#27
Dear Miss Cordelia Gray,
Hello, do you remember? It’s your tattered-shouldered friend, Arch Albert William.
It’s been so long since we last corresponded that I’m beginning to wonder if we should return to more formal greetings.
…I can’t keep writing like this. I fell asleep during the courtly letter-writing class, so I have no idea what comes after the greeting.
Should I talk about the weather?
Here, the breeze carries the faint scent of monsters’ blood, and it’s a bright summer day.
How about you?
Since you haven’t had to write any letters, I imagine your wrist is in perfect health?
As for me?
I’m bedridden, surrounded by people so overprotective that even the slightest creak of the bed has them crying out as if I’d broken my bones. Honestly, I was a bit worried when I ordered Beder to bring my bookcase to the bed today.
I expected your letters to spill out as soon as I opened the box, just like Princess Edwina’s bookcase had. I must’ve been quite smug in front of Beder, who was politely hinting that I should get up and fetch the letters myself.
I told him that you couldn’t bear my absence and had stuffed the box full of letters, so much so that it would explode if we delayed opening it any longer.
But guess what?
The box was empty.
It was a good thing that old Beder had the tact to disappear.
My bookcase wasn’t bursting with papers but was as empty as a box with a hole in the bottom. And just like that, my heart felt just as hollow as that empty box.
What’s going on, my dear little nagger, Coco?
It seems like it’s my turn to ask now.
Are you still alive?
On the night of the fifteenth day of the First Heat Month,
Missing your countless letters, Arch Albert William.
* * *
Cordelia,
Are you really never going to write to me again?
How about a tempting story to entice you?
If you reply right away, I’ll tell you about Sir Arthur Gillen.
— Your friend, who will wait exactly one hour before pestering you again, Arch Albert William.
* * *
Arch Albert William Rendaike, Your Highness.
You still haven’t dropped that habit of writing your full name when you’re rushing me for a reply.
I’d like to scold you for not appreciating my letters that used to flood in like tax bills, but I can’t seem to make any jokes with the thought that I almost lost you.
I know your way of speaking—mixing jokes into serious situations—but right now, it’s hard for me to write you a cheerful letter.
Are you feeling better now?
Can you sit up?
7.15.
— Cordelia Gray.
* * *
My dear Coco,
No, I’m lying down, holding the pen in my mouth as I write this letter.
…Of course, I’m sitting up. I’m holding the pen with my hand. But even if I were writing with my mouth, I guarantee my handwriting would still be better than yours.
But, Coco, your usually free-flowing penmanship seems a little subdued today. Why are your periods so tiny? Even your question marks look deflated. Where’s my lively Coco who used to cheer me up with commas flying high as if they were about to soar?
I even brought up Sir Arthur Gillen, and yet you didn’t even ask what happened.
Has your passionate interest in me disappeared while our bookcases were off on their summer vacation?
What have you been doing instead of writing me a single letter of comfort?
How is Mark? He’s not bothering you again, is he? How far along are things with Liam? Should I be getting jealous?
Look, if you don’t reply quickly, I’ll torment you with even more question marks.
Cheer up, Cordelia.
On the night of the fifteenth day of the First Heat Month,
Your friend, Arch Albert.
P.S.: You didn’t ask, but I thought you’d be curious. I don’t actually know anything about Sir Arthur Gillen. It was just something I threw in to get a reply from you.
* * *
Foolish Arch Albert,
Do you not know, Prince? Every evening when I come home, the first thing I do is check if there’s a letter from you in the bookcase.
Last time, when there was no word from you, I even lugged that heavy box all the way to work, just in case something happened.
I couldn’t bear to leave it at my feet, so I put it on my small desk and worked with it sitting there. Everyone kept glancing at my desk, but so what? There’s no rule saying you can fire someone for bringing a wooden box to work.
Ever since I heard you were hurt, I’ve been opening the bookcase every ten minutes. When I get home, I sit at my desk reading, not in bed, just in case I miss you trying to reach me.
