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There was a time—indeed, there was a great expanse of time—when Zenovia thought Kinsale droned on in writing, worse than in person. Generally if one wished to get to the point of her letters, one must skip to the third or fourth paragraph.
The first two or three were riddled with senseless pleasantries: menial updates on the least interesting goings on of her personal life, observations regarding the weather and the seasons, a few lines about a book she'd been reading or writing or preparing to write, and, most comically, well-wishes regarding whatever she remembered to be the last topic of conversation with the letter's recipient. In Zenovia's case, for a solid twenty years, it was the same argument they'd had regarding the needless length of Kinsale's letters.
After the way they had parted last, Zenovia was more than a little surprised to be receiving any correspondence from Kinsale at all.
She considered briefly that she oughtn't to open it, wondered at her intentions for not asking her owls to hold such a letter, should it arrive. She spent the better part of an hour resenting Kinsale for contacting her at all when the consensus between them had been that she needed more space than Kinsale was able to tolerate. The following hour was split evenly between ignoring the letter sitting upon her desk and glaring at it as though it might become aware of her displeasure and make up her mind for her by bursting into flame.
Finally, Zenovia decided that she was being profoundly childish, and that the simplest course of action would be to read the letter as though it were any other.
My dearest Zenovia,
I hope this letter finds you well. Indeed, I hope this letter finds you, though I shouldn't blame you if you didn't wish to hear from me. For your sake, I'll be brief, but of course your idea of brevity and mine differ considerably.
It's strange here in the Valley. You'd hardly recognize it. You'd think it would be all rubble and ruin still, but instead it's like the finest days of spring! Fresh flowers and little patches of bright green everywhere, growing over the remnants of the war as though the earth might heal itself through sheer force of will. It is an uplifting sight, to say the least.
I've got all these notes from the last few years, you know, and I'd thought I would get to making some sense of them now that my poor old house is back in working order, but the words aren't coming easily, if they come at all. I think perhaps I'm still too close to the whole matter to make any sense of it.
I do miss you terribly, you know. I'm sure you know I
I'm trying to keep writing, anyway. I think that's what you'd tell me to do. I think of you often, perhaps more for how hard I tried not to at first. It is funny how a person can come into your life so unexpectedly, after so many years, and suddenly you can hardly remember what living was like before.
Anyway, since the war notes are giving me a dreadful headache, I thought I'd write something else in the meantime. You're under no obligation to read it, of course, assuming you've read even this far, it's just a little bit of nonsense I wrote to make because I to pass the time while I
All my love,
Love,
Best,
Kinsale
Zenovia traced a finger idly over one of the marked out words, then flipped the page.
Once there lived two fairies who were destined to live at odds with one another. One fairy lived high in the mountains with her two sisters, while the other resided low in the valley with her four brothers. One studied hard at her craft, while the other preferred a life of leisure. One shut herself away from nearly everyone, while the other would gladly have made friends with anyone she came across.
Despite their many differences, the two fairies met by chance at a party, and they were drawn to one another on first sight. To call it love would be a sentimental woman's flight of fancy at best, but it was certainly something.
The two fairies tried to build a life together, but their differences quickly made such a construction unsound. For example, one preferred walls while the other preferred windows, and where one preferred to keep her doors closed, the other, given the slightest opportunity, would barge blithely into any door left even slightly ajar for her, even if that was perhaps not the wisest course of action for either of them.
The something between them came apart at its seams, and the two of them went back to their separate lives at opposite ends of the world. The fairy of the valley wished she could promise the mountain fairy that she could be happy with going back to the way things were between them, but she knew herself well enough to know that that wouldn't be the case. She would keep on chipping away at walls the mountain fairy had built on purpose, and she supposed that wasn't fair to either of them.
And as for the mountain fairy, well, she had always gotten by quite well on her own. Perhaps it had been naive of the valley fairy to think she might desire any companionship at all.
Still, the stars in the sky above them were the same in the mountains and in the valley, and the both of them were reluctant to say goodbye to what little they shared in common. They sat up late into the night, sharing the stars on their opposite ends of the world, and they dreamed of how they might find a way to love one another better.
I would try, Zenovia.
The sudden shift in tone turned Zenovia's stomach, and she felt cold all over.
I would try, Zenovia, she read again.
If you ever If we
I would try, if you'd let me.
Zenovia realized belatedly that she'd left her owl waiting overlong. He screeched unhappily and pecked at her hand, and even such a little thing was more than enough for her to lose her tenuous grasp upon the paper.
"There, now," she cooed, and gave him a treat and a scratch for his troubles, but her mind was racing.
A part of her that lingered from their fateful argument was profoundly irritated by the whole affair. I would try, she wrote, as though it were all on Zenovia to try back! As though this foolish approximation of their lives dressed up in pretty prose made up for anything, meant anything. None of this meant anything!
And this was her frustration with Kinsale, as it had been for the better part of a century: Kinsale said one thing and meant another. She crossed out the words she meant to say just enough so that they could still be read. She lulled her reader into a false sense of security with a silly story only to twist its meaning at the very end, from something simple and sweet into a plea for...something.
Kinsale was a fraction of Zenovia's age, and she wanted all of Zenovia's secrets laid bare before her. To be let in meant to be let all the way in, or she might as well be all the way out, and what would be left of Zenovia if she allowed such a thing? If Zenovia had spent her life just throwing open her doors for anyone who asked, where would she be?
The owl cooed and nudged her hand again, placated but still feeling affectionate, and Zenovia sat down with a heavy sigh. In all likelihood, the letter and the story were an honest gesture, Kinsale's roundabout way of apologizing and trying to make amends. And Kinsale knew Zenovia well enough to know Zenovia would take time to accept such a gesture.
But did Zenovia really intend to cut Kinsale out of her life forever? That she hadn't asked her owls to hold any letters Kinsale might send her were evidence enough that that wasn't the case.
It is funny, she had written, how a person can come into your life so unexpectedly, after so many years, and suddenly you can hardly remember what living was like before.
In truth, Kinsale had brought a brightness to Zenovia's life that she never could have imagined. Kinsale genuinely liked company, and she brought that warmth with her whenever she so much as entered a room. Kinsale genuinely wanted to know people, so deeply that she often forgot that people could be reluctant to be known.
Zenovia gave her owl another treat and made a few gentle clicking noises to indicate he should hold a moment. She took up a piece of paper and a quill and touched the feather to her lips a moment while she thought.
Kinsale,
It's a nice story. Just give it some time.
Zenovia
She made to return her quill to its stand, hesitated, and added,
P.S. I miss you, too. Might I come and visit you in a few months' time?