Whiskers and Lace

Dearest Amelia,

Ah! My darling Amelia, how is it that a heart can be simultaneously warmed and frozen at the same time? So brave and true of you to defend me, but your reputation with the ton! My dearest, most beloved Melly, you mustn’t ruin your chances on my account, I simply will not stand for it.

I can fair see you roll your eyes at me, but I stand firm on this. You may disregard your Season as a waste of your time, but even if you do not find yourself a groom, surely you must see the value in cultivating contacts for your future experiments. You are the most true and just friend a cat could ever ask for, and I value your staunch support more than you know — but I forbid it be done at the expense of your own reputation.

Nothing they say can affect me now. Either I shall secure a husband before this season’s end, thus shielding me from their spite, or I shall not, and thus be freed from their opinions via a less pleasant manner.

You must promise not to jeopardize your own future, my dear. You simply must.

That being said, I will admit to a flicker of desire to have spied the looks on their faces when you called them out. A pack of … of … terrible, awful, spiteful cats, that’s what they are. I wish I could call upon stronger language against them, but it would demean me to do so, I am certain.

And oh! I cannot neglect commentary upon your mysterious tom, this William Bradstone of yours. How peculiar, that he did not offer his station, but rather introduced himself as “Mr.” Does that mark him a commoner or merchant? If so, then how does he find himself attending events thrown by the cream of Landon?

I worry for you, my dear, and the cards do not assuage my fears! I shan’t bore you with the details of the reading, but I feel certain you are on the brink of something larger than we know. Tread lightly and keep your whiskers a-quiver.

Of course, I say such things and then flagrantly disregard them, myself. Oh, Amelia, I’ve gotten myself into a whole jar of pickles this time and I do wish you were here to help me back out of it.

I’ve been to see Madam Szymanksa. Rather, I have attempted to see Madam Szymanska, but I arrived at her shop only to find it ablaze! Never in my life have I seen such devastation. Cats and toms and kittens ringed at a polite distance to look upon the leaping flames. Luckily, the nearby canal offered a ready source of water to quench the fire before it could spread to the other buildings, but it gave me such a fright!

Worse yet, assuming a thing worse than that can be borne, you will never guess whose figure I saw skulking through the nearby alleyway – heading AWAY from the fires, and with a cloak over his head. I shan’t keep you in suspense, my dear, for it was none other than that wretched Conte Brasso himself!

What could he have been doing here, and why, amidst crowds of spectators positively thronging towards the blaze, would he be sneaking away from it? Oh, my heart still pounds in reaction, for not only did I see him, but he saw me looking at him before I could turn my gaze away.

Could he have set the fire in the first place? He recognized the symbol upon the paper – perhaps he has some reason to attack magic users? If so, he surely knows that I am myself a magic user. The fact would be impossible to hide after my wasps.

In the face of his narrowing green eyes, my heart skipped a beat and I froze. Would he attack me? I felt, unquestionably, that I was in danger.

I should like to say that I stood and stared him down, but I am made of weaker stuff. Perhaps you would have marched up to him and demanded explanation, but all I could think of was that this murderous tom might very well wish to kill me, so I turned and fled.

I chanced a glance or two behind me, and oh, Amelia! He gave chase!

He was, in fact, almost upon me (curse these corsets and the way they hobble my breathing! Ah, to think of the many times you’ve decried the invention as sadistic and crippling, and I pooh pooh’d your sentiment. Never again, dearheart. You may henceforth vocally flay the corset in my presence without recourse or argument.) when I blindly stumbled into a broad-chested gent, who lifted his arms to catch me before I fell to the ground.

“Begging your pardon, Madame, I did not see — ah!” The mystery tom’s golden eyes widened as he surveyed me. “You would be Miss diMarvo, would you not?”

I looked into his thin face and my heart sank. Duca Worthington. Favored advisor to the king himself, and quite the eligible bachelor, having only two wives already in his harem. Incredibly wealthy, remarkably handsome (and I can assure you, the photographs we’ve seen hardly do his pristine white fur justice, and he dresses in smart, obviously tailored clothes. Even his outer jacket was new, sporting only the three buttons favored this season rather than last season’s five.)

It must surely be said that I have most remarkable luck. All too often, it is simply remarkably poor luck.

I spared a moment to look behind me, only to see no sign of that cunning Conte Brasso. My pursuer had, it seemed, given up upon spying my rescuer.

“Dear girl, you’re all out of sorts! You act as if you’ve been chased by the devil himself.”

Here comes the queerest part of my tale, dearheart. I expected him to (at best) beg his pardon and walk away. At worst, I predicted a scornful cold shoulder, and perhaps a scathing comment upon my disheveled person, topped off by a cherry of a dig about the paper wasps (which there can be no doubt he was fully aware of. I recall seeing him at the party, though of course I would never dare approach a Duca, no more than I would expect him to approach a lowly Nobildonna diMarvo).

Instead, he said this.

“Come, I insist you join me for afternoon tea at a cafe. It seems you have no chaperone (what must your father be thinking?) but I shall do in a pinch. After tea, I shall escort you back to your home.”

My eyes widened. I could not believe my ears! Without conscious command, I began to stammer, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly…it would be such an intrusion…really, I am sure I will be quite all right.”

His golden eyes merely glinted and he held one arm out to me. “Ah, dear lady, please give me the pleasure of your company. My other plans are hardly important at this point, and I would dearly love to hear your side of the events at Contessa diMarco’s event. I haven’t been so entertained in years.”

I stared at him, quite taken aback. He wiggled his out-thrust elbow. “Dear me, will the girl refuse me?” he asked in a sotto-whisper.

Aghast, I fairly leaped forward to twine my arm in his, placing my un-gloved hand upon his forearm.

Oh, Melly, can you imagine it? Me, poor little old ME, on the arm of a DUCA? We strolled through the streets to a nearby cafe, where he requested a table on the patio — on the PATIO! Where any passers by could see that we sat and shared scones as if we were old friends?

To say that I was giddy would be an understatement. My poor arm is now likely black and blue from all the pinching I did to verify that I was not in some cruel sort of dream.

