The Letter

At first, Serendipity went about her business as she would any other time. After a short nap, she was always ready to dive right back into her work, picking up precisely wherever she had left off. Today should be no different: she picked up the dress, realized her needle was missing, and chose another one from a wide selection stuffed inconspicuously into a well-used pin cushion. She threaded the needle without looking on the first try, and settled down into her chair, training her mind on other things, anything, other than that letter that sat across the room from her. She decided to concentrate on the doll she was working on, number 1,452, or as she had nicknamed her, Lizzette Sassafras, thinking how smart she would look attending a cotillion in the pink lacy dress she was currently creating for her. Lizzette sat on the table near the head of number 1,468, the one she had been working on earlier, which she had chosen to name Hester Pineyfrock (her dress would be green, of course) Lizette’s rosy cheeks showed their approval of the fabric shade Serendipity had chosen, and for a few moments she was able to live vicariously through the dolls she was bringing to life.

After a few minutes floating around in another dimension, one where dolls went to fancy parties, waltzed for hours with handsome young gentle-dolls, and ate dainty pastries, Serendipity felt eyes boring into the back of her head, and she wasn’t sure if it was one of her four-legged friends, or the letter itself, but she was no longer able to fight the voices, and she quickly found herself lost in a different world.

“Serendipity! You are the dumbest person I’ve ever met. How can you be twelve years old and still not know how to read?”

“What a bobolyne you are, Serendipity! Do you even know how to write your own name?”

“Dalcop!”

“Nincompoop!”

“Lazy good for nothing cumberground!”

Even as she sat in the solace of her own home, tears began to sting her eyes at the memories, not only of how the words had stung but of how her own actions had assured those people would never have the opportunity to hurt her again--or do so many other things…. If only she had never asked about the dolls. If only she had paid better attention to her mother. If only she had tried harder to be a good sister, finish her chores, learn to read….

Serendipity swiped at her eyes, determined not to let the voices from her past haunt her, not today. Yet, the longer that letter laid behind her, the greater the reminder that she had faltered so grossly in a similar situation. Eventually, she turned her head slightly to look in the direction of the letter and noticed it appeared to have moved closer to her. She dismissed the thought and returned to her sewing, swiping away some wayward tears as she did so.

“Serendipity, I shall teach you to read myself.”

It was the voice of her father now filling her mind, and she sat the fabric down on her lap momentarily, squeezing her eyes tightly, turning her face up toward the heavens, as if he could somehow see her if he looked down upon her. She held that position for a long pause, taking a deep breath, filling her lungs, trying to remember his scent--tobacco and leather--and then exhaled slowly. She slowly opened her eyes, and before setting them on the doll dress, she stole another glance at the letter, wondering if it had moved forward again.

At least another five minutes went by before she thought of the letter again. This time, it was the quite familiar voice of her own beloved Maevis who had worked with her endlessly trying to teacher her letters and sounds, short words, how to combine syllables, so many things she just never could seem to grasp. But rather than coaxing her to attempt to sound a word, her friend’s voice was saying the same phrase her father had repeated time and again, simply, “What have you to lose? Give it a go.”

And she was right, of course. Serendipity knew that nothing terrible would happen if she were to stand, retrieve the letter, open it, and attempt to read it. In fact, the tragedy that had occurred some eight years ago hadn’t happened because she had read--in fact, it had happened because she had not read. While it was the thought of attempting to read that caused her heart to pound and her palms to sweat, if history were to repeat itself, she’d need to ignore the letter--to not read it.

So, with that realization, Serendipity stood, sat her sewing aside, turned, and took one step toward the letter, her bare foot sliding across the rough floor, dragging along the splintered wood cautiously. With a deep breath, she took another step forward and then another, until the letter was at her feet. All she had to do was bend over and pick it up.

Her hand shook as she reached for it. She examined it again, feeling its weight, light, and its significance, quite important. She read her name again--something she could do easily, and then held her breath as she slipped one thin finger beneath the seal and broke it open. She slowly pulled out one thin sheet of paper and watched the envelope flutter to the floor.

Carefully, she unfolded the halved paper, noticing immediately that the ink was black, not the same gold as the outside. It was written in flowery cursive, not calligraphy, certainly not print, which would make it easier. She glanced down at the words, squinted, realized the room was too dark, and stepped over to the fireplace.

Her eyes adjusted quickly to the new light, but she continued to squint, thinking, perhaps, that would somehow help. She attempted to remember the things her father had told her--about letter names and shapes. She glanced up, thinking of Maevis’s words, then she returned her eyes to the note and did her best to decipher the message.

Dear Ms. Fizzlestitch:

Yes, that part was easy. All letters started out with “dear” and she knew her own name.

“You are c or g lee in vtb to jo in us as an e lit mem der of tyou mak rs atthe N or the P old. Please ex qct me onw eek for tob ay. We areh on orb to have so me one of yor tall enbs am go st us.

Sincerely,

Serendipity did not dare attempt to decipher the signature, as it was signed in such a way that none of the letters looked recognizable at all. She sighed. None of it made much sense. She looked at the body of the letter again. She knew some of the words--and parts of it seemed to be decipherable. Clearly, she was invited to go somewhere. But where? And who had invited her? Why would anyone want to invite her to go anywhere? Everyone knew what she had done…. No one would ever associate with her by choice. No, whoever sent this letter was clearly poking fun at her grim situation or had sent it to her by mistake.

At any rate, she wasn’t going anywhere. That was for certain.

She glanced over the letter one more time, let one more sigh go, and then folded it back up, and retrieving the envelope from the floor, she shoved it back inside. For a moment, she contemplated throwing it into the fire, but then she remembered it wouldn’t burn, and she tossed it into her rocking chair instead.

A small squeak at her feet let her know her friend had returned. Bending over and scooping him up, she made her way back to her straight back chair next to her work. “There you go, Mr. Pozzletot. I tried--and I failed. At least I gave it a go,” she thought to herself, shrugging. Then, discarding the thought as quickly as she had discarded the letter, Serendipity returned to her work, hoping to finish number 1,452 in time for Maevis to ship her out by the end of the day tomorrow. Somewhere, a little girl was waiting for Lizzette Sassafras, and Serendipity did not wish to disappoint.