Page 2 of Love & Letter Charms
With decidedly real regards,
A Not-So-Imaginary Correspondent
Aurelise read the letter three times in quick succession, her fingers tracing the bold, confident strokes of the handwriting. She committed each word to memory, analyzing every hint about her mysterious correspondent. A man, certainly, and one at least several years her senior. The thought sent an inappropriate little thrill through her that she quickly tamped down.
She should stop this correspondence immediately. It wasn’t at all proper for an unmarried lady of barely eighteen to be exchanging private letters with an unknown gentleman. Yet curiosity flared like phoenixfire. And what if this was still merely an elaborate enchantment, designed to seem real? If that were the case, there was no harm in responding.
She traced the signature—A Not-So-Imaginary Correspondent—and found herself smiling despite her reservations. Real or not, she wanted to write back. Just once more, she told herself. Just to see what would happen.
Dear Not-So-Imaginary Correspondent,
Your parsnip phobia was precisely the amusement I needed. I must admit I have been rather melancholy these past days,overwhelmed by the sudden change in my life, but the image of a grown man cowering before a ‘pale carrot impersonator’ made me laugh so unexpectedly that my lady’s maid came rushing in to ensure I hadn’t taken leave of my senses. I hope that doesn’t make me terribly wicked, finding amusement in your culinary distress.
And I must clarify—it was not deliberate avoidance when I didn’t mention my manifestation specifically. That was merely the way my thoughts flowed onto the page. But now that I suspect you may be real (though I remain skeptical), I shall be careful to refrain from mentioning specific details that might reveal my identity. One cannot be too cautious when corresponding with mysterious gentlemen through enchanted boxes, after all.
I find myself wondering what other perfectly harmless things might inspire terror in you. Embroidery hoops? Dancing lessons? The color lavender?
With amused regards,
Still Tentative
P.S. You called me brave, but I must correct this misunderstanding. I am perhaps the least brave person in all the United Fae Isles. I am shy to the point of invisibility and speak rarely in company unless directly addressed. When I attempt to initiate conversation, I somehow manage to choose topics so utterly tedious that I can practically see my companions’ eyes glaze over with boredom. Then I end up stammering and flushed with mortification. Words on a page are much easier.
Dear Still Tentative,
Terribly wicked indeed! I am wounded to my core that my deepest fear—the insidious parsnip—has become a sourceof such callous amusement. Though the thought of bringing laughter to you in your melancholy does soothe my injured pride somewhat.
But what do you mean I ‘MAY’ be real? I’m thoroughly offended that you do not believe me! What can I do to prove my existence beyond these pages?
Ah! Perhaps I could send you something? A token of my reality? Let me consider what might convince you …
Perhaps a preserved parsnip, elegantly mounted and framed like a trophy of conquest? A series of dramatic sonnets entitled ‘Ode to the Pale Horror That Lurks Beneath the Soil’? A trained gossip bird that squawks ‘Parsnips are an abomination!’ at regular intervals?
Do let me know which would be most convincing. I await your instructions with bated breath.
Still very much real,
The Parsnip Dreader
P.S. There are many forms of courage in this world. Some are loud and dramatic; others are quiet and no less significant. Perhaps you are braver than you know, just not in the way society has taught you to recognize.
It had taken all day and night for this reply to show up in Aurelise’s enchanted letter box. Her lady’s maid had departed hours before, having helped her into her nightgown and arranged her hair into a simple braid for sleeping. She had been drifting into dreams when a soft hum pulled her back to wakefulness. Instinctively, she knew it was the box.
She’d promised herself only one more exchange—and it was certainly improper to be sending magical notes across the realm at such an hour—but then again, she still couldn’t be certain there was truly a person on the other end of this enchantment.If she was merely conversing with a clever spell designed to provide the illusion of correspondence, then propriety hardly mattered, did it?
This reasoning was flimsy at best, she knew, but it didn’t stop her from slipping from beneath her covers and seating herself at her writing desk to pen a reply.
Dear Parsnip Dreader,
Your offerings are most generous, if decidedly peculiar. However, I cannot in good conscience reveal where I live. If you ARE real (which I am still not entirely convinced of), then sending items to my personal residence does not seem safe at all. I do not know you! You could be a parsnip in disguise, infiltrating polite society for nefarious vegetable purposes.
Besides, what would my family think if mysterious packages began arriving from unknown gentlemen? The scandal would be unbearable.
Your faithful correspondent,
The Cautious Skeptic
P.S. I had never considered there might be different forms of courage beyond the obvious. It sounds like beautiful nonsense, the kind that poets spin to make ordinary things seem extraordinary. And yet, I find myself wondering if there might be some small truth to it. I shall contemplate your words, though I make no promises to believe them.
