Chapter Text
Dear Peter,
I’ll forgo pleasantries: how are you? the autumn has been cold, hasn’t it? is your brother well? – assume all of these have already been covered, if necessary, and trust that my affection is communicated without such a wasteful performance. Only I had a bizarre dream last night– bizarre in a manner that even I am unaccustomed to– and woke with the inkling that you, strangely, might be the only person to make sense of it.
I was walking through long hallways, which either were deep underground or simply had no windows at all. In the darkness, I could only see the faint white of the marble floor; that was my guide. Normally, as you know, my dreams prefer vertical travel, and are illuminated by starlight and flame. It was a true labyrinth, for there was never a fork in my path, only sharp turns at the end of each length. I became distressed at the endlessness… and began to run, picking up my skirts as I did so, but the hallways only grew longer, so that I had to catch my breath at the end of each.
While I was hurrying uselessly to the end of another corridor, there was a horrible, deafening sound, like a landslide– I was afraid the labyrinth was caving in, but no debris menaced me… Was that a dream? It was as though the whole earth shifted just slightly on its axis. When I awoke, the picture of my beloved mother that I keep on my night-stand had fallen down, so that her face was obscured. This morning, I spoke to Kaspar: he remembers being woken by something in the night, but can recall no sound. Neither my father nor my uncles have suggested anything out of the ordinary. What do you make of that?
Your sincere friend,
Maria
Dearest Mistress,
I’m certain that your interpretation of your dreams– or of anyone’s– is far more astute than I could ever hope to be… I’m sure of that. Please don’t imagine that I’m anything other than flattered by the question, though… My own dreams often place me in inescapable positions, but I don’t have your power, or your sight. Recently, I dreamt that I was trapped in a coffin and buried alive… Did you think, in the dream, that you knew where you were trying to go? Did you ever turn and run the direction you had come from? Did you awake the moment that you heard the sound, or did you dream for some time longer? Was anything else in your home out of place?
But the fact that you’ve addressed me, and your point about the photograph of Wild Nina, suggests that your actual question for me is about Focus– or am I mistaken? If that’s the case, I wonder if you’ve visited your mother today, and if she’s well. That is, I always hope to hear that she’s well. The truth is, Maria, you’ve spent more time inside the Inner Chamber than I have. But I am more than happy to offer you any insight I possibly can… which is the reason for my questions, you see. Please ignore any of the above that you deem inappropriate and accept my deepest apologies.
Your servant,
Peter Stamatin
My dear Peter,
Your intuition is stronger than you give yourself credit for. It can be difficult for me to tell when I am asleep and when I am awake, at times; this was one such, I’m afraid.
You’ll have to forgive my earlier evasiveness. It’s a learned habit. In any context, it’s difficult for me to verbalize anything that happens within the walls of the Crucible. You understand that this is my family’s prerogative. But you, of course, are the architect of the Focus, which is now the heart of the Crucible, and so some confidence is extended to you– this is what I’m reminding myself as I write.
Actually, I suspect you’ll have to forgive my ongoing evasiveness. Don’t be afraid to ask me questions! I know that you are insightful, inquisitive, and sensitive– this is also why you are the person to whom I’ve written.
I do believe that I had a destination I was trying to reach, although I doubt I ever knew what it was. I never tried to run in the opposite direction.
Your friend,
Maria
P.S. There’s no need to be so formal– but don’t worry, I’m not offended. It’s slightly charming– but you may desist.
Dearest mademoiselle,
I can relate at least on the topic of blurring dreams and reality… I can’t express how many times I’ve struggled to separate the two, or spent most of a day grieving something that had only happened in my mind. Dreams are often my inspiration, but in equal measure– and in many of the same instances– are a prison.
Any evasiveness is already forgiven. (The truth is that I would forgive you anything, Maria.) Andrey suggested I press further on the unspoken question posed previously… Have you visited the Inner Chamber since this dream, and was everything in order there? Were you able to ask Nina if she had noticed any disturbance?
