Wednesday, September 11, 2013

I once again hold the unopened letter in my hand. For one week precisely it has plagued my mind, resting on my chiffonier next to my hair brush. I am reminded of the incident most keenly, both morning and eve, but I have not had the inclination to open it.

Not yet.

I have written myself to Belle for her opinion of the matter. I know she shall be frustrated that I have not yet torn through the blood red seal and absorbed the ink on the page through my eyes, but I need a second opinion. As much as I revel in my own company here in Bohemia, those I speak to have only broken English to converse with and my responses in their language cause impolite convulsions as I am far from fluent. So I need Belle to give me her most unapologetic counsel.

In fact, as I sit with this letter addressed to "The most splendid, illustrious, serene and eminent lady of pleasure" I am waiting for my own post master to return from his weekly rendez vous in the town centre. Belle is always concise with her hasty replies and I hope she has not disappointed.


Belle always delivers, a most reliable friend. I ripped open her letter without so much as a second thought, relishing in the familiar penmanship of one so dear. And she never disappoints. She admonished me for wasting an entire week before opening the letter from the utterly impertinent messenger and implores me to copy it word for word so she may be included in its untimely exposition.

It was all the gentle shoving I needed to gain the courage to tear past the blood red seal and feast upon its contents. The previously anonymous letter as follows:

How can one say no to a Ball in their own honour? Surely though, there is a lack of etiquette in not signing a name? I have many questions, but first I shall peruse my calendar for a suitable day for this Ball.

D. S.