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My most beloved Taylor,
Big sis read your letter.
Did you make any friends? Are they treating you well? They must be, right? I can't believe you already know how to write.
That nun seems like a very kind person. I'm glad. Be a good girl and keep working hard, okay?
And send me a letter after this one, too. Tell me all kinds of stories. Even if I'm away, big sis will always listen.
I reach the last line, and my hand hangs mid-air. Signed, Amy Bartlett—Taylor Bartlett's big sister.
I swallow my empty throat, and my fingers quiver slightly. I'm well aware it could ruin the letter, but I'm only a little concerned about dropping my pen. My chest feels strangely, positively heavy. Being able to write this feels like one big miracle.
I made my decision, and even now I wouldn't think of changing it. Even if we had to disappear in each other's lives, even if she forgets my existence, I was ready to accept whatever was to come if it meant giving her happiness—more than I ever could on my own.
I had resigned myself to such a life, but once again, just as she'd said, Violet had come to my rescue—my sole ally, my one and only maid.
Like clockwork, an overwhelming warmth stung every inch of my body. It's never done much to ground myself, but what else is there to really do? So I grip my pen a little tighter.
I wanted to see her. Even if it was only to appease me, I wanted her to let me cling to her again. I wanted to go back and live in that summer just for today, if nothing else. But I figured that shitty God could only find so much mercy in himself to grant me two miracles. Maybe three. So I pick up another piece of paper instead.
Dearest Lady Knight Princess,
You haven't scolded me for it at all so far—do you actually secretly like being called that?
It's been a while. I'm sure an auto memory doll's job is no joke, too. I hope you're doing well.
The postman came a few months back, and he told me he was your colleague. He said you helped Taylor with that letter. I knew you'd keep your promise, but you didn't need to do that, too. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Ans just so you know, that offer's still up. I don't know how long it'll take me, but if you'll accept it, I'll definitely, definitely pay you back.
As if on cue, a familiar tune starts to play. My lungs feel like they'd gathered too much air, and my hand freezes in place once again. Little by little, I ferry each one out, letting my eyes flutter close.
Between the two of us, Taylor's always been able to hold a note better, and even that isn't a particularly tall order. So I hum along only in my head, in the same way I remember Violet does in my dreams.
In all our time back at the Academy, conversation with Violet was elusive as is, and so I had never actually heard her sing. But even among nobility, there was something very delicate and doll-like about her face, so I had always imagined her humming to be just as lovely.
I open my eyes slowly, and before I knew it, my faint reflection stares back at me from the room's lone window. Even from this distance, the lake is a glittering blue.
Vaguely, the sensation of a delicate, metallic hand on my back comes to mind, from two summers past. I shift in my seat, and straighten my back, letting out one last exhale.
Other than that, what have you been up to? I'll start.
A week ago, I met with the guy they're handing me off to. He's a Count from some old family. I'm probably young enough to be his daughter. Not that I'd expected anything better.
I've only had to see him once so far, at least. And I guess the ring isn't half bad. It's green, too—just like that brooch you always wore. Yours is probably prettier, though.
It's still strange, seeing it around my finger.
I want to show you. That's probably a tough shot, but I can at least say these things, right?
Write me back soon.
Yours truly,
Amy Bartlett
Unwittingly, my gaze finds my left hand, where said ring is fencing one of my fingers in, and with my right, I caress the small stone perched atop.
Violet always did the same thing to her brooch, and I always found it annoying. I don't think about it as much, when so often the memory of that festival plagues me instead.
She had on her gloves then, like always, but I could feel them so keenly—every slender knoll of metal against the length of my own fingers. Her palms felt strangely, splendidly warm on mine. We spun around in the middle of a massive crowd, surrounded by flower petals scattered about, and for a fleeting second, she smiled.
My violet blossom—she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.
My thumb glides down the gold band, runs a gentle lap, then grips the sides lightly. I don't dare to try and pull.
Another memory comes to me then. Oddly enough, it's not of Violet at all. Something from very far back, in the cold little ditch I grew up in.
I recall the first time I had to haul my piss-drunk mother out of a stranger's shack. It was a bright, sunny day, and the man was as thoughtless as I had expected, leaving some runt to try and carry a body on her own. He even stared me down the entire time. My mother probably wasn't much taller or heavier than I was, but it still took me a while.
For as long as I can remember then, I had stopped dreaming.
...
Another memory.
For how big their homes, and how vast their fields, these folks live rather boring lives. It was something I came to understand. Save for my classes, that's all I really do these days.
It was only a couple years ago. I had met Taylor, who seemed like a small animal more than anything, curled in on herself on the side of the road. Day by day, I'd started wanting things again, holding my breath like some pickpocket.
And I was, so maybe that's part of why that's how it felt like. Taylor was too, I guess, but she's not like me. She should wish for nice, ridiculous things that kids do, freely. Instead, she swings her little feet, and happily eats whatever cold meal I could scrape up for the week.
I wanted to give her everything—anything that could amount to a good life, no matter what.
.
.
.
If I had a little more luck, just one more miracle, maybe you'd really be a shining prince. You'd whisk me away, and I'd work and be my own person like you. Maybe I could've taught Taylor how to read and write, too. The three of us, we'd be something like a family.
...
I set my pen down. "I hate this even more after all," I mumble, a shaky breath spilling out from me.
Digging up all those precious, happy memories, then having all these kinds of thoughts—I almost wish it was just that master of hers that I thought about all the time instead. I'd feel childish for being irritated each time, but it'd be a lot less painful.
But that's about all my love will amount to—this dreaming, these letters. So I sit in this study and sigh, folding each paper as carefully as I can manage. I tuck them inside their envelopes, and bring them up to my lips, barely grazing.