Melly, I hesitate to breathe a word of this, lest it fracture into pixie dust and disappear upon the wind, but he doted upon me! Laughed at my terrible jokes, teased smiles to my face, and flattered my beauty in a manner most rakish.

When my father came to the door to collect me (quite wroth, as you can imagine) the Duca turned to him and requested the pleasure of my presence at his side for the next evening’s soiree at Baronessa diVonri’s home.

Me!

It still seems unreal, and I cannot quite take a full breath. Perhaps he shall ring tomorrow and call the whole thing off as either a terrible mistake or a cruel joke, but Amelia my dear, I do not think he shall.

How then does this equate to troubles, you might be wondering. Aside from a frenzied tumbling of my entire wardrobe in search of a gown for the event (really, what does one wear to dance with a Duca? We cannot afford the latest styles, and I fear every one of my dresses looks like peasant-wear next to his magnificence!), there is one other consideration I have not yet made you aware of.

After the Duca was out of sight and his questions were all satisfied (thankfully, his questions dealt with the Duca and NOT what I had been doing alone on the streets of Tanice), my father revealed that I had been called upon by one other tom as well.

The Conte Brasso arrived whilst I was out and was much aggrieved to find that I was not at home. The gray tom refused to reveal the nature of his visit, saying only that he wished to speak to me in private, and he left in quite a huff when my father assured him that I was not at home, but that he could call upon me the following day.

My father delivered the news as if it were sprinkles upon the frosted cupcake of the Duca’s interest, but my heart froze and I could not muster similar excitement.

I dread seeing the Conte, dearheart. Even without the incident at the fire, his scorn over my book still rankles and burns in my heart. Why it bothers me, I cannot fathom – should I not be more excited at the Duca’s invitation?

Instead, I sit here, sullenly staring at my swiftly-melting candle as my claw carves swirls and designs into my desk top. I should be delighted. Should the Duca actually express an interest in me, I might find a husband this Season, and one that would satisfy my father’s outstanding debt and assign glory back to my family name

Not the Duca, of course. That would be preposterous, to think that he might actually seek my hand in marriage! Naturally, the prospect has occurred to me, but real life is not the same as in my beloved novels, and despite what some might whisper, I do know the difference. Still, the interest of a Duca would kindle the interest of others. Perhaps even a Visconte!

All this, the very thing I came here to acquire at the tips of my paw pads, and all I can see is the dangerous green eyes of a grey-furred tom.

Conte Brasso.

Much is happening around me, Amelia, and I fear that my lack of understanding may drown me in it.

Why must it be so infernally difficult to simply have a quiet, successful Season?

Even my cards have abandoned me, stubbornly revealing Lovers aside Diablo and honestly I cannot deal with that right now. I have a party to attend, and I am, after all, a Lady.

I shall deal with whatever life throws at me with aplomb and common sense.

I do hope life throws no more burning buildings at me, though. It’s fair impossible to remain impassive in the face of fire.

Love and Fishes,
Cheska

Dearest Cheska:

After reading your last letter, I discovered one can screech enough to crack glass.  Mother may demand another vase, but rest assured it will come out of my allowance and I made no mentioned of what caused me to create such a cacophony.  Of course she pressed, but I made a comment of seeing a strange slithering thing in the dark corner of the room and she paled, quickly retreated to her rooms.

Oh did I mention, Father’s been experimenting with snakes?

Excuse me, Dearheart, I am chuckling under the memory.  Let me return to the task at hand and address the abomination of your last letter; never towards you, dearest, but to those horrendous excuses for ‘noble’ women.  My hand trembles even writing down those words.  It makes me sick to my stomach to think of the embarrassment you had endured under their collective snickers and elitist attitudes.

Also, please find several new, what did they call it again-‘tawdry hussy napkins’ enclosed  (The nerve of these base, spineless, rats, to even mock you!).  I send them, so you may carry one at all times and when meeting upon them, make a quick shake as if you were to bring forth another wasp!

Forgive me, Dearheart.  The last paragraph was petty and mean.  And no, I really don’t wish you to inflict more wasps on them, well I do, but I know it will only make your more miserable and I never want to cause you more pain.  Though, allow yourself to think of it with me, the image of all those silly chits running in board daylight, screaming and pulling at their fake fur extensions.

Yes, I will take a moment to relish it with malicious glee.

Before you face becomes more crestfallen, I want to express to you my never-ending devotion and love.  You did nothing wrong and the thought you are so upset and unsettled after this unfortunate incident makes me want to send more than paper wasps to their faces.  You are so much more than those twits.  It galls to know you are lowing yourself to fit into their mold, when they should be begging to be allowed to touch the tip of your satin slipper.

I apologize for the break in the letter, Dearheart.  Because we are sisters of the heart and ever honest with each other, the following is most difficult to write, since I know your reading of it will only cause you to fret and fall deeper into your melancholy.  However, I cannot keep this from you.

What happened to you in Tanice has reached Landon.

Of course, everyone is aware of our deep friendship and the spineless jackals of Landon, who are no better than those in Tanice,  never said anything directly to me. However  I heard whispers of the events between circles during Lady Radcliff’s ball two nights past.

I ignored most of what I heard, because even though news of what had happened had arrived to the Ton, most of the rumors (from what I could tell) were harmless.

That was until I was hiding from Mother again behind a large potted plant and sipping on some punch, when I heard Lady Mary Sourborn said, “How such a horrid creature could be allowed to attend our balls, I do not know.  Everyone knows her family is penniless and to be forced to tolerate one with her defects!”

Out of my hiding place, I could see her nasty little beady eyes, and her thin, spiteful smile, surrounded by several of the other ‘gentry’.

I stepped from behind the plant and I think I may have growled, because her eyes grew wide and several of the members turned to look at me. ( I am sorry, Dearheart.  So very sorry, because what happened next, will not help you in the least.  If after this, you do not wish to write me, I will understand.)

After everyone’s attention was fixated on me and my little cup of punch, I found myself moving towards her, my claws (oh heavens forgive me) extended.

They made starching noises on the glass.

Everything around us stilled and I knew, just knew I was making a horrible scene.  But I couldn’t stop myself.  A red haze of rage descended on me.  After all you have suffered and the pain you endured and this slug would insult you. I refuse to let it pass.

