The Fox Writes a Letter to You, Waiting Beyond the Waves

Spring greetings to you,

The hearty supper that Tulip prepared lasted for hours, and looking back on it now, probably served as something of a farewell party for us. The constable had appeared in the middle of the meal to question Harys on our whereabouts; he and I were known to be quite close friends, and he had been seen with Saimon the previous day during the festival preparations as well.

Being the esteemed member of the community that he was, Constable Lerner took Harys at his word when he said he hadn’t seen us, and it took a great deal of restraint for Saimon and I to not burst into laughter from behind the couch!

There were two great shames from that makeshift party though; one that was that none of us, besides Tulip of course, could drink, owing to the fact that Harys had to drive his automobile for almost thirty kilometres, and we could not be seen to be disorderly when boarding that train to Flower Island.

As such, there was no toast. The other shame was that we couldn’t invite you; although you were indirectly the cause of our troubles, I knew that I would miss you something terrible. I still do.

When night fell, and it felt to us as though it would never come in the midst of our revelry, we packed into Harys’ four-seater and headed towards Angler’s Port. We weren’t able to pack our own belongings, of course, since we couldn’t go back to the cottage, but Tulip was kind enough to give us a lend of two valises filled with old clothes.

The rest of that night was, to be frank, not particularly eventful. We got onto the boat, as planned, and waved Harys and Tulip a tearful farewell as the ship left the port. Before that, however, Saimon was able to extract a promise for Harys that he would write to Molly Malone, who I later learned was to be Walther’s sister-in-law, she being the younger sister of Elsa.

He also promised that he would forward a copy of the coroner’s report once he got a hold of it; and of course, he told us he would do everything in his power to prove that the Doctor of Death’s final victim was none other than himself.

Even now, years later and writing from my studio taboret in our cosy cottage on Flower Island, which bears an uncanny resemblance to Huxley’s Place in East Meadow, I can remember the words that those two men exchanged with each other. They shook hands, and it almost seemed as though they would take the overtly masculine path of a wordless farewell.

Instead, it was Saimon who spoke first: “I can’t thank you enough, Harys, for everything. But I have to ask, why would you go to such lengths for us?”

Harys had laughed in response, almost as though he had anticipated this question, and he replied as though he were disappointed that Saimon had not figured out the answer earlier. I knew why he had done it, of course, but then again, I had known Harys since I was in my skirts.

He was simply that kind of character, and it is unfortunate that Saimon wasn’t able to build a deeper rapport with him, a disappointment somewhat offset by the biweekly letters that he sent, many of which contained promises that he would try to visit us soon – the fact that he has yet to do so suggests that his legal practice is thriving, so we’re happy enough with just the letters, I think.

“Didn’t I tell you before?” the solicitor had replied. “I hate to see youngsters not living up to their potential. It’s not the capital, and it’s not Camford, but Flower Island… listen, you could do a lot worse.”

At that time, he seemed to be unable to find the words; I had never asked him about it myself, but apparently Harys and Tulip had a son who did not survive infancy. He spoke to Saimon as though he were seeing his eldest off, and whatever was going on internally in his mind, I knew it was an emotional moment for him.

“Dearie, take care of yourself. I’ve been to Flower Island once, you know, when I was a girl. The soil there is particularly flexible. Well, I daresay you’ll find out for yourself. Please, take these. Consider it a memento from home,” she gestured for me to open my palms and when I did so, she dropped something into my hands.

“What is it with you East Meadow women and just dropping things into people’s hands?” Saimon, who had witnessed this scene, asked me later on. He was referring to the note I gave to him all those years ago, and I frankly still don’t have an answer.

The coroner’s report of Walther Greaves had come back negative for Lambert’s fever; in other words, the dreamvine concoction had worked and after some refinements in the labs of Camford University, was ready to be commercially distributed. It caused quite the stir when it was announced, but it was even more amazing to me that Walther had died almost immediately after ingesting the prototype, which, as far anyone knew, should not have killed him.

According to the coroner, he had not died by Lambert’s fever, but due to extreme exhaustion. When he said he had not slept for a while, the coroner had reckoned that it had probably been over a week – such was the dedication that he had been putting forward in respect to that cure, this is how badly he wanted to honour Elsa Malone’s memory.

It made his last words all the more poignant, I thought – Saimon told me that humans suffering from extreme fatigue may begin to hallucinate – in his death throes he had said the names of those people who had been so close to him: Elsa, Downing, Annette, and my own beloved Saimon.

I can’t say for sure whether it was a mere hallucination, or if the ghosts of the departed had gathered in East Meadow to collect one of their own. I still think about it sometimes, but only because we are now settled into our daily lives on Flower Island, and I have more time for such idle thoughts.

Not that, mind you, we are particularly unwelcome outside the isle. Harys was successful in proving that Saimon and I were not responsible for that corpse in your living room – in the end, the verdict wasn’t one of suicide but ‘death by misadventure’!

But we're happy here.

When we first arrived, Flower Island’s capital, the quaintly named Flower Capital, was little more than a town but it is slowly developing into one of Her Majesty’s frontier cities. The winery that I run has contributed to the Flower Capital’s good name, so I hope.

Our grapes, the finest in the realm, grow beneath the almond blossoms, the same ones that you can find in East Meadow. How did I get my hand on almond seeds? Well, you need only ask Tulip Lane for them; or maybe she might indiscriminately drop them into the palm of your hands one of these days!

I think, after writing this letter and sending it off in the post, I will take a walk along the vineyard with my husband, who is very well thank you very much, and the twins, Kana and Seiryu – Saimon chose the names and although I cannot read or write the script in which they the names originally spelt, he assures me that the meanings are significant.

After all, it’s spring and the almond blossoms will be in full bloom. I will sit my sons down and tell them the story of how their father and I met, and of course, I’ll tell them about your part in the tale as well – without you, things might have ended very differently, don't you agree?

In any case, I am very sorry for not having written earlier, and it is my intention that this will give you the closure you need. Spring is the time for renewal, they say, and although you may have already moved on without thinking too much of the past, it is my hope that this letter comes to you at an opportune time.

Following in its wake will be a bottle of my winery’s finest; please do drink it beneath the almond blossoms of East Meadow and know that I am doing the same beneath the almond blossoms of Flower Island; and of course, I will be thinking of you the whole time.

Your dearest niece,

Agatha Inoue.