Do you know? For people like us who love reading in bed, this is life-shaking. Reading while sitting is absolutely miserable.
Is that all? Since my Owl Prince usually sends his letters late at night, the darker it gets, the more my heart swells. I sit by the window, resting my chin in my hand, looking at the moon, and think this:
Even if we live in different places, you must be looking at the same moon right now.
Even when I meet Liam, even when he looks devastatingly handsome, the first thought that crosses my mind is that I need to tell you how good Liam looked today. I’m utterly hopeless, aren’t I?
Why didn’t I write you a single letter of comfort?
Because I was afraid you’d strain yourself replying and get hurt again.
Of course, knowing you, you’d enthusiastically spring into action and write me back with your beautiful penmanship, throwing jokes my way.
Yes, I care about you so much that I was able to respond the moment you sent your letter.
But what good does it do?
What if something happens to you someday? I’d be helpless again.
When a monster grabs your arm, I’d probably be off writing about some trivial gossip, and when it devours your handsome self, I’ll be at the pub with Juliet, drinking the night away.
Thinking like that breaks my heart. It makes me feel like I’m some tragic woman sending her lover off to war.
Arch Albert, I love this time we share exchanging letters, but our magical box sometimes feels utterly useless.
So yes, my question marks are a bit deflated. Forgive me for not being able to joke.
7.15.
— Cordelia Gray.
* * *
To my angel Coco,
They say monsters don’t eat people.
They eat wild boar, cattle, sheep, even cats and deer, but not humans—quite the refined palate, wouldn’t you say?
…If you were about to tear this letter apart, calling me hopeless for making another joke, hold on for just a moment. I really don’t know why I start spewing nonsense the moment I pick up a pen.
As you said, I have a tendency to mask my true feelings behind jokes rather than express them outright.
But sometimes, even I know that there are feelings that need to be thrown straight, no curves.
And today, I have one of those feelings.
You know what, Coco?
I really missed you.
Isn’t it strange? I’ve never even seen you, but when I thought I was about to die, you were the first thing that came to mind.
—Your faithful friend, Arch Albert.
* * *
Prince,
You are truly, truly a terrible person.
There’s no one else who can make me cry, laugh, and get angry without even meeting me.
Don’t think that one little “I miss you” has completely melted me.
I’m still very mad at you.
—Still (just) Cordelia Gray.
* * *
To my Coco, who’s written “(just) Cordelia Gray” for the third time now,
Alright, I admit it, I was wrong.
But what was it that I did wrong again?
I think I’ve forgotten, what with almost dying and all.
—Your Arch.
* * *
Foolish Arch Albert,
Yes, that’s exactly what you did wrong.
If you missed me that much, you should’ve taken better care of yourself.
Why do you keep getting hurt, falling ill, and nearly dying for no reason?
Next time, if you even see the horn of a monster, run away immediately. Or hide behind someone else. Got it?
7.15. Night.
—Cordelia Gray, who will return as your friend if you promise that.
* * *
To my angel Coco,
Alright, next time something like that happens, I’ll use old Beder as my shield.
He’s lived long enough, so I’m sure he wouldn’t hold it against me too much.
Come to think of it, I’m suddenly feeling a bit resentful.
Isn’t it all his fault that you’re so worried about me now? That worrywart must’ve filled your head with all sorts of fears.
Beder, that old man, has only gotten more sentimental with age. He won’t even let me get up now that I’m perfectly fine. At this rate, I think I might actually die of bedsores.
Yes, as you can tell from the way I move this pen, I’m perfectly fine—enough that you might be embarrassed by your worries if you saw me in person. By next week, I might even be able to sit in the first scriptorium of the scriptorium and share some secret time with you.
Saying this makes me feel like we’re lovers locked in a room, sharing a clandestine meeting.
Cordelia, you’ll pop out of a box and kiss me, right?
No matter how far this strange imagination goes, it will never actually happen.
But I remember it clearly.
You said, my clever friend,
Even if this arch isn’t there when you’re crying, you said you’d remember my heart.
I will do the same, Coco.