“I couldn’t agree more, Lady Sourborn?” I said, my voice coming out in a low rumble.

Lady Mary gasped as well as several of the ladies around her.  I do believe my sudden appearance reminded her of a vengeful specter. She gave a tight laugh and placed a gloved paw to her throat. Confusing caused her to dart her glaze to those around her.

“Whatever do you mean, Lady Amelia?”

The red haze colored everything around me.  My grip constricted further on the delicate cup.

I sneered, and I knew she could see my canines flashing in the flicking candlelight.

I moved closer to her, and said very softy to her, but loud enough those immediately around us could hear, “It is rather unfortunate one must suffer the company of objectionable elements. Indeed, it is a pity Lady Radcliff is forced to invite such disagreeable individuals simply because it is polite to do so.  Such an unwelcomed and undesirable individual would be best served to remind silent for the rest of the season.” I stopped and leaned into her more.  My breath spreading across her powdered face.

I continued, “Spreading rumors and lies about completely innocent and truly honorable young ladies such as, let’s say, Lady diMarvo, would be beneath a real lady, do you not agree?”

Her skin turned several shades of red and purple under her beige fur.  She flopped her mouth opened and closed like a fish, but I did not give her a moment to answer and turned away from all of them.  They parted like the sea, giving me a wide berth as I retreating to the open terrace.

The cool breeze of the night helped calm my thundering heart and clear the haze from me vision.

You may be happy to know, the cup survived the ordeal and I place it on the balcony.  Maybe because I was so focused on not trying to think of what I had just done and how much my Mother would pull on my ear, I did not notice I was no longer alone.

“That was mildly entertaining,” said an amused, low voice.  I turned to my right and saw the strange tom, standing in light spilling from the ballroom onto the terrace floor.  He had a lopsided smile.

My eyebrow rose and I said, “I am so glad you were amused.  After all it is my purpose in life to make toms happy.”

Sarcasm dipped from my words like chocolate on strawberries.

Then he did the most unexpected thing.

He laughed.

It surprised me speechless.  His laugh wasn’t something I expected.  It was full and rich and had almost a bell quality to it.

Mirth twitched around his lips even after his laugh ended.

Then without warning, he gave me a great bow and said, “My name is Mr. William Bradstone. It is a pleasure to finally meet you Lady Amelia.”

I blinked several times before my brain began to function again.  Why was he speaking to me?

Years of breading caused the automatic response, “A pleasure, Mr. Bradstone.”

However my next comment was born of confusion and curiosity.

“But we have met before, sir.  At Mr. Muestien’s Book Shoppe, when you preceded to cut the line.”

I crossed my arms across my chest.  I did not know what to do.  I hadn’t even notice him when he had arrived, and here he was being nice and civil.  Where was the mysterious, brooding tom, I had been seeing everyone avoiding for the entire season?

He smiled.  A soft smile, which only infuriated me more.  It was as if he knew a secret I was not privy to and you know now much I hate not knowing.

“Ah yes, I do apologize for my rude behavior.”  He walked closer to me and before I could blink, his form blocked most of the light coming from the open doors.

The corner descended into darkness.

Something caused my pulse to quicken and I felt suddenly claustrophobic.  His scent, a heady mix of musk, and another scent I could not pinpoint, caused my head to spin, overwhelming my senses.

I need to breathe!

“Apology accepted, “ I said in a mad rush and quickly slipped out of the corner and headed towards the open door.

I took a deep gulp of fresh air.  It felt wonderful.

“Again, it was a pleasure Mr. Bradstone, but you must excuse me, my Mother will be wondering where I disappeared to.”

I turned to head into the room before waiting for a response, but I could have sworn I heard a faint, “Oh no, the pleasure was all mine.”

A shiver snaked through me.

I haven’t seen him since, because as you can imagine, Mother was appalled by my behavior and I have been confined to the house for the last two days.  Father, though he can’t show it to Mother, especially lately, said nothing, but his eyes gleamed with pride and amusement.

I know I should have done this sooner, especially in the beginning when Mother insisted on the season, but I cannot understand for the life of me why she is subjecting me to this.  After that night, it is apparent I am not fit for ‘polite’ company and continuing with this farce of a season will be an unmitigated disaster. I am resolved to ask her tonight.

Today, after sending this letter, I am escaping to run an important errand.  Mother believes I am suffering a headache and have asked to be undisturbed today. Sally is an excellent maid, discrete and loyal and I can trust her to remain silent about the little trip I have planned.

I finally plan to visit with Dr. Nicolas, father’s long time collaborator. Because of Mother’s iron hold on my time I have not been able to speak to him regarding my latest research.  Also, I will talk to Dr. Nicolas about the symbol.  He is very familiar with many branches of science and unlike others, is not scared of the idea of magic and has dabbled in the occult himself, though that is not common knowledge.  He may be able to help.

Please be safe and do not allow the opinions of those ridiculous, inferior idiots diminish your light in any way.

Dearheart, know I love you.

Yours always,

Amelia

Dearest Amelia,

Ah! If you only you were here, I would catch you up in my arms and spin giddy circles until such time as you laughingly cried “Fie!” I would, truly I would! Thank you, a thousand times, thank you, for sending me the missing book!

Ah, you are a saint! An angel! A darling, indeed, and I shall entertain no other interpretation.

Furthermore, I absolutely REFUSE to allow that rotten Conte Brasso to dim my delight. “Tawdry hussy napkin” indeed! Oh, just the thought of it has me livid. Worry not, I shall fill you in on every sordid detail, but first I absolutely must be certain you have no doubts that I adore you for sending the book.

If word of last night’s events somehow reach you through less-friendly channels it may become prudent for you to be aware that I told father I found the book on the side of the road so as to belie even the smallest chance that a whisker’s breadth of fault might land upon your shoulders.

Really. I cannot believe such a tiny event has sparked such miserable reactions. It hardly bears mentioning, except for the true and honest fact that the Conte Brasso is a cad and no sort of gentleman at all. He may – why, yes, I do believe I shall say it! – he may take his title and shovel it!