You know that the Focus is its own proof of concept, and so it’s difficult for me to tell you how it “can” or “should” behave… and certainly, I have no delusion of being able to predict or define Nina’s behavior within it. But the disturbance of the photograph is interesting. The effects of Focus seem to have been confined, as we theorized, to the Inner Chamber since you brought Nina into Focus so many months ago; if this was caused by the Focus, that would certainly change my understanding of it. But, in the same way, Nina has always been boundless… And yet I wonder why she would knock over her own photograph?
Unwaveringly your most dutiful servant and dog,
Peter Stamatin
Dear Peter,
Now you’ve really made me laugh! Don’t call me mademoiselle again, or I’ll probably die of embarrassment.
Yes, I spoke to my mother. Here is what happened exactly, to give myself no opportunity to omit anything.
I stoked the fire in the stove, and then I went into the Inner Chamber– where as usual it was too dark to see anything at all. The candle was on the table, which I found by touch and memory. When I struck a match, it flared green before burning comfortably; I used that to light the candle. The flame illuminated the whole room which you know so intimately: its octagonal shape, the recesses made by the arched ribs you gave its walls, the maroon drapery which we selected together. In this case, however, there was something of the parlor I knew in my childhood that seemed superimposed onto its form. There were pieces of furniture that I know do not exist in that room anymore, and even a window which I know it does not have. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen apparitions of the old Crucible in the Inner Chamber… I suspect it to be a function of Memory, myself seeing the chamber as it was when Mother would read me adventure novels in it– but rarely, if ever, have the visions been so clear. In any case, I didn’t investigate the window or the rocking chair I remember so well, because my darling Mother was there. You know how the candle reveals her: it lit up every wall, except for where my shadow fell, and hers: across from me, that multidimensional shadow. I embraced her and inhaled her black cherry perfume, and then I told her of my dream and of the disturbance, exactly the way I described it to you. I asked if it had been her hand that moved the photograph, and if she had noticed or caused the sound I heard.
She said: “As I am now, I believe I did not touch your nightstand. But when the Chamber is dark, there is plenty of strangeness here. It’s true that I was present; I am of and throughout this house in the same style as the heat from the fire-box. As you move through your wing, I can feel you tugging on a doorknob the same way you once clung to my sleeve, you know. And I am not always certain, my love, where I begin or end. I was present, and I heard that sound, and I felt it rouse both you and your brother from deep sleep. But I am certain I did not cause it, because it gave me a sense of great discomfort. Actually, the whole wing had shuddered– I’m not as sensitive to the others, but I suspect they felt the disturbance, whatever it was. Yes, there has been strangeness… more than I can describe to you now.”
“What can you tell me?” I asked, suddenly concerned for her, as you can imagine.
“Only what I’ve already told,” she said, “and this: that the Crucible is now stirring, as though a dormant volcano feeling the simmer of magma just under its skin.” And so I’ve been thinking endlessly on the meaning of that, and what could have caused it.
Here is another thing that happened. Do you see what an excellent correspondent I am, that you didn’t even have to ask? I’m joking, of course… I spoke to Uncle Simon today. Georgiy was there too, naturally. He and your brother have a certain thing in common. Simon and I were blowing glass in the Workshop, which is an art we both enjoy– he taught me how to do it, in fact. We’ve been making a series of chalices. As we worked, I told him shyly the complete story of what had happened. He has been my closest confidante for many years now, you know… Rarely does anything escape his knowledge, especially in matters of the supranatural; so, rarely do I approach an area of inquiry without first consulting him as a resource. He listened carefully, as he always does to me, and he took Mother’s words very seriously.
