June 29, 1837
London, England

Dear Scarlet~
I've no shame in admitting that life up in London is duller than Khristy Dodd's Coming Out ball last autumn without you here to keep me entertained. I imagine you must be having an absolute gala down in Madrid with your aunt. How I wish Mother was not so prim about keeping me at home this summer, but I suppose she feels you have been a rather shocking influence on me. I'm sure she still believes that it was us who caused the accident with the coffee pot. Still, I think she is being quite unfair about the whole thing. I shall miss you like mad until you return this fall. Promise me you'll write back, won't you? It would be such a shame to lose contact with each other while you're away. You must tell me all about where you are staying, so I can imagine the sunny beaches and handsome men you're probably seeing.

Khristy stopped by the manor yesterday afternoon, just in time for tea, as you can imagine. She claimed she was just "passing by" but I'm almost positive she had planned it out and simply wanted to flirt with Trevor. I was in luck, Mother had taken him out to do some shopping, so it was easy to get rid of Khristy rather quickly. I'm sure talking to the younger sister of the person you're stuck on has very little interest. I hope so, else I fear I may have been rather rude. I was rather pleased, myself. If Trevor had been home, she would have stayed all night if she could and I would never be rid of her. As it was, I finally convinced her that Trevor and Mother would not be returning until later that night, so she left almost directly after tea. Still, I had to suffer through her lectures on what I should do for my own Coming Out ball next month. Of course, I had to be polite and say "Oh yes, that sounds lovely, I'll keep it in mind," to all of her suggestions but oh! Dear Scar, you must remember how odeous her party was! I've sworn to disregard her opinions entirely. It really irks me that now she thinks that she is so much better than I am simply because she has been introduced to society. It's not as though no one knew her before she had her party, I honestly don't see what the difference is. She's still the same snobbish, prudent and stiff hussy she was when we were younger. Nothing has changed that. All her party did was announce to the world that she is now eligable for betrothal (and I think you would quite agree with me when I say that I honestly don't know who would want to marry her in the first place).

It distresses me, for it is quite obvious she has her devious eyes on Trevor, and the thought of having her as my sister-in-law is enough to send shivers of terror up my back. I doubt Trevor is interested anyway. He's studying for the entrance exams into the Conservatory of Wizardry in Edinbourough. I was so shocked that mother finally gave in to all of his badgering (you know how very old fashioned she is, magic is still quite vile in her opinion.) I was close to telling Khristy about his ambitions simply to delight in her expression when she discovered he is more interested in magic than in her. Unfortunately, I had to hold my tongue because no one is supposed to know yet. I trust you'll keep the secret safe even after you've returned home.

Mrs. Paulson's niece is having her Coming Out party this evening, and I have been sent an invitation to go. I've never met her niece before, but if she is anywhere as sweet and dear as Mrs Paulson then I am sure that I shall get along fine with her. I believe Trevor will try to weasel out of going, for I sincerely believe that he dislikes these social occasions nearly as much as I do. Although I have hopes of making a new friend this evening, if the night does turn to be dull I don't believe I should suffer alone. Mother dotes on Trevor enough as it is. I shall simply have to convince him that going will be more enjoyabe than staying home with his nose in a book. Wish me luck, I shall tell you all about the ball in my next letter.

Your Dearest Friend,
Miri

July 3, 1837
Madrid, Spain

Miri dearest~
I feel as though I have stepped into one of the agin paintings in the Dodd's sitting room. The colors even looked blurred, like in a dream or the world seen from beneath the surface of the Lake at the shire. It's all cream walls, green ivy and blue sky here. Oh, but it is so much better than those silly paintings because it is real! And filled, I might add, with intriguing men.

Oh, don't laugh, for I know you are. I refuse to feign disinterest, as is the fashion among we ladies, as we play at calling ourselves. My interest has found many objects to fix itself upon here. Aunt knows the strangest people. My personal favourite and the esteemed subject of my many scandolous musings is a dark gentleman, who I have never met. Sometimes I think people are best when seen fleetingly and from a distance.

Mr Dester, for that is his name, has such an aura of melancholy about him. I am sure it speaks of some wonderfully twisted past. They say he is a widower, and that, as you can well imagine, was enough to send my mind skittering down a plotline with him as my main character. I think he should be flattered.In my too oft idle mind he has become the reluctant hero of a trajedy to rival Shakespeare.

We met, or rather, did not meet, at a masked ball in the Plaza San Marianne. I was dizzy with the people, all in black and white, under the colored candlelight. I had lost Aunt in the crowd. I was searching for her, but not with particular haste when I spied one man, still as the sea of humanity rushed around him and broke at his feet. I thought, at first, that he was a native. Then, I noticed his hair: good old English chocolate against his sun bronzed skin. He had pushed his mask up and it seemed, in his stillness, the only other real person in my dream. As I was studying him, Lady Marshall, an authority on anything, appeared at my arm, followed my gaze, mentioned that he was a widower and pinched me before returning to the shifting colors.

Of course, I have met many more ordinary men under more ordinary circumstances, but none seem worth the ink it takes to mention them. I write this from the ruins of San Marcè and I can almost glimpse him in every wavering shadow. I am not smitten, I warn you, merely intrigued.

Aunt sleeps often and I wander the streets scandolously unattended. Your mother would faint, dearest. But I take a silly sort of thrill from my travels alone in this strange dream city. I have developed a horrible attachment to the coffee here; black as night and served in tiny cups, hints of cinnamon lurking just beneath the bite of it. I walk along the beach as well, and paint miniatures to brink back to all of you. The wind has stolen my only hat and the resulting freckles are outrageous. The girl who looks out from the mirror is a dark stranger who looks frightfully wild to my English eyes. I think she longs for adventure and I hope the next few weeks will give it to her. I only wish you were here to share it. These ruins area hundred times better than our gardens for hide and seek.

Tell me all about the party. Don't you dare leave out a description of your dress. You know I crave that sort of frivolity. It is horrible about Khristy and your brother. But you and I both know that while he is often obtuse and scatterbrained he has sense enough to steer clear of her childish snares.

My love always,

Scar