(I do hope your ears are not burning. I heard that particular vulgarity shouted by our gondola pilot to another pilot who failed to move out of the way quickly enough. I believe it is a very strong sentiment, but I feel very fervently on this matter! Handsome tomcat or no, there is really no excuse!)

Ah, I dance around the event. My apologies.

Last night was a dance as the Contessa diMarco’s home. A lovely event, truly, which would not normally be occassion for such distress, except I had only just received your gift and had not yet finished reading the book.

Naturally, I tucked it away to finish, should I find my dance card less than brimming at some point during the night. Only as a precaution against boredom, you understand. Catching the eye of a prospective tomcat was my first concern, and finishing the book a pitiful second.

As it happened, the Conte Brasso was also at this event and I found myself in his sphere of influence before the night was over. Mindful of my father’s stern admonitions that I needed to apologize, (after all, he was titled, and one does not idly dump the gentry into the canals without repercussions – though between you, me, and this feather pen, I still maintain it was the man’s own fault!) I swallowed my pride and made my way through the nearly offensive gaggle of cats purring around him, hoping to catch his eye and land his hand in marriage.

Really. It truly was shameful, the way they doted on him. Just because he was titled and had yet to choose his first wife, every dame seemed to have instructed her daughters to fawn upon him. I admit he cut a dashing figure in his suit, but you’ll not catch ME sniffing about any tom, titled no, smelling so strongly of desperation and heat.

Where was I?

Oh yes, I was telling you of my ill-fated apology. Oh, my ears still burn, but not from shame, dearheart – from fury.

Finally, I wove my way through the bevy of beaded dresses and oversized bustles to the tom himself.

The moment his blue eyes fell upon me, I knew he did not remember me. Amelia, you would not believe the look he gave me! Never before did I understand what my beloved romances meant when they said a tom could smoulder at a cat, but he smouldered.

I was hardly flattered, however, as the set of his whiskers and eyebrows clearly indicated he considered me just another of his purring sycophants.

The look I returned to him had as much ice as I could muster as I drew myself up, then lowered into a proper curtsey. “Conte Brasso,” said I, “I wish to offer my apologies for the incident at the canals. Truly, it was just a misunder–”

This is the dreadful part. Mid-sentence (and you will certainly understand how carefully I must have rehearsed such an apology, given my dislike of falsehoods!), one of those dreadful cats BUMPED me!

I believe it was the orange tabby in the emerald chiffon, but I have no proof and thus cannot call her out on the insult, but ah, me! Such disaster!

I lost my balance. And who would not, mid-courtsey in such a way? As I tumbled to the floor, the novel freed itself from where I had affixed it and spilled to the floor, landing with pages askew at the Conte’s booted feet.

“What is this?” he said, scooping the book up and scanning the title.

I might well have burned with mortification then and there.

His whiskers twitched. “A romance novel?”

The tabby hissed, “A tawdry hussy napkin, m’lord. Unsurprising, for one whose family has fallen to such low station. I’m surprised she even got a ticket!”

The Conte laughed. “Hussy napkin?” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that one!”

The ring of cats erupted into giggles and my nose itched DREADFULLY, but I courageously fought against it. No more magic in public, my father had pleaded, and I had promised to obey.

I picked myself up from the floor with all the dignity I could muster and reached forth my empty hand. “I’ll take my book back now, if you please,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose with my other hand to still the sneeze.

If he thought he was getting an apology after denigrating my taste in books so neatly, he was sorely mistaken. In fact, I believe the next time I see him, I shall be sorely tempted to knock him into the canals in person, indeed I will!

His eyes met mine again, this time without the smouldering. Not that I WANTED the Conte Brasso to smoulder at me, mind you, but the amused curiosity in his gaze was even worse.

“I know you,” he began. “You’re the cat who dumped me in the canals. How did you manage that?” he said, as if to imply that I could not dump a cat into the canals if I so chose! (Nevermind that I likely could not, his offhanded assumption that I was incapable of such an act was the height of arrogance!)

“My book?” I repeated, pushing my outstretched hand forward. I was rather proud of myself for my even voice and unshaking hand.

“Apologies, miss,” he said, unfolding several bent pages in preparation for returning it to me.

He froze, suddenly, when he came across my bookmark, and it is with great horror that I recalled just what scrap of paper I had used as a bookmark. You’ll remember from my previous letter, the paper with the mysterious symbol etched upon it? I had been in such haste preparing for the dance that I had taken it by mistake. His blue eyes widened. “Where, I wonder, did you come across this?” he asked. Thinking back on it, his voice sounded strange as he asked, but at the time, all I wanted was the return of my book and to retreat with what tatters of my pride remained intact.

Our little group was rapidly attracting the attention of more than I wanted, with several other groups listening curiously.

“If you please, Conte,” I said (though this time, I’m afraid I may have gritted my teeth as I spoke, “I should very much appreciate the return of my novel.”

“Novel?” scoffed the tabby. “Your bodice-ripper, you mean. Do you imagine that you shall ever find yourself swept off your feet by a handsome cat who loves you? What possible tom could ever want a diMarvo bride? Your father spurned your family name at the gaming tables. You’re only invited to these events on the off chance you will provide us with entertainment, you silly girl!”

I sneezed.

I could not stop it. She made me so ANGRY, Amelia! You know my father has done much to atone for his misspent youth, and he dotes on me so! To publicly decry his nobility was more than I could bear. He regrets his past, and I hope to help him rebuild our family honor. Since the day he threw away his last wine bottle, he has exhibited more honor and valor than anyone else I have ever known and I could not let this striped hussy drag him through the mud.

The book is safe, I hasten to note.

No, it was not the book which my papercrafting affected, but rather the bookmark.

I cannot fathom why, but my magic latched upon that single scrap of paper and positively exploded. I cannot make new paper, so my magic is confined to the size of the papers around me, but never have I seen such a lifelike construct!

Really, it was very impressive.

Sadly, it was also a wasp.

A wasp the size of the ball of my hand, which buzzed angrily and promptly dived upon the tabby cat and began stinging her mercilessly. She (and the gaggle of other girlcats around her) began to shriek and flee, waving their arms over their heads as if to ward off the end of days!