He said this: “The Crucible is a very old house, Maria. I know that you know it as your oldest friend. In a way, it’s mine as well. Like all old friends, it requires care and attention at times, and goes through periods of struggle. Before even any of the ailments you’ve been learning to recognize in houses, it is a house made of three buildings– and I can attest that it’s difficult enough sometimes to be a man made of three brothers. In your young life, the Crucible has always been at peace with itself. This is in large part due to the efforts of your mother; now, young Mistress, it may fall to you to understand it and bring it back to a pleasant equilibrium.” I asked him how I might do that, and he said, “Your mother might know. Really, I’m sorry to say it was never a focus of my study. You know I like to look beyond the immediate. But I don’t think you’re wrong to take interest; certainly, you should explore this issue and learn how to correct it.”
So all of this is percolating in my mind at the moment. I also noticed while I was with my uncles that I could hear soft footsteps coming from the ceiling, as though someone was pacing on the floor above. Could that be the reverberations of Mother’s restlessness in Focus, do you imagine? I’ve never noticed before, but I’ve begun paying much closer attention than usual.
Your friend,
Maria
Dear Maria,
I hope this form of address will satisfy. I’m pleased– honored, really– that I made you laugh. To be honest, I was sick with anxiety for several hours after sending you such a silly letter, when your concern is occupied with something important.
What a transporting story… Oh, Maria, I can never forget how singular you are, but still every time you offer a glimpse at the depth of your capabilities… You know what a wonder you are, you see, so there’s really no need for me to tell you – but know, please, that it isn’t unnoticed.
There’s no mechanic of Focus that should cause Wild Nina’s presence to be felt outside of the Inner Chamber. Of course, as I’ve said, Nina defies boundaries… but there’s nothing we’ve done that would facilitate what you heard in Simon’s workshop, I fear. As you tell it, the Focus seems to be in good condition. You’re probably right about the confusion of place-memories in the Inner Chamber. I would venture that it makes Nina’s presence more accessible to you.
But something does speak to me from your recollections. Let me hope I can express it effectively whatsoever. The way your mother and Simon speak of the Crucible… and of course, your work with houses, as you’ve discussed with me before. Well, we’ve theorized in the past, haven’t we, on the function of Focus as a vessel for Memory and its relationship to the idea of supernatural “possession”: that for the Memory of a departed person to reside in a living body, it would displace or traumatize the personhood of the host. It would be simply too great a volume of information. I feel remiss for having not considered it before, but perhaps it’s possible that the same process is being undergone by the Crucible? If the house is as living as you see it, and Nina has crept into it as her new body as she says, could Nina’s Memory be agitating or overloading it? Are the personhoods of people and houses similar enough to one another that they would be incompatible in the same vessel? On this, you are the expert.
Your servant, simply,
Peter Stamatin
My most treasured, most beautiful Maria,
I can no longer bear the distance between us. I am at all hours haunted by the mere knowledge of your loveliness. I can occupy myself with nothing, satisfy myself with nothing but the thought of your melodious voice. My heart and liver together compel me to write you this addendum: I adore you so completely, so desperately, that I fear I may spontaneously combust if I cannot kiss you and hold you in my arms.
Will you pose for me in the nude? Andrey would like to attend as well.
Your heartsick servant,
Peter Stamatin
Maria,
Please disregard the letter you just received. Please burn it. Please read this one first.
The actual Peter Stamatin
P.S. I am so sorry. I’m going to kill him. So sorry.
My dearest Peter,
I’m afraid I didn’t burn “your” letter before I received your last. Will you tell Andrey hello from me? If he wants to hear from me directly, he should write to me under his own name. And don’t tell him I said so, but your handwriting is actually distinguishable. I’ve spent my life differentiating the hands of Georgiy and Simon, after all, who are also identical twins!
On to more serious topics. In answer to your question: yes. From a spiritual perspective, houses and humans are almost indistinguishable, although their physical differences probably play a role. Admittedly I am no architect, but I know at least that houses are designed to support more than one person living inside them over the course of more than one lifetime– whereas a human body is built for one person, for one lifetime. That is probably the advantage that marks the reason Mother hasn’t overcome the Crucible’s identity entirely.
