(Enchanted by T.S.)
Dear Cecy,
Aunt Charlotte always told us there can never be sufficient excuse for tardy correspondence, but even she could not deny that being transformed into a dog must prevent one from writing letters. If I could have written sooner, I would have, I promise you.
What little I remember of being a dog makes me wish I could have set some of my impressions down on paper. When I try to put them into words now, they fade away into incoherence. There was a sense of order, I do remember that much, something that made it important that Thomas keep me near him. My hearing was extremely acute. In addition, there was a sense of possibility—any detail could have been of vital interest, every object held fascination—a fascination that had everything to do with the way it smelled. I confess, to my own disgust and embarrassment, I miss the smells.
I think it is fortunate I was a dog for only a short period of time. Herr Schellen was a dog for months on end, in circumstances that must approach dog paradise. I do not wonder that he seemed disoriented at first, nor that he seems silent and gloomy now, poor man.
Do not mistake me. I am happy to be myself again. No scent on earth could compensate for such a transformation. Nothing could match my joy when I discovered I had my own shape back again, for when the moment arrived, I was at Mr. Scarlet’s throat. It would have been vexing to be able to do no more than sink in my teeth and worry at it until I ripped his flesh.
No, I promise you, it was with delight that I remembered I had hands. As I clung to him, and as he struggled to throw me off, Mr. Scarlet pulled my hair cruelly. I fancy that was what reminded me of the spell to keep my hair up. My mind was not so clear that I was able to give the matter anything resembling rational thought.
Upon consideration it seems meet and proper that having just enough expertise to qualify as a magician for purposes of suffering canine transformation, I should have enough ability to employ one of the very few spells I know fluently.
Thank goodness Thomas was there to bring me to my senses. I let the spell go before Mr. Scarlet was damaged beyond repair. Thomas took him into custody with his usual enthusiasm. Indeed, the one serious struggle Mr. Scarlet put up after I released him provoked Thomas to such violence that I fear Arthur’s interest in fisticuffs has been renewed.
Since then, I have been restored to my usual state. Despite Georgy’s efforts to play at chatelaine, Belton kept the household running smoothly while I was indisposed, and the nurses had little trouble from the children, as they were feeling guilty about the role they inadvertently played at the Tingle Stone. When I was washed and properly dressed, I returned to the nursery and explained in terms that even you could not have bettered for clarity and firmness that none of this was their fault. Indeed, they have behaved admirably throughout. “The dog is gone?” Diana asked. Arthur and Eleanor confirmed this fact and hardly scoffed at her.
“You were a jolly good dog, Mama,” Edward told me comfortingly.
I thanked him for his thoughtful reassurance.
“Mr. Scarlet is no wizard,” Drina observed. “I have never seen him do magic.”
“Perhaps he isn’t a true wizard,” I countered, “but he has done enough magic to be very dangerous.”
Once Thomas feels his strength entirely restored, we will question Mr. Scarlet. This letter has waited so long to be written that I might as well delay it still further so a full account of the interrogation can be included.
Yet I find that even as I take comfort in the familiar pleasure of writing to you, I take comfort in bringing this to my customary close. I shall write another letter to accompany this one as soon as the inquisition is complete.
For now, I remain your,
Kate