Clemmy, my beloved voice of reason wrapped in storm‑cloud silk,
Your letter arrived at precisely the moment the Cottage decided to drop a pinecone from the rafters onto my head. I choose to believe this was her way of saying, “Pay attention, Marigold, something important is coming,” and not simply an act of intentional instigation. Either way, I sat down immediately and read your words with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ancient scrolls or particularly good pastries.
First of all, how dare you accuse me of celestial negotiation when you know full well it is a perfectly respectable method of conflict resolution. The moon and I have an understanding. She ignores me entirely, and I continue to ask her for things. It works beautifully. As for your ginger‑adjacent tea… darling, that is not tea. That is disappointment in a cup. I thought you lived in England. I’ll send you a proper blend soon — assuming the Cottage doesn’t decide it wants it for itself.
Your description of wrestling that Edwardian desk made me laugh so hard Marmie thought I was choking. I could see you, hair pinned back, muttering in that elegant, clipped way you do when something is testing your patience. And the acorn knobs! I knew you’d give it a secret. You always do. If it starts offering unsolicited advice, please tell it to mind its business unless the advice is flattering.
Now, about your insinuation that the Cottage “likes” Rowan. Absolutely not. She merely tolerates him because he brings her branches and compliments her beams. That is not affection; that is bribery. And your little jab — “just like someone else I know” — did not go unnoticed. I am choosing to ignore it for the sake of my blood pressure and love for you. Even if you are correct, I will never admit to it.
As for Juniper: I cannot believe you think she is trying to steal your bosom friend title. She knows her place and she does have a good heart You are the one who knows my worst ideas and encourages them. That is a sacred bond. Marmalade, for her part, has taken your side entirely. She sat on this letter as I tried to write it, which I believe was her attempt to censor me. She is glaring at me now.
Your moss‑green creature with amber eyes has been haunting my thoughts. I swear I felt something watching me from the treeline yesterday — not in a sinister way, more like curiosity wrapped in moss. The Cottage hummed when I mentioned it aloud. You know what that means. Something is shifting. Something is coming. And I suspect it has opinions about my wardrobe.
Speaking of which: the wardrobe has begun… clearing its throat. Not literally, but the wood creaks in a way that feels intentional, like it’s preparing to speak. The latch trembles sometimes, as though something behind it is pacing. I haven’t opened it since your last letter. I’m not afraid, exactly — just waiting for the right moment. You know how these things are. Magic has impeccable timing and terrible manners.
Your invitation to visit nearly undid me. I want nothing more than to be there — to walk the Academy grounds with you, to see the creature by the brook, to drink terrible tea and pretend it’s good because you made it. But something here is asking for my attention. The Cottage is restless. The wardrobe is listening. And I feel… pulled. Not in a dangerous way. In a destined way.
Still, write again soon. Or send Thistlewig if she insists on supervising. I miss you in that bone‑deep, familiar way that feels like remembering a song I used to hum without thinking.
With paint‑stained fingers, a suspicious wardrobe, and a cat who thinks she’s my editor — Your Marigold ♥ Who is absolutely not jealous of a moss‑green creature you met by a brook. Not even a little. (Fine. A little.)