And I’m certain that she hasn’t: the Crucible still speaks to me, although its voice is strained. Some houses have crowded voices, or creaky, dusty voices… some speak quietly, timidly, as though they don’t expect anyone to listen. Some houses’ voices sound like birdsong or the chattering of rodents, and are clear enough that the people living in them will hire exterminators. My Crucible has a very old voice indeed: a proud, resonant voice, like that of a viola, that comes from high-ceilinged rooms and arched doorways. When I press my ear to the masonry, I can hear it… but I can also hear its echo from the base of my stairwell. It is faint at times– old houses tend to be quiet, less desperate to assert themselves than the young. But its voice is also fuller, carrying through every stone of its anatomy.
In considering your most recent letter, I’ve asked it about Mother’s residence here. We don’t have long conversations often, you see; it is as preferential of quiet companionship as I am. It admits that the installation of Focus was excruciating– but this is normal in the case of any remodel, Peter– but, interestingly, that this was not the first instance in which it has been reshaped. I asked further, and it gave the example that all the wings were once connected; that you could walk between them without going outdoors. Isn’t that strange? On the subject of Mother, it says that her presence is quite uncomfortable, a type of discomfort which is almost impossible to translate into words you might understand, and that it has felt restless as a result. It can’t recall if it made the sound I heard the other night– its memory can be unreliable– but it said something that concerned me: that Mother (or her Focus?) is “easier to tolerate than the others.” I’m almost ashamed to admit that it wouldn’t tell me anything more on the subject, no matter how seriously I demanded explanation.
Your friend,
Maria
P.S. I’ve known Andrey to speak on your behalf for many years. I wonder if any of the sentiment he attributed to you was actually untrue.
Dear Maria,
What I wouldn’t give to hear the voice of the Crucible! It must be absolutely transporting… absolutely sublime. Maria… Words fail me when I picture you, with your ear pressed to the stone; how your hand must rest upon it, feeling over its crevices as glyphs. But knowing– as you do– how often words fail me, even those words fail to express how wonderful you are. Copied here is a sketch from my walk today… to no particular end, but I always hope that I’ll be better able to express myself in drawing than writing. There seemed such a voice in the curve of iron here… its shape was the index of biblical force– it made me think of you. I’m afraid I’m rambling again.
I will say that in any case, I’m sorry to have caused the Crucible pain… although I do wonder if she would say she likes the changes… or is she indifferent? Perhaps she conflates Nina’s arrival with the renovation: then, “others” might refer to these previous periods of construction… Andrey was here for most of the day and we spoke of you for a while, although I’ve learned a lesson against writing to you while he’s in the room, and he thinks that is the most likely explanation. “If Maria says its memory is unreliable, it probably can’t tell the difference between the remodel and Nina,” he said, “or else it thinks of her as another addition.”
Your servant,
Peter Stamatin
P.S. You’ll have to forgive my evasiveness on that topic.
Dear Peter,
I’m delighted by this drawing, actually. It’s wonderful– it evokes wonderment– and as always, it shines a perfect light upon my own recent wonderings. As it happens, I’ve been thinking of indices lately. You can imagine, I think, that semiotics has always been a field of great relevance to my life, which is governed by signs. In my experience, rarely is a sign so blatant as to be an icon, but it does happen… Symbols, on the other hand, are the bread-and-butter of omens, visions, and visitations, and I spend so much time mulling over a variety of the above that I can grow tired of the concept altogether. But indexicality speaks to me in a curious voice.
