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My dear Brihtric Donne-
As you foresaw, my hands are indeed quite full and my plates are overflowing. The travelling alone between London and the lands of the Picts would have undone me in my prior state when my leg was weak and I could not use my power.
I hope this letter finds you well - and between the combined powers of myself and my lady wife, I am completely assured that it will find you, wherever in the vast world you may be. We have brought you back from Annwn once before, and I would know if we would have to do so again.
Yet if you truly thought that the demands on me in my double royalty, and my double fatherhood, would let me forget you, well, that is a lapse in judgment that would be inexcusable on your part. You thank me for giving you life in this form, but I must thank you for giving me my power back. Your blood broke my curse, that is true. But your existence and your presence in my life broke a curse I was not even aware I had: you gave me back my storytelling, my bardic gifts.
I truly hope that your journey abroad is bringing all the knowledge you could possibly desire. I do not know if you are in a teeming city full of humanity, or in a remote retreat on a distant mountaintop. You could be in a ship on the sea. You could be in a deep meditation that takes you back into time, or far out among the stars.
This I know, however, that no matter where you are finding wisdom now, you remain a loyal son of Britain, and as long as I or anyone who knows me wields power in this land, you will always have safety and honour here. When you start to steer your journey home, you will find fair winds and following seas. My lady and I have seen to that at Beltaine. Our magical labour for your protection was arduous, but by no means unpleasant.
As I'm sure you must know, the deaths of Morganwg and Kitchener left a void of power, and there are always the ambitious who wish to fill a seat left vacant. You will find no hostile Archdruid now; the Brotherhood has been reformed, and its seditious elements gone begging. Much humility was learned in the Baskerville barrow. Yet a new network of crime is rising anew, and the worst elements are those who want to break again what was only recently healed.
The Tolerance Act is a particular target of their ire, and too often we hear speech from those who want to seal up our borders against the world completely once again. You know the type, Donne. They will hoard arsenals of deathmetal in their mansions, and then beat a foreign lady to death for a frying pan. They are both crude and canny, and all Britain would benefit from a sharp eye that will root out their schemes before they can inflame the populace to a point of danger.
I will use my gift of words now to beg you to return when you are able. If you have followed reports from our fair country at all, you may have heard rumours of a new machine that may even outshine Mr. Wells's wondrous invention - a machine that can think! Yes, our Ada has resumed her work upon it, with Babbage, and the improvements are remarkable. Oh, it cannot think quite like you do, but I fancy it bears your influence.
All the more remarkable that Ada managed to accomplish it with a lovely grey-eyed girl-child, just beginning to toddle and clinging to her mother’s skirts, asking questions far beyond her three tender years.
The Earl of Lovelace’s absence remains prolonged. As far as we know - which is far indeed - it is permanent. No one has dared to comment in public on the cuckoo egg laid in the Earl’s nest.
I knew immediately when the child was born, of course, but waited for time and wisdom to confirm. Ada says she has no wish to consider marrying again, and why should she, for she is comfortable. Victoria and I have done what we can discreetly to make sure that the tiny lass is well-protected and wants for nothing, without offending her mother's considerable pride.
You said you were a creature of fancy, born from ink and imagination - specifically, mine. Yet you are certainly corporeal in every way that counts, and no one knows this better than Ada, who would be furious with me if she knew I was writing this letter. Even if you think little of the friends who miss you, certainly high-ranking among the most fascinating things in the world to you must be your own daughter.
Yes, take a moment to take that in. I can nearly see the expressions on your familiar, beloved face, my dear Donne. If you are alone, you probably can take the luxury to sit down to absorb this wondrous fact, but if not, you must put on a mask to veil your emotions to the people around you. I have seen you do this often enough that I know it’s a skill you have mastered - but, my dearest friend, as we grow older, is it not a relief to find a home where that isn’t needed?
The whole world is yours to explore, but in Britannia, you have a family, and I will be the first to greet your ship at the dock if you travel by mundane means, or meet you wherever you can find a Druid - or equivalent practitioner- to send you home.
Sincerely yours,
Dr. John H. Weston, Chieftain of the Picts and Prince Consort to HRH Victoria, Queen of Britannia