Decembris the 1st, 364

February 6th, 2015

To the hand of the Poet Laudate,

Last night a lad of eleven, maybe twelve, rushed into the drawing room with a letter. I did not recognize him, and he fled as swiftly as he came–there was no getting a better look or inquiring as to the sender.

It was a letter from Gerolf. A very long letter, to be sent in the event of his death. It appears that he knew it were coming, and that he had a few things I ought handle when the sun inevitably rose upon that day.

I dare not detail the contents. I will say only that I was told to contact Seamus Harper in regard to them, a fellow who–as I understand it–has had no small amount of trouble with the Reeves. Though I did not attend the square to observe I have been told he took thirty-some lashes before the Lady Justiciar determined he could not sustain any more. Gerolf wanted her to finish. I cannot help but wonder what he could have done to have earned it.

I wrote to Mister Harper, entreating him to meet me somewhere private–somewhere safe enough, secluded enough, to disclose the contents of Gerolf’s letter without risk of being overheard, or even seen together. The courier’s office has been proven unreliable in recent months or I suppose I would have written him with the contents. But if Alfred Baggler had a field day with our letters before, I dread the disaster which would erupt should another nosy postman take it upon himself to peruse. I cannot put what I was entreated to discuss with him into a letter.

It would seem that I, a girl of seventeen years oft startled by her own shadow, am too intimidating a person to contend with barring the exception of witnesses. One would think I meant to meet with an opposing general on the field of battle to discuss a truce, rather than entreat a gentleman with which I have no familiarity for a personal audience.

Perhaps I am being unkind. It’s true that the Order ought be cautious. But of me? It feels so out of place.

He suggested we meet at a public establishment and arranged that each of us bring a second. Alternatively I was encouraged to merely tell him via post precisely what I had to say. For aforementioned reasons, neither of his solutions are possible. He actually got rather smarmy with me, and suggested I’m a poor merchant because I am impossible to bargain with. I cannot fathom why he thought we were bargaining, and I dare say he hurt my feelings.

I don’t know what to do. I wish that I could confide in you the reason audience with him is so vital. I am tempted to forgo wisdom and let sanity lapse, to write it all down or meet with him somewhere we are certain to be overheard, just to have it over with. Gerolf said that Mister Harper would keep me safe. That he knew I would contact him, and that I must do so immediately should he be found dead. The only thing he insisted upon more so was that I must use utmost caution in doing so. I am so confused. Bewildered may be a better description, though it isn’t so different, is it?

It’s almost Yule. You have met my father. Will I be meeting yours?

Yours,