The index is a language, like symbolism, rather than a mere depiction: but it is a transcendent language, a language beyond literal, a language of systems and causations. Symbols are arbitrary and representative, icons merely once removed by convention, however esoteric that convention may be; indices are truth encoded in their own meaning. Isn’t that fantastic? Smoke is the index of fire. Ruin is the index of calamity. Affect is the index of social position. The bust of my likeness in your studio is an icon of myself, yes, but is indexical of what I am to you– that’s why I am so fond of it. Here is my point of interest, finally: I wonder what can be done with indices. The language of causality is so structured and timebound. What was causes what is, which causes what will be. How trite! Surely we can do better. How can an index be used to invoke or beget the signified? What is the plume of smoke that precedes fire? From what wound arises its own injury? What happens when an index is implemented without the presence of the signified– suppose this is the existential lie, or is it a summoning? In the case of your Stairways, which are perhaps ruins devoid of calamity, I rather suspect it to be a ward, but that theory will require more investigation. This will be a project involving the medium of time among others, I’m sure… but it is a format which I’m very interested in deconstructing. I’ll hear your thoughts on the matter.
Actually, I’d like you to come here so that we can discuss this further, and I can perhaps show you what I meant in my previous letter regarding the coexistence of the Focus inside the Crucible. I hope you’ll share some more of your recent work with me, as well. I expect to be available tomorrow at 3 p.m.. Come alone, if you can.
Your friend,
Maria
Dear Maria,
This is precisely why I need you so… I’m afraid that I can’t begin to express the number and manner of thoughts which you’ve inspired in me here. More drawings attached, following the subject– yes, certainly, you’ve suggested something true about the Stairways. Maria, I often think that you are the only person who can ever understand my work. The intention was to give them a nebulous position in Time, that they– well, I’m not describing it right– they are at once unfinished and beyond finished, and never at the zenith of perfection, and thus always, do you understand? A false indexicality, a ward… yes, we’ve discussed this before, I think? Not in such terms, of course, but in parallel… Calamity is inevitable, but built as ruins, the Stairways will only become what they are– you said something like that, I remember, I’m sure of it. But imperfect, still… You’re right. We can do more, and we can be more precise. A plume of smoke… My mind is swimming with ideas. I apologize for this nonsense.
I’ll come to visit whenever you want me to do so, no matter the circumstances– but certainly to discuss this. Absolutely. I’ll be there; I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll bring some drafts as well, so that you can see what we’ve been working on, and I’ll bring blank paper and pencils…
Your servant,
Peter Stamatin
Dearest Peter,
I hope you’ll accept my most inconsolable– if inappropriate– apologies on behalf of my father. I’ve never known him to behave as he did today, truly– and please believe that I didn’t know he would be in my wing of the house. He had come to visit Mother, as he often does, but not usually at that time… You know how protective he can be– I think he was more surprised than anything to find you here– and the two of us so close… I sincerely hope you weren’t too embarrassed to think of me so fondly in the future– more sincerely than you can imagine.
In any case, I’ve been bid to inform you that you are no longer permitted in my wing of the Crucible– at least, without chaperone. I’m not sure if Andrey will suffice for that purpose, but it would seem unlikely… he was always the target of suspicion, after all. I’m– well, I am actually truly frustrated. I’ll admit this to you once! I’m an adult woman– what concern is it to him, who I choose to entertain, knowing as he must that I would never disgrace our family? – it was only a kiss – but I digress.
With irritation,
Maria
P.S. Burn this letter, please.
Dear Maria,
Please don’t ever think that you owe me an apology– for anything. I’ve done as you requested. I only hope I didn’t cause any trouble between you and Victor… and the idea of being restricted from you is daunting, I admit; I’ve been working on my drawings, you see, and I’ll need more of your insight… But I swear that you have nothing to worry about in the matter of my thoughts. My fondness for you is stronger than embarrassment by so many orders of magnitude that I can hardly think of what happened today– only of how you embraced me, and I feel like I might faint.
You see, Maria, and this is what Andrey was mocking me for, recently… I’ve never written you anything that was other than a love letter, and I doubt I ever will. All I seem capable of telling you is that I love you. The only way I may falter is in my execution of the message. I could say more– I could go on for pages, I’m sure– but I think I had better make sure this reaches you before I’m too afraid to send it.
