Prologue #2
Your parsnip phobia was precisely the amusement I needed.
I must admit I have been rather melancholy these past days, overwhelmed by the sudden change in my life, but the image of a grown man cowering before a ‘pale carrot impersonator’ made me laugh so unexpectedly that my lady’s maid came rushing in to ensure I hadn’t taken leave of my senses.
I hope that doesn’t make me terribly wicked, finding amusement in your culinary distress.
And I must clarify—it was not deliberate avoidance when I didn’t mention my manifestation specifically.
That was merely the way my thoughts flowed onto the page.
But now that I suspect you may be real (though I remain skeptical), I shall be careful to refrain from mentioning specific details that might reveal my identity.
One cannot be too cautious when corresponding with mysterious gentlemen through enchanted boxes, after all.
I find myself wondering what other perfectly harmless things might inspire terror in you. Embroidery hoops? Dancing lessons? The color lavender?
With amused regards,
Still Tentative
P.S. You called me brave, but I must correct this misunderstanding.
I am perhaps the least brave person in all the United Fae Isles.
I am shy to the point of invisibility and speak rarely in company unless directly addressed.
When I attempt to initiate conversation, I somehow manage to choose topics so utterly tedious that I can practically see my companions’ eyes glaze over with boredom.
Then I end up stammering and flushed with mortification. Words on a page are much easier.
Dear Still Tentative,
Terribly wicked indeed! I am wounded to my core that my deepest fear—the insidious parsnip—has become a source of such callous amusement. Though the thought of bringing laughter to you in your melancholy does soothe my injured pride somewhat.
But what do you mean I ‘MAY’ be real? I’m thoroughly offended that you do not believe me! What can I do to prove my existence beyond these pages?
Ah! Perhaps I could send you something? A token of my reality? Let me consider what might convince you …
Perhaps a preserved parsnip, elegantly mounted and framed like a trophy of conquest? A series of dramatic sonnets entitled ‘Ode to the Pale Horror That Lurks Beneath the Soil’? A trained gossip bird that squawks ‘Parsnips are an abomination!’ at regular intervals?
Do let me know which would be most convincing. I await your instructions with bated breath.
Still very much real,
The Parsnip Dreader
P.S. There are many forms of courage in this world. Some are loud and dramatic; others are quiet and no less significant. Perhaps you are braver than you know, just not in the way society has taught you to recognize.
It had taken all day and night for this reply to show up in Aurelise’s enchanted letter box.
Her lady’s maid had departed hours before, having helped her into her nightgown and arranged her hair into a simple braid for sleeping.
She had been drifting into dreams when a soft hum pulled her back to wakefulness. Instinctively, she knew it was the box.
She’d promised herself only one more exchange—and it was certainly improper to be sending magical notes across the realm at such an hour—but then again, she still couldn’t be certain there was truly a person on the other end of this enchantment.
If she was merely conversing with a clever spell designed to provide the illusion of correspondence, then propriety hardly mattered, did it?
This reasoning was flimsy at best, she knew, but it didn’t stop her from slipping from beneath her covers and seating herself at her writing desk to pen a reply.
Dear Parsnip Dreader,
Your offerings are most generous, if decidedly peculiar.
However, I cannot in good conscience reveal where I live.
If you ARE real (which I am still not entirely convinced of), then sending items to my personal residence does not seem safe at all.
I do not know you! You could be a parsnip in disguise, infiltrating polite society for nefarious vegetable purposes.
Besides, what would my family think if mysterious packages began arriving from unknown gentlemen? The scandal would be unbearable.
Your faithful correspondent,
The Cautious Skeptic
P.S. I had never considered there might be different forms of courage beyond the obvious.
It sounds like beautiful nonsense, the kind that poets spin to make ordinary things seem extraordinary.
And yet, I find myself wondering if there might be some small truth to it.
I shall contemplate your words, though I make no promises to believe them.
