LETTERS NEVER DELIVERED · Gideon
My dear Dorothy,
I had intended to leave this on your desk before breakfast. Unfortunately, Rosie seized the ribbon, flew into the western gallery, and deposited the entire scroll inside a clock that has not required opening in eighty-three years.
Laurus retrieved it. He has requested that I reconsider the birds' access to the correspondence room. I have requested that he reconsider his tone.
Neither of us expects satisfaction.
The clock in question was running four minutes slow. I know precisely how to correct it. In fact, I could correct every clock in this house before you finish your coffee, and still have enough time to argue with you about the proper cataloguing of the eastern collection.
I shall do neither.
You once asked why I tolerated so many imperfect mechanisms when I had the means to make them obey. At the time, I offered some nonsense about preserving the character of the estate. It was a respectable answer. It was also incomplete.
I am discovering that an imperfect morning can be rather exquisite. A stubborn bird. An exasperated steward. You in the archive, muttering at a ledger, with graphite smudge on your cheek. I quite like that.
Nothing need be suspended or preserved. I need only walk into the next room.
I find that a remarkable luxury.
Yours, Gideon
P.S. Drawer seven is not safe. Do not believe Rosie if she implies otherwise.