Your servant,
Peter Stamatin
Dear Peter,
I know that I can be withholding at times, when it comes to my true feelings– please know that your oath is more precious to me than anything else on earth. I can’t say anything else about that now.
After you left yesterday, I went to Father’s wing so that he and I could continue the conversation you had unfortunately witnessed. We were in his study, both standing, circling the wide table there; we both have a tendency to pace in such situations. The lighting was dim… it only came from the lamp on his desk, and in muted shafts that escaped the heavy curtains he has there– it cast shadows across the foil-pressed spines of his books that seemed to move as we did, I admit, but I’m certain of what I saw. There was a small scramble of children running down the hall outside the study, laughing; I was so certain of it– and distracted in the moment– that I thought nothing of it. You know that there are usually some number of children playing in my wing; they come and go freely, Kaspar’s friends. Instinctively, I went to close the door so that Father’s words for me would remain private– but as I stepped towards the doorway I realized where I was, and looked around the corner after the children. Only to see nothing at all, as you may have anticipated. They had disappeared without a trace… Isn’t that strange?
Well, let me clarify: Father works closely with time in his wing. His system of clocks requires delicate fine-tuning, and I’ll tell you that by the art of my family it isn’t uncommon for time to be opened or twisted to some extent in his process. But no one was working on anything at that moment, and it struck me that I had no idea who those apparitions might have been. They seemed to be close to the same age, of different heights within a similar range. Distant aunts and uncles perhaps– or future nieces or nephews, or…?
Pausing our discussion, I asked Father if he had seen the children in the hall. He furrowed his brow and told me he hadn’t. I asked: “Do you know who they might have been?” He said: “You’re changing the subject.” I explained that I wasn’t trying to change the subject, only that I had just seen this– but then the front door burst open!
Storming down the hall and into the study, now, were none other than Father and myself, paying no attention to the Father and myself who watched in total surprise. One Father struck the doorframe once with the side of his fist, blind to my presence enough that I had to step out of his way– it was the same gesture he had made only a few minutes ago, when we had arrived there. One Maria cried that she despised him as I looked on. As he followed her into the circle we had tread around the table, they both vanished. Father and I looked at each other, and he agreed: “That’s unusual.” Wasn’t it? But we discussed it very little– we were both out-of-sorts by then– shortly I returned home to write to you.
Your friend,
Maria
Dear Maria,
I’ve never considered you withholding– never, Maria. Your self-control is staggering, but that’s certainly not a weakness… and your magnanimity speaks for itself. I’ll read closely and with utmost thanks.
As for your story: what a strange experience, indeed… I’m sorry that I don’t have anything helpful to offer. It seems Nina and Simon, as usual, were right in their predictions that the Crucible is coming into a state of heightened activity… But I’m only glad to hear that you’re safe, Maria. Any other person would probably have been terrified by what you saw– and here you describe it like an unusual dream… Has nothing of this style happened since… or in any of the other wings?
Your servant,
Peter Stamatin
Dear Peter,
Yes, only in Father’s wing. Although I went to the Workshop again today… Simon and I have tea at least once a week, usually twice. It’s a tradition we’ve carried on, a reflection of a certain way he would play with me as a child. I’d bring all my dolls, and he would lay out a beautiful tablecloth, and once we’d eaten something I’d sit at his feet and he would tell me stories– more fantastic than you can imagine. So you understand that I’ve spent a lot of time in Simon’s wing, since even before I was old enough to be trusted with a furnace and torch, and I’m more and more certain that this has never been the case before: again, today, I heard footsteps upstairs while Georgiy and Simon were both accounted for. I wondered if it was the same manner of thing that Father and I saw the other day, but those apparitions had a whole sense of presence and belonging. It’s difficult to explain. I looked around upstairs, saw nothing, but still heard someone walking around, always just nearby… Simon and Georgiy admit they’ve heard it too, and admit to not recognizing it. That, I think, is stranger yet than the anomaly in Father’s wing.