Dear Cautious Skeptic,
Your prudence is admirable, if frustrating to one attempting to prove his corporeal existence. But I must ask—how am I to convince you of my reality if I cannot send anything, cannot visit, cannot provide any tangible evidence of my existence?
Am I doomed to remain forever a figment of enchantment in your mind? The thought is oddly poetic, yet unsatisfying. There must be some way to bridge this gap between enchantment and reality without compromising your safety or reputation.
Perhaps you might suggest a method that would satisfy both your caution and my desire to be acknowledged as more than magical correspondence?
Awaiting inspiration,
The Increasingly Existential Correspondent
P.S. I look forward to receiving the letter in which you inform me that you’ve realized I am, in fact, correct about this matter of courage.
Aurelise gazed out of her window at the moonlit gardens of their Bloomhaven residence, absently brushing the feather of her self-inking quill back and forth across her chin as she contemplated how to respond.
A smile touched her lips whenever she thought of his postscript about courage—his certainty was both presumptuous and oddly charming—but decided now was not the time to rise to that particular bait.
The more pressing matter was determining whether this mystery gentleman truly existed.
An idea began to take shape in her mind, centered around her grandmother’s establishment.
Lady Rivenna Rowanwood owned The Charmed Leaf Tea House, the beating heart of Bloomhaven society gossip.
While Aurelise and her immediate family were scheduled to depart for their country estate in just two days’ time, returning to the sprawling manor where they spent most of the year when not attending the Season in Bloomhaven, her grandmother would remain, overseeing her business with her customary sharp eye and sharper tongue.
Would it truly be dishonest for Aurelise to say she was not in Bloomhaven right now?
By the time her mysterious correspondent could possibly act on her suggestion, it would be true.
She weighed the small deception against the protection her anonymity provided, and decided that this careful obscuring of details was merely prudent caution, not truly a lie.
Dear Increasingly Existential Correspondent,
After much consideration, I believe I have a solution that might satisfy us both. Do you know of The Charmed Leaf Tea House in Bloomhaven? I am not in Bloomhaven myself, but everyone of any consequence knows of The Charmed Leaf.
Send something there. Something outrageous, something that will be certain to grab the attention of the gossip birds. News of anything truly remarkable will spread quickly and will surely reach me before long.
Oh! It must involve a parsnip somehow. That detail will be our secret signal, so I shall know with certainty it was you and not some other mysterious prankster terrorizing tea houses across the realm.
I await news of your daring deed,
Your Reluctant Conspirator
My dear Architect of Mischief,
Brilliant! A public spectacle at The Charmed Leaf? Consider it done.
I am not in Bloomhaven either, but I shall make the necessary arrangements.
Within a week, The Charmed Leaf Tea House will play host to a parsnip-related incident that will have gossip birds fluttering their wings in scandalized delight for months to come.
I shall spare no expense nor creativity in proving my existence to you.
Until the parsnips make their debut,
Your Conspirator in Scandal
Two days later, the Rowanwood family departed Bloomhaven for their country estate.
Their trunks had been sent ahead by carriage, but the family themselves traveled via the swifter and more elegant means afforded by their status—ley line gliders.
The enchanted vessels, shaped like elongated leaf-boats with hulls of impossibly thin wood, glided effortlessly along the ancient underground rivers of magic that flowed beneath the realm’s surface, reaching the Rowanwoods’ distant manor in mere hours rather than the several days a carriage journey would have required.
Nearly a fortnight passed after Aurelise proposed her plan, during which she exchanged several more letters with her mysterious (and possibly still imaginary) correspondent.
Their topics ranged widely. She learned he had no siblings (and in turn told him she couldn’t decide who she was closer to, her twin brother or her older sister), and admitted she preferred the company of fictional characters—and the ever-blooming roses in her garden—to that of real people.
Then, one afternoon, a letter arrived via magically expedited messenger pixie from her grandmother.
That evening at dinner, as Lady Lelianna read the correspondence aloud with increasing astonishment in her voice, Aurelise nearly choked on her peas and had to quickly disguise her laughter as a coughing fit.