Of Phantasm and Fury

Retourner and Rose Quartz Crystals

9 Retourner and Rose Quartz Crystals

"Take down all your troubles/And wrap up your regret..." -E.H. Hanson

Day 2, continued

Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy

The theater fell silent, save for the young man's enthusiastic applause down below—who on earth was he? And therein was his cue. Whispering words indicative of welling emotion, his lettered envelope flew—

And landed squarely at Macy's feet.

At first, she didn't notice the epistle, so silently it swept toward her feet, but a moment later, the tip of her heel brushed against the polished parchment, as she uttered the tiniest gasp of surprise—and wonder. Who would write to her—here? She turned the weighted envelope around in her hands in the next minute, and the minute after that, until Antonio cleared his throat indelicately. "What?" She turned toward him in askance.

"Aren't you...?" He motioned toward the letter in her hands. Going to open it?

Antonio strode toward her. "It's not everyday a person gets a letter in a fantasy realm—from the real world."

"Meaning...?"

"Someone must miss you—a lot."

Macy laughed ruefully, shaking her head, her mahogany tresses gliding about her scintillating silvery shoulders. "No. Nobody misses me at all—"

"Then why the letter?" To this, she turned silent, handing the item to him as he examined its exterior as well. "I think you have an admirer." He handed it back to her, as she gave a start.

"An—admirer? No—no way—"

"Honestly, I'd open it if I were you. For closure. Besides, letters don't bite—right?"

"R-right," answered Macy nervously, thinking back to her discovery of Marisol and Dexter's decades-long communication by the very same method—reams upon reams. Perhaps would not bite in the physical sense, as she had a sudden, near-ludicrous vision of a sentient saber-toothed book, chomping furiously at the bit. But they could injure—emotionally—possibly irreparably, she knew, recalling how Mel had distanced herself, perhaps subconsciously, from herself and Maggie, once she had discovered it was she that was the half-sister, not Macy, even though Maggie's hair and large, expressive eyes more resembled Mel's own. Genetics was, Macy understood, a funny thing.

Sucking in her breath sharply, her tapered fingers unfurled the envelope's backing; she tore it open as neatly as she could, noticing a freshly-drawn royal navy blue waxed seal adorned with the words "alba levi litterae."

Alba levi litterae.

What did that mean? She frowned, trying to recall whatever Latin she had picked up from boarding school. Alba meant "white." Litterae meant..."literature?" No—letter. What was levi? She brushed the thought aside, turning her attention to the letter itself that lay before her. At first observation, this display had been sensibly done with zero frills, just prim and proper elegance of the highest form of correspondence-writing, and the enigmatic index-card-sized stationery within too.

Meet me in the dressing room.

Six words—just six words. No return address, no named sender, as she glanced toward Antonio's curious gaze, then out toward the backstage corridor, no doubt where her purported dressing room was. Sensing her hesitation, Antonio spoke. "If you're worried about this mystery person," he began, "I can stand guard outside your dressing room. I'm at the top of my weight bracket in collegiate wrestling...?"