I’ve been thinking about the logistical problem we now face. Perhaps our mutual friend Eva could help us with the issue of proximity. For reasons beyond my understanding, Father trusts her; with her oversight, I suspect he would feel comfortable letting you and I visit together. Ironic, I know. To be honest, I would rather tear my hair out than ask for her help in this matter. Would you contact her, so that I can spare myself the humiliation?
Your friend,
Maria
Dear Maria,
This account reminds me of the topic we were discussing in your salon… Footsteps are the index of human presence: the sound isn’t unusual in itself, but to find the index without being able to locate the signified is unnerving at the least, I’m sure… there is that evocative dissonance, the ‘existential lie’, as you put it. I can only wonder at how such a thing may have come about. But how compelling it is in its strangeness, Maria. I’d like to experience it for myself, but I would imagine my presence in the Crucible as a whole is unwelcome at the moment.
I’ll gladly reach out to Eva– I can do that for you, at least. I’ve owed her a visit for some time, actually… so I’ll probably go and confide my sorrows in her, ha ha. I’ll go tomorrow– or the next day– I have some emergent ideas and I fear I can’t leave here until I’ve found a better way to capture them than my recent ridiculous attempts.. I’ll send you what I have when it’s done. I can only imagine that she would be eager to help us. I know your friendship is tense, and I won’t pry… but she is a wonderful lady… and I think she would do almost anything for you, Maria. Attached are some more drawings.
Your servant,
Peter Stamatin
Dear Peter,
One warning: Eva longs to delve into the secrets of my family, but she has no place in it. Be withholding from her, to the extent you are able– I know it isn’t your nature. And whatever she may say to you about me, disregard.
Your friend,
Maria
To my doll,
It feels so childish to write to you again… how many years has it been? I wonder wherever you got off to… if perhaps you’re hidden in an attic or behind a wall somewhere. But, old friend, I feel caught in this terrible feeling, with no-one I can turn to. Surely no one can resent me telling my secrets to you, however horrible they may make me– even as I seem wretched for speaking them silently, in the privacy of my mind. I remember when you used to play the part of my knight. How I wish I had you now to take on this challenge for me!
Oh, I don’t know. I sat with Father tonight in his study, as we do fairly often. He tends to correspondences, I read a book. In this instance, he offered me a cigarette, which was odd because he doesn’t like the idea of me drinking or smoking at all. There’s a way he looks at me sometimes– a way he speaks to me– I don’t know. I feel uneasy, almost nauseous. I shouldn’t draw away from him. He misses Mother so much, you can hear it in every word that leaves his mouth. It must be very hard for him, to be so close but so far away, and it must be terribly difficult to raise Kaspar without her. I should be a better friend to him. He loves me, you know. But– well… nothing. There’s nothing to say, just a horrible, wretched feeling inside me. Am I afraid of him? I don’t think so… I’m sure I’m just angry, still, after our fight about Peter. I took the cigarette. I feel sick for that too.
I’ll burn this letter.
Masha
My dear Maria,
As I’ve been considering the challenge you’re facing, I had a funny thought. Have you heard of Thanatica? It’s an institute in the Capital which specializes in the study of death and all thereafter, and your illustrious friend just so happens to know its star researcher from his university years. If you’d like, I’m sure I could get a letter to the same Bachelor Dankovsky– he may have some insight into the mechanics affecting both Nina and Simon.
Your servant under his own name,
A.
Dearest Andrey,
That won’t be necessary. Uncle Georgiy will cut out my tongue if I disclose matters regarding my family to an outsider; and we, the Kains, don’t want to draw attention from such outfits. Still, I appreciate the consideration.
Your friend,
Maria