It was only a paper wasp! Ah, alas, I was wrong.

Conte Brasso (using my book! The gall of that man! He might have torn a page!) subdued the wasp with a single swing, trapping the creature betwixt the pages of the book. The book jerked and buzzed in his hands once before falling into fitful silence.

The room applauded his heroics, every cat and tom cheering him on … and then the girls began to shriek again.

Every cat stung by the wasp (and really, there weren’t that many. No more than a handful, I am certain!) looked on in horror as their fur shifted color, turning a horrific shade of sallow green.

After a moment, every eye in the room turned to me, including the now green tabbycat wearing the chiffon. “YOU!” she shouted, the venom in her voice totally unnecessary as her tail thrashed and puffed behind her and her claws poked through the kid velvet gloves on her hands.

I snatched my book from the Conte’s hands and bolted from the room.

I was not surprised to find all subsequent invitations to various parties and dinners retracted. The parade of messengers bearing the notification of these cancellations has been a constant depressant to me, so I have firmly shut my windows against them.

In better news, I have succeeded in contacting Madame Szymanska and shall be meeting with her this afternoon. Father thought perhaps a walk might improve my spirits.

A this rate, I shall find myself with no sort of husband at all. Even a small chance that she might help me control these outbursts could be the saving of my social future. I put on a brave face, but oh! Amelia! What shall I do? At times it feels so utterly hopeless and I know that father is depending on me to make a good match this Season!

Besides, I mean to ask her about this odd tom you’ve found. Your descriptions have my whiskers all a-quiver and I worry that he may have an aura of magic about him.

Take it from an expert, and stay away from anything resembling magic, just to be safe!

I shall dutifully relay the results of my meeting with Madame Szymanska in our next letter. DO wish me luck, darling. I have such high hopes, yet still I worry. I pulled a card for myself before beginning this letter and I got The Moon. Alas! As you know, The Moon one of my least favorite cards. Magic and uncertainty and illusions indeed! Where is my Lovers card? Or at the very least, I should like to see a Fishmonger to indicate wealth and success!

Some days, I wish I had the ability to give my cards a very stern talking-to!

Love and Fishes,
Cheska

P.S. I pulled a card for you, as well, my darling. I debated telling you of it, as I did not wish to alarm you, but in retrospect it seems more prudent to give you any warning you might need. It was the Seven of Trout, hinting at subterfuge and dark illusions, and emotions of jealousy. Do beware those around you, my dear, and place your trust carefully. You know as well as I that the glittering, taffeta-clad ladies of the Ton are not declawed.

Dear Dearheart:

I hope this letter, as always, finds you well and in good health and spirits.  I hope the season isn’t too wary on you and even if you were dismayed afterwards by your display of magic, I most certainly am not!  To even suggest to shave a single hair of your fur, I shudder in anger and am glad once again, I am not there to create more trouble for you.

As I am sure you have already noted, attached to this letter is a small parcel containing a brand new copy of Silken Whiskers.  Allowing you to finally discover the end of the novel and sate your curiosity.  Nothing is worse than not knowing, my Dearheart, and I could not in good conscience allow you to remind in such a limbo state.  After all, why should you have to suffer not finishing your novel after you were so rudely interrupted by Conte “By-your-leave”.

The symbol? In Tanice?  On a scrap of paper, merely floating around?  That is most unsettling.  I do believe it is time to finally find out once and for all what it means.

On other mysteries, as you very well know, Dearheart, I do not believe in consequences.  In my mind, consequences are simply series of events already tied together in some shape or fashion. I touch on this subject because of a very queer event which occurred when I purchased your book.

My trip to the bookshop was not simply for your benefit, Dearheart.  It was for mine as well.  I had managed to escape from Mother’s claws for an afternoon, after I too had an unfortunate incident with the dressmaker.  I will not go into details, but suffice to say, Mother feint a headache and told me to remove myself from her sight until dinnertime.  I happily obliged.

I had gone to Mr. Muestien’s Book Shoppe, you remember the one near my home, and while Mr. Muestien was not the most helpful of toms and of course was a proponent to the more archaic notions of females, he does  have, a very varied and sizable collection in his shop.  Hence, I crossed its threshold, and paused to enjoy the rush of leather and wax to permeated my nose and gave into the pleasure of being surrounded by so many words and ideas.

I may only assume this is why I didn’t immediately notice him when I entered.

I went to Mr. Muestien and asked for your novel.  For once, he didn’t even seem to blink or give me a disapproving look.  Instead, his gaze seemed to be transfixed by an object to my right.  Mindlessly, he turned, grabbed the book behind his counter and then handed it to me, never once sparing me a glance.

To say I was annoyed, would be an understatement.  Infuriated, I turned towards the direction of his glaze and notice the tom near the second the last bookshelf.  He was tall and lean.  The black fabric of his coat and provided a sharp contact to the tawniness of his fur.  Something seemed very familiar, and when he turned the page of the book in his paws, it ticked in my mind.

It was the mysterious tom from the party!

What was he doing in the bookstore?

I tell you Cheska, there is something about him to seems to repeal and attract everyone in the vicinity! Again, no one seem to want to get close to him; not even Mr. Muestien, who as you know, loves nothing more than to cater to his more wealthy clientele.  It was oblivious the mysterious tom was not a pauper.  His clothes were tailored, new and clean.  His hat, well-shaped and sharp and yet Mr. Muestien looked as if his tail had been caught in a door.

What type of person was this tom?

So transfixed was Mr. Muestien’s glaze on the stranger, I actually had to clear my throat to get his attention.  He blinked behind his iron-rimmed glasses and like a man waking from a trance, it looked as if he finally noticed my presence.

“I would like to purchase this, Mr. Muestien. ” I handed your book back to him and watched the ‘look’  finally make its appearance.  I was about to inform him my personal reading habits were none of his  concern  when a arm thrust across my line of vision and a book held in the paw at the end of it, cut off my timely response to Mr. Muestien’s ‘look’.

A muted, but firm voice said from behind me, ” I believe I would like to purchase this one.”

