Marigold, my incandescent menace that I adore,
I read your letter twice — once for sense, and once for the sheer pleasure of hearing your voice ricochet around this drafty old house. You’ve done it again. You’ve adopted another piece of furniture with a personality disorder and immediately unleash your alchemy on it. I should be surprised, but honestly, darling, I’m more surprised when you don’t uncover a threshold that’s been waiting for you.
A wardrobe with a temperament, you say. Brooding. Secretive. Possibly winking. I can picture it perfectly. You always did have a talent for finding pieces that behave like former aristocrats fallen on hard times. And of course, The Alchemist’s Cottage is thrilled — she’s always had a soft spot for drama. I swear that cottage of yours would sprout eyebrows if it could, just to raise them at you.
As for the reverse decoupage… my dear only you would attempt to catch Alice mid‑stride, as if she’s just slipped through the glass and left the air shimmering behind her on an actual mirror. I can practically see the edges of the paper lifting like a held breath. And the raised stencils — it’s all so very you. A hint of Wonderland, a ripple in reality, and the soft suspicion the piece has secrets
My dear I had almost forgotten, I laughed out loud at the mention of the Ashmolean. I maintain, to this day, that the Egyptian wing was in fact whispering. The copious amounts of tea you consumed must have water-logged your ears.
Now, since you asked what I’m working on I must admit I was hoping you would. I’ve been bursting at the seams to tell you because I know you will understand. I’ve taken on a darling antique writing desk that has absolutely no intention of cooperating. It’s one of those spindly-legged Edwardian things that looks delicate but carries the weight of a creature that absolutely should not have legs that thin. The veneer is peeling like that sunburn you got two years ago and the drawers stick out their tongues at me. The audacity is mind boggling. And to top it all off, the whole thing smells faintly of pipe smoke and unresolved arguments, so naturally, I adore it.
I’m thinking of giving it a finish inspired by storm clouds we’ve had so many of this week — soft greys, a hint of lavender, maybe a streak of silver leaf so subtle it only shows up when the light is feeling generous. I’ve also found a set of brass knobs shaped like tiny acorns, which feels like something you’d approve of. Woodland whimsy with a side of stubbornness. You would adore this piece too. I know you would.
London, by the way, is being particularly English. Rain, sun, rain again, a rainbow, then more rain. It’s positively brilliant and I couldn’t be happier. You know how I adore the rain. The countryside is lush enough to make poets unbearable. I wish you were here to roll your eyes with me and stroll the countryside through this marvelous and inspiring drizzle. It’s positively perfect.
And before I forget — you’ll appreciate this far more than anyone else — Elias Pembroke has reappeared in my orbit like a moth who refuses to believe the lantern isn’t meant for him. He turned up at the market yesterday with that ridiculous wool coat he insists is “heritage,” dripping rainwater everywhere and looking unbearably pleased with himself. Apparently he’s been commissioned to restore the carved choir stalls at St. Aldwyn’s and thought I might “enjoy seeing the process.”
Marigold, the man said it like an invitation to a secret garden. I told him I was elbow‑deep in storm‑cloud greys and acorn knobs, but he only smiled in that infuriating way that suggests he thinks he’s already won. I’m not saying I’m interested — I’m only saying I haven’t stopped thinking about the way he smelled faintly of linseed oil and old books. Make of that what you will.
Oh — and brace yourself — Beatrice Hawthorne has slithered back into town. Yes, that Beatrice. The one who once told us our work had “a charming provincial earnestness,” as if she were the patron saint of taste or even had any for that matter. I spotted her at the bakery, terrorizing a tray of perfectly innocent scones while lecturing the poor baker about “elevating the visual narrative of his pastries.” She cornered me before I could escape and asked, with that saccharine smile of hers, whether I was “still dabbling in furniture.” Dabbling. I nearly ascended on the spot. I informed her, very sweetly, that my “dabbling” currently has a waitlist longer than her last relationship. She blinked like a startled heron. It was positively brilliant and it sent her reeling back to the safety of daddy. If he wasn’t the Prime Minister, I would’ve handled her long ago…
Write again when you can — the world tilts pleasantly when you do. And send me a sketch of that secret door before it decides to lead somewhere new without telling you.
With affection, exasperation, and ink on my sleeves,
Yours Forever and Truly,
Clementine
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