#33
To Prince Archie Albert,
I take out all the letters you’ve sent me from the bookcase and store them in my old treasure box. At the very bottom of the box are the letters someone sent me when I was in boarding school, and stacked neatly above them are your letters. Along with Beder’s letters and the drawings Noel sent.
Except for that one prank letter you sent me yesterday.
I didn’t intend to tear that letter up from the start. As always, the problem was alcohol. After all, Juliet said:
“Cordelia, it says to tear it at the bottom. What do you think happens if you don’t tear up a letter that says to tear it?”
“You’ll be able to keep it well?”
“You die. I could name at least 142 protagonists from mystery novels who died because they didn’t follow the instructions.”
I was a little drunk myself, so her words sounded oddly convincing. So, the two of us tore the letter into shreds and threw it by the Thames.
On the way home, it suddenly dawned on me that this might not have been from Beder or a ghost but could have been a prank from you, Archie.
You, too, have a beautiful handwriting honed in the study room, so you could’ve skillfully imitated my handwriting. It’s a shame I’ve lost one of your letters, but what’s done is done. After all, it was a letter you told me to tear up anyway.
To be honest, Archie, I liked the letter you sent right before the prank better.
It felt like I was hearing a sincere confession, and it made my heart flutter. How is it that you know exactly what women like to hear? If I ask this, you’ll probably say something sweet again like, ‘It’s not that I know women well, but that I know you, Coco.
Really, I can’t believe you didn’t manage to win over Daphne.
P.S.: Honestly, I’ve already read that letter ten times. You say you can’t possibly tell me you love me? Flynn is incredibly beautiful but you can’t fall in love because of me? Well, that’s a pity, hmph!
P.S.2: But how did you know about my peculiar obsession with the way paper is torn?
7.23. Night.
– Coco, drunkenly returned from the Thames.
* * *
To my beloved prince,
It’s Cordelia, waiting for the day you enter the monastery while holding a poetry book in front of the bookcase.
Yes, as you can probably tell from the handwriting, I’m a little drunk again today. Juliet insisted that since she listened to me yesterday, it was her turn to have me listen to her today. Besides, you weren’t here, so I had no excuse to rush home.
But rest assured, my prince. Your companion is far too timid to cause any dramatic incidents while drunk. All I do under the influence is read books, write letters, and quietly pester you. Perhaps by now, you too are completely drunk at Daphne’s wedding.
You know, my prince, next time you go away, couldn’t you just take our magic box with you? Even on a rough journey, you could wrap it up well and keep it safe, couldn’t you?
Though I heard you’ll be gone for three, maybe four days, I keep looking into the box. Even though I know nothing will come out of it no matter how much I look.
It seems Beder is busy as well, as he hasn’t thought of secretly peeking into our bookcase.
The letter in which I ask why you played such a prank sits affectionately yet forlornly beside the letter summoning Beder.
There are still two days left until you return. Yet, just in case you come back early, I open the box every time I finish a page of my book.
The book I’m reading now is a collection of letters by the poet John Keats, so I’ll copy a part for you as well.
[My beloved lady, I feel myself controlled by you. Please, write me back, even if it’s just a few lines. Promise to love me as you did yesterday.]
Yes, that’s right. Following this poem, I also called you “my beloved prince.”
My prince, who is surely more beautiful than the lady the poet loved,
Hurry and devote your summer to me once again. I’ve already devoted all my nights to you.
7.24. The second night drunk without you,
Cordelia, who feels herself controlled by you.
* * *
Greedy Archie Albert,
I’ve been thinking. You’re a very, very bad person.
You leave the bookcase for this and that reason, but when I neglect to write you letters for just a few days, you act all sulky and make me feel overwhelmingly guilty.
Imagine me sitting in front of the bookcase every day, so you won’t feel hurt when you return and find no letter waiting for you. My friend Juliet would be utterly appalled if she knew about this.
Juliet says the reason things don’t work out with someone we like a lot is because we fail to hide our feelings. If you show too much that you like someone, it’s easy to get rejected.
She says the more you like someone, the more you should hide it, make them long for you instead, and not cling desperately to just one person. That’s Juliet’s secret to success.
If I were a bit more adept, I could probably do that, too.
Instead of writing you letters every day and putting them in the bookcase as you wish, I could pretend I didn’t receive your last letter.
I could also feign ignorance when you say you think of me daily, teasing you with, ‘Did you send a letter like that?’
But I’m terrible at such things.
Here’s a funny story that just came to mind. It’s about my mom and dad.
