Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
The wooden door opens with a faint creak, and I peer inside, my heart skipping a beat.
There are three letters inside. Chills run down my arm and I know not why. My breath catches as if it is meaningful. Hesitantly, I pick them from the box.
Two of them are on cheap parchment—the kind any manner of people could acquire. Those who send wishes for me to aid them with magic and spells usually reuse each sheet and send letters on a narrow strip of parchment, and two of the letters are just that.
The third—
Well, I doubt it is a letter at all, unless it’s a letter regarding something very important, simply because of the envelope.
The envelope is made of thick, creamy paper. There is a certain sheen to it even in the dim letter box. It has a smudge or two from being handled but still appears expensive and thoughtful. From here, I can see the ornate script writing on the front, though I can’t read it.
I straighten up and look in every direction around me. As far down the path as I can see. Across the field to my house. All around, then again.
There’s no one there, although I cannot shake this feeling about me. Memories of a different time flicker in the back of my mind. A time when letters such as this did not bring about so much unease. A time when laughter joined the songs of the birds in the early morning. A time much different from this.
Yet now, though I cannot hear anyone nearby enough to see me, I feel watched. I feel as though someone might be lying in wait to see how I react to the sight of this envelope. What would they get out of such information? What would they get out of knowing that I blinked at it, then blinked again, then finally double-checked to make sure the woods around me were empty?
Closing my eyes, I envision a bright white light encircling my home, growing broader and broader, encompassing the field, the path, and where I stand now. I whisper, “I wish to be left in peace.” The light is pure; it protects me and there are no obstructions. Letting out a breath, I invite the calm air to soothe what has come over me.
There is only me. Myself and the letter—which seems to be growing larger by the second.
With a final jerk of my hand, I pull out the envelope.
The writing on the front is elegant calligraphy, and my name is much smaller than the words that announce who it is from.
This must be an invitation. The calligraphy announces that this was sent from Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte.
I close the letter box and move back out of the trees, slipping the letters into the cream linen pocket purse tied around my waist. It’s slightly darker than the dress I wear, which is long and has wide sleeves that drape down my wrist. Nervously, I play with the hem as I venture back home. The invitation drags toward the earth, weighing me down. I know I cannot possibly be made to walk slower by a single envelope, but it certainly feels that way.
I focus my attention on the land around me as I cross the meadow, my dress brushing over the tops of new spring wildflowers and grasses that have already grown tall from the spring rains.
My cottage sits alone in a dip of the meadow on the other side from the letter box—not too close to the trees, but not so far from them that it feels too exposed.
Like me, the cottage is alone. For company, it has my small well and outdoor oven and the firepit, as well as my garden plots. I added a small bench last summer. Although I believe I’ve only sat on it once and no one sat beside me. I merely enjoy the idea of company and the aesthetic of such things so that those who have passed and yet have not passed may feel welcomed.
I detour to the garden beds, putting the invitation firmly out of my mind for the moment.
One power I’ve developed so well I barely have to try to conceptualize is growing edibles from a seed with ease. Fruits and vegetables, whether from bushes, plants or trees. It is no bother. At the closest garden bed, I kneel at the side of the tilled soil and brush my fingers over it, searching for the presence of seeds hidden below. It’s been some time since I’ve tended this section.
It’s only a few moments before I find a seed, its life and future concentrated in a tiny patch in the earth.
Then I close my eyes and imagine setting that life free from its small vessel. I imagine what the seed—the small piece of the whole, in this case—will become.