Mr. Muestien’s face grew slack and fear and awe shadowed his features, “Yes, sir.” He said to the owner of the arm, once again completely ignoring me.

I knew without looking, the person standing behind me was the mysterious tom, and regardless of the amazing affect he seemed to have to all those around him.  I did not appreciate being ignored or having him jump the line as it were.

Mr. Muestien, under the spell of stupidity or whatever other aliment the presence of the tom produced, actually took the tom’s book and rang up the sale.

The gall!

Was I invisible!  What sort of gentlecat would simply ignore a lady already ready to make a purchase and make the shopkeeper attend to his needs first.

I felt my fur bristle.

And as you well know, my Dearheart, I can not, for a moment, stay silent when such an injustice is commented simply because a tom decides his needs were more important than those around him.

I took it upon myself to educate this mysterious tom and his annoying air. I was, perhaps a bit indigent, however I looked up at the tom and said, ” Sir, do you not see I was here first and was in the process of finalizing my purchase.”

Now, I understand what you may be thinking.  I can already see the cringe lining your face as you read this section and I do apologize, I never want to make you feel uncomfortable, my Dearheart, even if you are hundreds of miles away. It is moments like those where I am happy you are in Tanice and not here, so you may not have to witness such events.

I understand my displays of, how to label it, outspokenness, can be a tad uncomfortable. But this could not be borne!

When I spoke, I feel the tom’s look at the title of the book, and could almost feel his straighten back and give Mr. Muestien the tender for the book.

Did he just dismiss me!

“Sir, ” I said firmly, “Did you not hear what I had said?”

I heard him give a small sigh and could feel him looking at me.  However I could not give you an accurate description of his face, because it seems even the shadows seemed to be conspiring against me and they hurried and hid most of his features.  This annoyed me as well.

I always like to see who I am dealing with.

“Yes, madam. I heard you.” He said.

And then could you believe it, he just continued to ignore me! He waited for Mr. Muestien to finish and when he retrieved his package, gave me a light tip of his hat and preceded to vacate the premises.

I can not believe the audacity.  Who does he think he is! Now, my question Dearheart is, have you have heard of a mysterious tom who has the ability to both attract and repeal?  Perhaps someone in your circles in Tanice may know of such a creature and if so, please have them come to retrieve him post-haste!

I most certainly do not need any more annoyances during such an already painful season.

I do hope you enjoy the ending of your novel.

With much love and yours always,

Amelia

P.S.

I understand your schedule is limited, but I beg you to please to met with Madam Szymanksa.  She is not another tea-leaver and from my sources, if she is willing, she will help you immensely.

I do not wish to add more worries to you shoulders, Dearheart, you know I do not, however we both know, you must receive some instruction.  From my latest research, accidental magic is not so much an accident but a manifestation of the caster’s desire.  I fear as the season continues you may experience more incidents.  Please think about it.

Note: Amelia’s writer has been on a very understood hiatus. This was just a quick note to hopefully cheer her day and provide a friendly elbow to her ribcage to remind her of our little game. <3

Dearest Amelia,

It has been so long since our last correspondance, and I dare not take the time to pen you a more significant letter. So many happenings here in Tanice, I cannot wait to share them all with you!

How goes your Season? Do tell, I must hear all the wicked details. Have you scandalized the other cats yet? Have you seen that mysterious tom again? Is violet still in style, or has cerulean trumped it finally?

Father calls from the other room, and I must draw this note to a close. Write me soon, my darling! I am lost without you!

*love and fishes*
~Cheska

Dearest Amelia,

The name of the missing novel is – Do not laugh! – Silken Whiskers. I know, I know, it is a dreadful title, and you’ll no doubt mock me even for picking up the volume, and you’d be right to do so.

Tawdriness aside, I am left at the climax, the heroine in great haste to reveal to the hero the vital piece of information which shall allow him to overthrow the villainous Duke, thus freeing hero and heroine to marry and find everlasting bliss.

Ah, and here I am, smiling foolishly at the merest memory of it. Should you manage to find a copy, I should be everlastingly grateful.

How did you manage such a striking shade of blue in your paperworks, madam? Never have I seen such a hue, so vivid and glorious! Chromowhatography or whatnot – it certainly seems magic to me, for all you shudder at the merest mention of magecraft in your widgets and machinery.

I must admit, the thought of you in a proper Season is a difficult one to fathom. I’ve always said you are a very handsome cat, so it is not the image of your attracting the attention of a tom which chafes so, but rather the thought of you wearing full ballgowns and flirting. Your intelligence so intimidates most toms, I shouldn’t be surprised to find that you’ve taken them all to task at devising more unique and grammatically correct pick-up lines after your first night!

Quite unfathomable, that your parents should enforce such an odd requirement upon you, when they’ve been so forward-thinking with all else concerning your education. If they’d planned on this from the start, one would think your failing marks in etiquette and manners would have caused more of a scuffle (regardless of your high marks in mathematics and mechanics).

I wonder at the name of the strange tom you’ve mentioned in your letter. It disturbs me, and I worry for you, my dear. Do not let your curiosity lead you to danger!

As to my magic-crafting, good heavens, of course I’ve not been practicing! I’m so miserable at it, I know that I should devote at least some time to it, but really. The most impressive thing I’ve managed to do thus far was turn Milly Melbourne’s hair blue, and what a great lot of trouble THAT caused! Not that she didn’t deserve it, wretched viper that she was. Do you know, I believe she still has to dye her hair when the blue roots begin to appear?

Oh, what an uncharitable chortle I just gave. I do hope father didn’t overhear. I don’t know what I should tell him if he should ask its cause. I am such a wretchedly terrible liar.

Still, I cannot help but imagine that surely your parents cannot be serious. You’ve made your wishes with regards to tomcats and harems quite clear, for as long as I’ve known you, at least. They can’t have thought you to just be going through a phase?

As for my husband quest, I have attended a brunch, a luncheon, and have only moments ago arrived from my own poke and prod session at the dressmaker’s. Of course, this year’s fashions favor the slim and svelte cats, so after praising my long white fur, the tailor immediately turned and began tut-tutting the bulges it would undoubtedly create beneath his dresses.

