Edwardian writing desk sounds like the sort of creature that would glare at me from across a room. Spindly legs, unreasonable weight, drawers with opinions — Oh yes, I know the type. I had a date with one second year I believe, Marvin… do you remember him? What a character he was.
Back to your lovely piece, they always pretend to be delicate until you try to move them, and then suddenly they’re channeling the density of a dying star. I can already picture you wrestling with it in your workshop, hair pinned back, muttering something unprintable under your breath. The thought makes me both smile and frown at the same time. I wish I was there with you.
The storm‑cloud finish you described made my fingers itch in the best way. Lavender, grey, a whisper of silver leaf — it sounds like a desk that remembers thunder. My mind is blending them together as I write. And the brass acorn knobs? How perfect! Woodland whimsy with a hint of “I know secrets and I’m not telling.” I’m almost jealous my dear friend. Your piece sounds delicious.
As for my brooding wardrobe: It has decided it prefers the left corner of the cottage, where the light falls in a way that makes the raised stencils look like they’re breathing. Are they? The secret door is behaving… mostly. I’ve added a small latch, not to keep anything in, mind you, but to keep the cottage from getting ideas about letting anything out without my permission. I will not have a repeat of last year.
You’ll be pleased to know I’ve taken your advice and sketched the door before it changes its mind about its shape. I’ll send it along once I’m convinced the drawing won’t rearrange itself en route. So far, it’s all behaving but we all know how quickly things change in this cottage.
And speaking of the Cottage, she has been in such a mood! Yesterday it smelled faintly of rosemary and old books, which usually means it’s trying to tell me something. I’m just not quite sure what. Today it’s humming — not audibly, but in that way where the air feels charged, like it’s waiting for me to notice something I haven’t yet. I suspect it’s about the wardrobe. There’s something deep with that one I tell you. She is listening.
Rowan stopped by yesterday — unannounced, of course, because he claims schedules “dampen the magic of a day.” He brought me a bundle of wind‑tangled branches he swore were “singing” when he found them. I didn’t hear any singing, but the Cottage perked up the moment he crossed the threshold, so perhaps she did. He stayed long enough to drink half my tea, critique the wardrobe’s attitude, and tell me I’m overdue for a walk in the pines. He’s probably right, but don’t you dare tell him I said so.
Juniper, on the other hand, has been lurking around the garden beds like she’s waiting for something to sprout that only she knows about. Marmalade has taken it upon herself to supervise her, which mostly means sitting three feet away and staring with the intensity of a cat trying to telepathically influence a mouse to come closer. Juniper pretends not to notice, but I caught her glaring in Marmie’s direction in that “I tolerate you, but only barely” sort of way. Honestly, if those two ever form an alliance, the Cottage and I are doomed. Thankfully I don’t see that truly ever happening but imagine the chaos if it did. I shudder at the thought…
Your description of the countryside made me ache a little. I loved my time there at the Academy. Rain, sun, rain again — the kind of fickle beauty that makes poets unbearable, as you said. I miss the way the English air feels like it’s carrying a story. Here, the wind is more direct. Less subtle. More likely to slap you with a pine branch or cut you off like a hurried driver. Oh Clemmy, I wish I was there puddle jumping with you. Have you found any marvelous creatures on your jaunts? Maybe a friend for Thistlewig?
Write soon, before I do something ill‑advised and need you to pretend it was your idea to spare me the embarrassment.
With paint‑stained fingers and a cottage full of muttering — Your dearest friend for life — Marigold ♥ Who for the record is pretending she’s not counting the days until your next letter.
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