Dispatch from a Colored Room

For old times' sake

You're restless. I know. We're almost there. But we can't get there without the ransom note.

He read the thing to Sim after he wrote it. I can't even imagine.

Dearest Aimée

Sim has come to visit me for a while. I will return him to you shortly of course. Only I wonder if you recall the financial matter outstanding between myself and your father. I know it is gauche to insist but you recall of course the effects of the nerve agent to which the 7th was exposed at the Hoofstone. I remind you that they are pernicious and can only be managed at considerable expense. Perhaps when you come to pick Sim up you could bring the paperwork required to settle the issue. 60% of your father’s allotment seems fair to both of us. I say 60% due to my illness and to the regrettable necessity of interacting with the board by proxy which carries some small cost and aggravation. You are a healthy girl and will surely live to see my share bequeathed to Sim so it should be little hardship.

I know you never approved of the little walks that Sim and I were accustomed to take when we lived on the sixth. We will have no time for promenades in the next day or so but in about twenty-four hours I imagine we will begin them for old times' sake. If you prefer to intercept him before the outset of our expeditions I will be deprived of a great pleasure but I accede to a mother's prerogatives. We will take in a show at the Blue-Roofed Room in Folio tomorrow noon if you wish to join us.

Your loving uncle 

E

Like an idiot, I took this to the gendarmes. They told me with utterly straight faces that it sounded like the words of a man anticipating a few enjoyable days with a beloved nephew. Which, when I thought about it, was exactly right, as far as it went.

I said "like an idiot." I suppose it doesn't seem idiotic; in another life, I might have thought of it as futile but not stupid. But we live in the world, and I live with the memory of coming back to the hotel room from the station. Of unlocking the door, pushing it inward, and hitting something heavy with a soft thump. Of cursing, and pushing, and finally getting a gap big enough to wiggle through—of cursing myself for the weeks of sitting and eating restaurant food and not walking that had made my hips and ass thicker than they should be. Of screaming for help, dropping to the floor, taking a pulse, trying to ignore the blueness of her lips and nails. Of walking through the apartment, when it was all over and she'd been taken to St. Nox's, and feeling a stabbing pain in my foot. Of pulling out the needle.

I'm so sorry, Sim. But they need to know.