So, before my monster-bitten shoulder becomes embarrassed, stop the tears and return to being my wicked friend like before. So, what were you most curious about? What should I do now?
-Your obedient Archibald Albert.
* * *
To my prince.
Life is too short to lament over things we can’t help. I know our friendship shared through letters is precious, even though we can’t meet. But upon hearing that you almost died, my heart collapsed, and I found myself wanting to complain to you about how much I hurt.
I’ll stop now. Well, next time the monster comes, let’s leave it to Beder as you said.
I love Beder, but… well, I’ll think more about that later.
Now, shall we talk about something else?
How are Flynn and Noel? Are they okay?
Do you need any more books to read in bed?
-Your friend, Coco.
P.S. Let’s save speculations about Sir Arthur Gillen for after you’re out of bed.
* * *
My friend, who acts just like an angel when I call you one,
Did you mention another book?
Books are always welcome.
Especially now, when I’m practically dying, unable to do anything thanks to a crazy old man who demands absolute rest.
Unlike you, who ruthlessly sends me picture books cut into sections, that man won’t even let me take any of the books from the monastery’s library out of the scriptorium.
Besides, the books there are nothing like the light, small ones you send—they’re almost impossible to read while lying down.
So, my angel,
Please send me a book. A picture book would be even better.
Noel has been visiting me unusually often these days. Flynn, that rascal, follows Noel, fidgeting, pretending to come see me too. He has a soft spot, just like you, and always gazes at me with tearful eyes. Honestly, it’s overwhelming. I mean, how long has it been since I got hurt and woke up, and he still cries whenever he sees me? Do all you redheads cry so easily?
Anyway, if you give me the right book, I’ll read it quickly and pass it on to the two of them.
Flynn will probably sit Noel on his little lap and read it dramatically, won’t he?
Watching that will be pretty amusing.
-Your friend Archibald Albert, feeling the most energized in days.
P.S. If I get up and solve the mystery of Sir Arthur Gillen, Cordelia, maybe, just maybe, we’ll meet one day.
* * *
My pure flower, Archibald,
I was going to offer you a racy book to bring you some joy.
I happen to have *Lady Chatterley’s Lover* by D.H. Lawrence right next to my bed. It’s incredibly obscene yet a masterpiece of high literary value, so I thought it would both cure your boredom and satisfy your ambition for good literature.
But if my innocent friend desires a picture book for Noel and Flynn instead.
Well, I just happen to have the perfect work for that request in my hands.
Anyway, this story is about a very imaginative and adorable orphan girl named Anne and all the things that happen when she arrives at Green Gables. While it’s not as filled with illustrations as *Lydia’s Garden*, which I sent you last time, it does have enough to keep it delightful.
This book, I’m sure, will become Noel’s treasure.
I believe that every girl at some point holds *Anne of Green Gables* in her heart.
You might scoff at this and demand *Lady Chatterley’s Lover* instead, but don’t disregard the heart of a girl.
By the end of this story, you’ll undoubtedly be moved and say, “Wow, what a great book.”
Just imagining your face begging me for the sequel makes me laugh already.
7.15. Night.
-Your friend, Cordelia.
P.S. Did I mention? When Anne first arrives, she asks Marilla to call her ‘Cordelia,’ saying it’s a perfectly elegant name. That’s the part where I fell for her.
* * *
To my soulmate, Cordelia.
Seeing that you laugh imagining me begging you, the wicked part of you is evident. I suppose it’s my turn to be the kinder one. After all, we are soul-sharing friends who balance each other’s good and evil.
I mustered all the kindness I have left and handed the book you lent me over to Noel first.
You know what I’m going to say next, right? Hurry up and give me *Lady Chatterley’s Lover*.
-Begging you as he lies in bed, Archibald Albert.
* * *
Archibald Albert,
Don’t even dream about it, my prince.
*Lady Chatterley’s Lover* is off the table.
I can’t let my pure flower be tainted by wicked eroticism.
-Your protective friend, Cordelia.
* * *
To my angel.
Will you truly not take care of my soul, which flatters you so?
