Pinocchio Antiquariato

I. Head Butler's Letters

November 5, 1888

Dearest Ivy,

I have much to say to you, but there is so little space in a parchment that can hold all the words. Perhaps it fairs for you to know that I am well.

Today is two hundred and seventy-five days since the day you died, and I had lived. I would not have survived if it were not for he, the man whom most called the 'Collector'. He is like what the common folk babble about—eccentric and dark, and certainly cunning. But he is also kind, Ivy. He does not admit it, but he is indeed, very kind—perhaps more benevolent than the hypocritical saints of this time.

He collects the oddest of things. He once demanded the ugly coat you painstakingly sewed for me, just because he could. He would do such odd favors in exchange for things that were of value. Not in a monetary way, per say. He demanded what others treasured the most, expensive or not. He was very odd indeed. I have always wondered why.

Perhaps it is because he did not treasure anything. Not until today, that is. Earlier this year, this man had acquired something both new and strange to his collection. It might have been the first object he held close to his heart.

The way he treasured it reminded me very much of how we treasured our Hailey and Jerome.

I have more to say, but for now this shall suffice.

All my love to you and our children in heaven.

Sincerely,

Allen Matthews

... ... ...

Weeping. It was a sound Allen had grown accustomed to since he began serving the Earl of Aster.

Ah, there the peasant woman was on the lord's parlor, staining his carpet with her tears. Allen squared his shoulders and heaved a sigh, knowing he'd receive an earful later about how the woman's snot and muddy boots ruined his Indian carpet. The butler shook his head and fought another sigh, tactfully guiding the lady to the door.

"This way madam," he smiled sweetly albeit fake. Jolly good thing he was starting to get used to doing it, smiling fake that is.

The woman raised her head. Her expression very well mirrored her age—old, tired, broken. The creases on her forehead and the laugh lines that dipped into her frown contrasted against the bright shimmer in her eyes. How she hunched on her shoulders as she clasped against a pendant that was no longer there, how her lip quivered in an obvious attempt to beg for it back...

Allen couldn't stand to look, but he did. He had to.

"'Twas my ma's last mem'ry, milord!" She sobbed. "But I had ta givit awee..."

As sincerely as he could muster, Allen replied, "your mother will forgive you, madam." He held her hand, gently prompting her up on her feet.

The woman let Allen guide her to the door, seeming grateful that he matched her pace.

"Ah know she will," she sniffed. "But ta me, tha' necklace meant the world."

Yes, Allen knew it did. He could see how she furiously kept wiping away fresh tears. Her words were often caught in a stammer, but she persisted.

That necklace meant everything to her, and his lord took it away as payment for a favor only the Earl of Aster could do.

Allen led her to the yard, watched as Marcel guided her up the coach and Froilan drove her to the west gate. He watched them disappear within the last shades of the afternoon as gold and ink blended in the everlasting sky. Breathing in the pine-scented air, he let out the sigh he'd been holding and let his damned shoulders relax—finally. He could use some wine.