Berlin, January 1898
Little Fox,
I imagined you today, walking across the Konigsplatz in front of the Kroll Opera House, pigeons flying away in a clattering of wings.
I imagined you in green, your long skirts failing to hide the firm determination of your steps, your veiled hat failing to contain the flickering fire of your hair, the netting failing to soften the grim focus firming your lovely features.
I imagined meeting you on the roof of the Opera House, gazing out over Berlin together.
I imagined leaning close, pressing a finger to the line that forms between your brows.
But would I be softening it away, or carving it deeper?
You’re not here yet, but you will be, soon. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve changed your strategy. Well done. You send introductions ahead of time, anticipating which cities might be struck next so the detectives don’t wait to contact you. I’m proud, Little Fox. My clever, clever fox.
It’s a shame you aren’t already here, though.
And that when you arrive, you’ll only work.
The opera is showing La Bohème. Have you seen it?
Music, like art, like architecture, like rivers and oceans and mountains, almost makes me hope I could cry again.
I go to the opera in every city I can, and I watch the people around me, and I try to feel what they feel.
But I never do. Perhaps if I was watching it through you, I could.
I want to walk into the room with you when you arrive. A different sort of play, put on just for us. How long do you think that young couple—so bright-eyed, so filled with their future, so in love!—held their heads underwater before their fingers at last unclasped and they had to face the truth:
Everyone leaves this world alone.
Kind Regards,
Diavola