[ But he has already written the Y, before she pauses. And that means they must next write something that begins with Y. Because there is a paper shortage, Josephine. ]
[She takes the letter with a smile, rolling it into a little scroll and brandishing a bright green length of ribbon from her apron, no doubt to deliver it as soon as she leaves the room. She's just finished tying the bow when she pauses to stare at it.]
[ He wasn't there. Not that he could have done anything if he had been. He's a poor swimmer himself, and his style of fighting is generally not effective against giant monsters, and they had Monsieur Tallis and were alright in the end anyway. Except, ]
I miss Murph. He was funny.
[ To Bastien, at least, who can coax out good humor from the majority of people who have any capacity for it and take gruffness in stride. ]
I went by to see his wife a few weeks ago, but she was gone. The neighbor said she had gone to stay with her son in Wycome.
[She leans her hip against Bastien's desk with a little sigh-- it's strange to be talking about this after everything that's happened: a painful little shock, remembering that some people who die don't get to come back.]
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—but she wouldn’t ask for a letter during a paper shortage for no reason, so he writes it down, penmanship slow and careful. ]
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For your bravery and care in assisting Madame de Foncé and myself that dreadful day on the ferry, I want to thank you.
If ever there is a way I can return the kindness, you need only ask.
Your--
[she pauses, pursing her lips.]
...'your servant' has its own implications, doesn't it.
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[ But he has already written the Y, before she pauses. And that means they must next write something that begins with Y. Because there is a paper shortage, Josephine. ]
Your… fervent admirer?
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Your...
[her eyes go distant a moment as her brain works.]
...what about just 'yours'?
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Yours eternally.
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Yours.
[ He draws the word out to follow along with each runic letter he writes on the page, followed by, ]
Comma.
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Fifi Mariette.
[Byerly called her Fournier once, and it was devastatingly lovely—- but that’s not officially her name, and there’s no need to complicate it.]
…thank you, my dear.
[This to Bastien, in gracious forgiveness of his cheek.]
Someday I will learn to write.
[When she isn’t tired all the time.]
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[ He returns her letter to her to fold as she sees fit and puts the ink and pen aside. ]
Was it very awful? The turtle.
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[She takes the letter with a smile, rolling it into a little scroll and brandishing a bright green length of ribbon from her apron, no doubt to deliver it as soon as she leaves the room.
She's just finished tying the bow when she pauses to stare at it.]
Yes.
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[ He wasn't there. Not that he could have done anything if he had been. He's a poor swimmer himself, and his style of fighting is generally not effective against giant monsters, and they had Monsieur Tallis and were alright in the end anyway. Except, ]
I miss Murph. He was funny.
[ To Bastien, at least, who can coax out good humor from the majority of people who have any capacity for it and take gruffness in stride. ]
I went by to see his wife a few weeks ago, but she was gone. The neighbor said she had gone to stay with her son in Wycome.
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[She leans her hip against Bastien's desk with a little sigh-- it's strange to be talking about this after everything that's happened: a painful little shock, remembering that some people who die don't get to come back.]
I hope she and her son are able to find peace.