The gib had the nerve to suggest I trim or even shave down those areas which might typically be found beneath a dress, to make the dresses more attractive!

Can you IMAGINE?

Oh, I was quite furious.

Which, of course, meant that I sneezed again.

Oh, Amelia, what am I to do with this magic? I can’t so much as light a candle, regardless of how long I scowl at it (surely you remember the teacher’s face as she demonstrated the ability. I feel certain the dourness is quite necessary for the spell to work). And yet a single comment from a stranger causes such an unbearable tickle in my nose, and then…

…Well, let us just say that I shall not be visiting that particular dressmaker again. I believe my grandkittens are similarly barred from stepping foot on the premises.

Good riddance, of course. Although that does leave me dreadfully unprepared with regards to fashionable clothing for all of these balls and banquets at which I am to display my feline charms.

I have seen neither hide nor fur of the Conte Brasso, though I have been informed (with exaggerated sideways glances and much ‘ladylike’ tittering) that he should be attending tonight’s ball at the Baronessa diVonri’s home.

Perhaps he shall not recognize me? I don’t believe I could apologize to him with a straight face any more than I managed to do with Milly Melbourne.

I wonder, do they offer classes in becoming a better liar, as they do with dancing and social graces? I should very much like to invest in one.

As to your query about Madam Szymanksa – in truth, no I have not. I have not even made the attempt. I know you went to great trouble to look her up for me, but Amelia-dearest, my magic is such a mess, I cannot imagine that another stuffy old tealeaf-reader shall be able to assist me. The ladies at school washed their hands of me well before the blue hair incident, and I truly have been able to control the magic of late. Minus the incidents with the tailor and the Conte, of course. Truly, aside from those I have been the soul of nonmagical discretion. Besides, how should I convince Father to give me the time to find and meet with this cat? He already begrudges me the hours for sleeping.

That was uncharitable, and I feel wicked just for saying it. Father loves me, of course, and does what he can to see that I am well taken care of. He wants me to be happy, and that means married to wealth.

The rich try not to see it, but the poor line the waterways and huddle in the shadows here, just as they do back home. That is no life for me, nor do I have marketable skills aside from social chatter and a remarkable aptitude for dance. I cannot even cook!

I did find something odd, though, and managed to slip it into my sleeve whilst Father’s back was turned. A scrap of paper, skittering from an alley like a rat caught out in the light. It had the symbol on it – the one that we saw back home. Written in the same oddly pearlescent black ink, and unadorned by any explanation or identifying text. I have kept it, folded neatly as a bookmark, but you do recall the reaction of the headmistress when she saw it with us back then? I thought I’d been in trouble for the hair magic, but I’d never had my backside tanned with such fervor as when she saw us with that scrap of paper!

I do wonder what it means, though I shall be more careful with this one, now that I know it is somehow clandestine. I know nothing about it, save its ability to infuriate headmistresses, and yet I am loathe to part with it. I feel quite like I am peeking in at one of the secret organizations so often mentioned in the books penned by Rocheforte (and yes, I brought the collection here to Tanis with me. I cannot imagine being parted from them. Ah, such detailed love scenes they contain! So much danger, and such wickedly dashing tomcats!)

Ah, and here is Father, demanding to know if I plan on leaving the candle alight all night long. As if the cost of a single candle shall beggar us!

But, he is right that it grows late and the ball shall be starting soon. We shall be arriving fashionably late, of course, but it does take a dreadfully long time to prepare without a serving maid. In truth, I look forward to that most of all – the stays on my corset are dreadful against my paws. Surely it was designed by a fiendish archvillain. Having assistance getting into the wretched contraption would be a blessing.

Love and Fishes,
Cheska

P.S. Do try to enjoy your Season, at least a bit. I know you see it as a betrayal of everything you stand against, but you are only young once, my fursister. You might find that you enjoy it, or perhaps you’ll meet a tom who can see what a marvelous treasure you truly are. I would see you happy as well. You’ve convinced me that you are capable of finding your happiness in spinsterhood, but you’ve really no reason to at least explore your other options first.

Hello Dearheart:

Only threw him into the canal?  Shameful, I would have wished your paper tiger had at least made a meal of the gentleman’s – I use the term loosely- breaches.

Why is it Cheska, toms feel the right to maul every female unfortunate enough to cross their path?  However, we as ladies must always allow such misconduct with a smile!

Excuse me Dearheart, I had to step away from the letter for a moment.  You know how quickly my fur bristles just hearing such stories. I am tremendously happy to read you defended yourself-regardless of your father’s reproach.  Another reaction for another day, if I could take that man under my paw…!

Cheska, I chuckled at your description of perfect match, but why do I feel sad thinking of you resigning yourself to an overly perfumed room filled with petty felines, who offer nothing outside of their own selfish needs. I worry your brightness will be caged and muted.

You deserve better.

Even if you do become part of a harem, I wish it were with a gentleman who could fully appreciate your amazing worth.

Bah! I am sorry again, Dearheart.  Here I am spewing my ideals again, and forcing you to read them.  How you have put up with me so long, I will never know.  You know I only want your happiness-wherever you find it.

How are the new chants coming along?  While your paper tiger sprang to life out of fright, I may only assume you have been practicing such a spell prior to that evening.

It is times like these I wish we were both back at Ramsey House huddled under your blanket, you reading the tarot while I held the lantern, I do miss those days – along with turning Milly Melbourne’s hair blue.

How funny you mentioned the rain.  The weather has been abysmal, foggy, wet and gray.  The colors themselves all refuse to return to the city until the sun reappears- depressing really.  As is the next bit of my news.

It has not rained- literary- but a deluge has hit.  Mother is on a rampage.  It seems I have finally exhausted her patience and she has worn down Father.  The crazy cat is forcing me to participate this season!

Me! Of all cats! You would think, raised by two people who have bucked society as much as they have I would not be subjected to such humiliation.

No offense to you, dear Cheska.  You know how I feel regarding seasons and marriage in general.

Alas, Mother insisted and not even a temper tantrum, and locking myself in my quarters for three days, stopped her from following through with her plans.