Juliet never listens to stories like this. She says daughters who want to hear detailed stories about their parents’ romance are strange, that she doesn’t even want to imagine it, let alone know about it.
I get where Juliet is coming from. Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan kiss passionately even in front of me, constantly telling the story of what happened in the car the night Juliet was conceived… Yeah, that’s something I really don’t want to know either.
But you know, my prince, I’m completely different from Juliet. My parents never kissed in front of me. Well, they’d have to be alive for that to happen—both my mom and dad are dead! That’s a joke, so don’t make a sad face, my prince. I’m just trying to tell a funny story.
A daughter like me, who doesn’t even know what her dad looked like, inevitably clings to her mom and asks about him.
“What kind of person was Dad?”
“How did Mom and Dad meet?”
As a child, I would endlessly ask questions like that, and each time, my mother would give me a different answer. Sometimes she’d tell me how handsome Dad was, other times she’d share how persistently Dad pursued her, or she’d tell a funny story about one of his silly mistakes.
My favorite story is about my dad’s letter. On days when something sold from my mom’s shop, and she was in a particularly good mood, I’d beg her to tell me that story, over and over again.
Though my mom would grumble, asking if I never got tired of it, she’d still say, “Well, good things are always worth hearing again,” and she’d tell me the same story two, three times in a row.
A long time ago, before my mom accepted Dad’s feelings, he once wrote her a letter. He wrote an incredibly long letter and entrusted it somewhere, but my mom didn’t know the letter had arrived. It wasn’t until much later that she went to retrieve it.
On the day she received Dad’s letter, instead of wasting time sitting at her desk, writing a reply, my mom didn’t hesitate. She said she didn’t want to wait for a letter that might take who knows how long to be delivered—she wanted to run directly to him and hug him. Mom and I are truly different, aren’t we?
While Mom was running to Dad, completely unbeknownst to him, he was sinking into despair.
He had entrusted his heart in that long letter, but since she hadn’t picked it up for so long, he was left waiting, wondering when he’d get a response. Even after she finally retrieved it, days passed with no sign of even a short reply, confirming she’d received it. How sad he must’ve been!
Prince, as you now know, sending a letter and waiting for a reply can be such a torturous feeling.
When Mom walked all the way to Dad’s place without taking a train or a bus, Dad was deeply sulking.
They hadn’t seen each other in a long time, and Mom stood before Dad with a heart full of excitement.
But the first thing Dad asked was:
“Did you even read my letter?”
Mom told me how adorable he looked, pouting as he asked that.
So, instead of saying what she had planned, she decided to tease him a bit.
“What letter?”
At that moment, Dad’s face turned pale.
“Then where on earth did it go?”
Just as Dad was about to go back inside to search for his missing letter, Mom stopped him. She grabbed his shoulders and turned him around to face her. And then, her lips crashed into his.
That’s how they had their first kiss.
After the awkward kiss, Dad was trembling like a shy girl.
His face turned bright red, all the way to his ears, and Mom, smiling sweetly, said:
“I read it. And after reading it, I wanted to see you, so I came running.”
My mother didn’t say anything beyond that, but sometimes I wonder. That day, Mom must have pounced on Dad.
Yes, that must be the day I was conceived.
That’s right, my prince.
In my parents’ case, Dad was the one who stayed up all night reading and copying books, while Mom was the one who would rush out for… well, you know. It’s ironic that, despite being born to such an action-oriented mother, I ended up taking after my dad more. It always makes me feel a little wistful.
If I could run to you, would I be able to pull such pranks, too?
Even after reading your sweet letter that calms the jealousy boiling inside me, as you say you think of me despite gazing upon a beautiful lady, could I tease you and say, ‘Oh my, I didn’t receive anything like that’?
I don’t know. I’d probably just beg you, like my dad’s daughter, unable to help myself.
Please, as soon as you return, write to me.
Tell me you arrived safely, that you’re sitting at your desk, that you’ve read all three letters I wrote during the past three days.
Only then, after you’ve reassured me, should you change your clothes, wash up, and shake off the weariness of your journey, my prince.
7.25.
– Cordelia, who is waiting for you.
———= Author’s Note ———=
Dear readers,
If only I were a bit savvier, I could write quietly, like other authors, without adding an author’s note.
But instead, I’m here begging you. Even if you didn’t enjoy this chapter, please read the next one. It might actually be fun… I promise…
P.S.:
Please quickly devote your first draft to me. I’ve already given you all of my reserves! Yes… I apologize again. If I can’t make you laugh in the story, I’m trying in the author’s note…
<– Letter’s Owner –>
(3/3 serial update)
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