(This letter warranted to be enchanted against the unknown reader by the ever patient and always dutiful T.S.)
Dear Cecy,
This will make the third time I have begun this letter. The first time, Edward spilt ink on my opening lines. The second time, I spilt the ink myself. This time, I have taken steps to prevent a recurrence. I write to you from a table by the east window of the nursery, a table free of arrowroot biscuit crumbs and lead soldiers. I write to you whilst the children are having their naps. I write to you with the help of a sadly depleted inkwell. Even if I knocked this one over again, it wouldn’t have much left to spill.
It rained yesterday, and it is raining today, the kind of soaking, cold rain that I am assured is good for the crops but that seems as if it will go on falling day after day after day, forever and ever, amen. I persuade myself this is an excellent thing, for if the weather were fair, it would be even more difficult to keep the children safely indoors. Still, I wish it would stop.
In truth, I see signs of restiveness amongst the infantry. Edward has squabbled disgracefully with Arthur over sharing his toy soldiers. This morning I heard Eleanor ask Drina if she is under an enchantment that forbids her to speak. Drina held her peace. Of course.
Yet I had the distinct impression that if Drina is not under an enchantment already, Eleanor would like to see that situation remedied, this time with an enchantment to compel her to speak. I must remember to warn Thomas. This is no time for him to indulge his niece’s taste for spell casting. It would be just like Thomas—
I take up my pen again after a short interruption (a disagreement between Laurence and his last meal, alas). This time I do not write in solitary peace. No, the children are at the table with me, as we all write to you. A fresh ink pot is at hand, so anything can happen. As usual.