…Well, I didn’t really expect you to give in easily. It seems you live for the fun of teasing me.
By the way, who is this Anne character that Flynn is so excited about?
As soon as I gave him the book, he clutched it to his chest in pure joy. If a man over twenty reacts like that, Noel, as you predicted, was completely captivated.
Today, Noel pestered Flynn to untie that red hair of his and braid it into two. She said it would make him look like Anne Shirley.
That Flynn is really something. It should look ridiculous for a guy to have his hair done like that, but it actually suits him quite well.
Beder just chuckles, and even the people at the monastery can’t bring themselves to tease him. There’s probably no other guy who looks that good with his hair in two braids.
Flynn isn’t the only one being tormented about his hair. Noel is telling me to dye my hair black. Gilbert Blythe has black hair, she says. When I asked why she doesn’t do it since she already has dark hair, she claimed to be Diana. Noel says that any girl with black hair has the right to be Diana.
And then Flynn, laughing beside her, adds,
“You’d have to get your cheeks a little chubbier to be Diana, Noel.”
As you might guess, the monastery’s meals are pretty dismal. It’s rare to have anything edible, let alone delicious.
Still, Noel used to be a good eater, but ever since she lost her two front teeth, she’s been picky with food and lost her appetite.
Nowadays, whenever she starts to leave food on her plate, Flynn jumps in, saying,
“You’ll need to puff up your cheeks more if you want to be Diana.”
The moment he says that, Noel starts shoveling food into her mouth. After such a chaotic meal, she usually picks apples from the tree in front of the monastery and hands me one. But whenever I try to take a bite, she stops me. She says I should hold onto it instead. Apparently, Gilbert is always supposed to have an apple on hand.
When I tell her I don’t understand, she orders me to hurry up and read the book. She says everything will make sense once I do.
But Noel will never give me the book. She sleeps with it under her head, carries it around, and acts as though she’ll never let it go. Today, she even wanted to bring the book to the dining hall. When I asked what would happen if it got dirty, she stuck her tongue out at me and made a silly face, saying,
“The prince doesn’t know anything!”
Later, I heard she was planning to make some rare cake or something that was mentioned in the book. Since Anne made the cake, I figured you, Cordelia, would understand more than I do.
After teasing me so much, she must have felt a bit guilty because in the evening, she brought me a cake she made for me to try. After eating it, my condition worsened, and now I’m lying here, sick again.
So, how do you feel now? Do you finally feel a little guilty?
Are you thinking, ‘Ah, I should give our prince *Lady Chatterley’s Lover* after all’?
My dear friend, I’ve given up on begging for a naughty book, but can you at least send me a proper rare cake recipe? Surely, you know how to make a good rare cake.
Noel has declared that she’ll keep making raspberry vanilla cream rare cakes until she succeeds, and she promised to bring me a slice every night. If you don’t help, my illness is only going to get worse.
On the seventeenth day of the burning month.
-Your sickly friend, Archibald Albert.
–
———= Author’s Notes ———=
To my readers.
I promised to update every other day, but it seems like I’ll be busy tomorrow. Rushing because of that, I ended up finishing and revising today’s update today. So, here I am again. And it’s a long one too. I apologize.
P.S. To explain what *Lady Chatterley’s Lover* is about, I’d have to write a separate piece on a novel site, so I’ll leave it out for now….
P.S. 2: I accidentally clicked something while half asleep, and suddenly a little window popped up. It turns out some of you have sent me support coupons. I didn’t even realize people were sending those! I’m so sorry. Does this mean you’re enjoying the story that much? Thank you so much to BYORVINA, 소소가영, Sen98, 디네즈, and 바켠바켠.
P.S. 3: Sometimes, reading your comments overwhelms me. Your reviews are so beautifully written. To those who leave thoughtful comments, and to everyone who has hit ‘favorite’ or ‘recommend,’ I hope you have a day as sweet and surprisingly delightful as Noel’s rare cheesecake.
<– Don’t mention it –>
(Not a double update, but halfway there)
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