Since you left last month, I have been pinched, and prodded like a pin cushion. Stuffed into corsets, had my fur pulled into impossible shapes and forced to stand in ridiculously warm rooms whilst my mother tries to barter me to the highest bidder.

Why had I not been born a tom!  Had I been, then I would not have to suffer this, would have been left to my science and none be bothered by my bachelorhood.

Then again, had I been born a tom, we would have never met.  Ignore the previous paragraph.

Regardless, all the social commitments and late nights have wreaked havoc on my experiments and has caused me to delay my findings to Dr. Nicolas.  I really must send him my latest results -if I can escape Mother for a few moments that is.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention!  During Lady Allesbury’s ball last night, I witnessed the strangest sight.

There I was, standing next to mother with my usual “ Bride for Sale” sign, when I noticed a gentleman standing by the refreshment table.  At first, I thought he was a servant, but then I noticed the impeccable cut of his clothing and the air of power surrounding him.

That in of itself was not remarkable-toms all think they are divine gifts to the world, however, everyone’s response to him, was exceedingly bizarre.  It was almost as if he was a magnet and everyone around him held the same charge, because while all seem to be mesmerized by him, whispering and darting their eyes, none would approach him.  As for the gentleman, he seemed not to care a wit for the lack of conversation.  Instead, he had the most mysterious smile, full of arrogance, pride and ridicule.

I found myself wanting to know who he was; he had been the one interesting thing I had seen during my two weeks of torture.  But won’t you know when I turned to ask Mother the name of the gentleman-he disappeared.

Enough of me, tell me how are the balls going?  Anything else of interest happen?  Have you been able to locate Madam Szymanksa? Did you have to speak to the horrid Count Brasso again?

Love Always,

Amelia

P.S.

Send me the name of your novel.  I will see if I can procure a copy and forward it to you.  There is nothing worst than an unfinished tale!

P.S.S

Do you like the stationary?  It is a new experiment I am working on, similar to chromolithography, but without the need of stones and the like.  I hope you like it.

Dearest Amelia,

You must believe me when I say it was not my fault that I dumped the Conte Brasso into the canals!

Oh, why do these things always happen to me? It’s never my fault and yet it’s always my fault!

Just thinking of it fair sets my fur on end! Even now, I can feel my tail puff up like a kitten on Hallow’s Eve.

I’m sure by now the news has reached the papers. I’m likely a topic of whispered conversation and speculation across the entire country. Papa was furious, as I’m sure you can imagine. Our first day in Tanice, and already I’ve managed to offend a prospective husband.

As if I were not already fully aware of the gravity of my situation! I shall get only a single Season – just one – to land a suitably wealthy husband to please Papa. Such a scolding! He did not let up until after we’d arrived at the hotel.

You shall believe me, won’t you? It truly was the Conte’s fault. The carriage had dropped us off – Papa and I – and we waited for a gondola.

Oh, you must come and see Tanice, someday. I am certain you would instantly be smitten by the city! I could never have imagined a city built entirely upon islands, but it fairly bristles with clockwork machinery. I had only to turn my head to see some new marvel of scientific ingenuity. It would make your claws itch to see it. I shall have to devise a way to send a few small samples your way.

Ah, but I was telling you of my altercation with the Conte. As I said, we waited for a gondola, which took a dreadfully long time. My parasol was packed and the sun beat down upon us with such wickedness that I retreated to a nearby canopy for shade. Papa was busy shouting at the slim boats in the canals below us, so I pulled a book from my purse while he could not see to scold me for it.

I know you are not one for the romances, but ah! This book! It fair curled my whiskers, I don’t mind telling you. It seemed only a moment before I was rudely yanked from a particularly steamy scene by a shockingly rude paw upon my person.

I looked up to see a tom with short, shadow-grey fur bent over me, a terrible look upon his face. I screamed and wished for help, and before I could stop it, I sneezed.

I swear, I could not help it. The magic tickles so, and I have tried to stop sneezing. Have you ever tried to hold in a sneeze? It’s a dreadful, horrid experience. I do believe I once heard holding in a sneeze could cause ones eyes to pop out! A morbid imagery, to be certain. I cannot know if it is true, but I do not wish to be the cat to put it to the test!

The sneeze, of course, released it. The pages of my book fluttered and tore, leaping from their binding and forming a startling beast. A tiger made entirely of paper leapt to my defense and snarled ferociously at the dark cat.

The tom’s eyes widened and he took a step away – directly over the edge of the brick and into the canal.

You see now, don’t you? If he had not surprised me, I should never have sneezed, and then would never have called up an origami beast to protect me.

Not that anyone cared. Immediately, voices called out, “Conte Brasso! Quick, someone rescue the Conte Brasso, he has been tossed into the canals!”

As if I could toss a Conte into a canal! Me! At finishing school, I could barely manage to jog in circles around the phys track. You know I couldn’t have achieved such a feat even had I a desire to do so!

The tiger dispersed immediately, of course. You and I both know it was harmless – an origami beast is no more dangerous than the paper from which it is made.

And so here I sit, alone in my hotel room. Papa is dreadfully cross with me, which is silly. Even now, only two hours after the dreadful event, we receive callers with invitations to various parties and galas. You can be certain at least half of them are in hopes that I shall provide amusement with further antics during the events, but an invitation is an invitation, regardless of intent. I shall find my schedule in Tanice quite full, which should give ample opportunity.

I cannot afford to make further mistakes. I shall henceforth determine to be a proper lady for my Season. I shall flirt and laugh and drink champagne and find myself a fat and wealthy husband. Preferably one too old for bedplay, with a full harem of wives already established. I would make a good trophy wife, I imagine. And you can be certain I shall be avoiding the shadow-furred Conte Brasso!

Romances are best left between the covers of books. Love and all its glittering trappings are not for the poor daughters of discarded gentry.

And the worst of It all, dear Amelia, is that my paper tiger tore from me the last pages of my book, and I shall perish an old cat, never knowing how the story ends!

Love and Fishes,
Cheska

PS. I pulled a card for you. It was the 2 of haddocks. I am not certain if it means you shall meet a dangerous person who will challenge your wits, or that it shall rain. Either way, do pack a sturdy parasol. I am certain you shall need it.