Dear Cecelia,
What a glorious evening indeed! Much to my consternation, I was unable to locate the elusive ‘E’ at first. Lottie, ever the source of up to the minute news informed me that guests of L’Enchanteur were to wait until her own private deck was opened. I confess I’m ever so scatterbrained and am forever misplacing invitations and flyers and the like. Thank goodness for Charlotte!
I met Lottie and Teddy in the Twilight Room, a sort of cocktail bar cum dancefloor for a quiet little tipple. We made small talk for a while, all of us rather awkwardly avoiding the subject of Charles and his absence. I admit I was somewhat glum and decidely poor company until we made our way to the secluded ‘E’ deck. Oh, there were a number of debonnaire gentleman and equally sophisticated women wearing the latest styles. I myself was clad in my new camel coloured dress with the asymmetric hemline. Those new hems are just crazy, but so flattering around the calf. I mingled amongst my fellow passengers and spotted a few now familiar faces. ‘Sea Gypsy’, wearing her trademark green skirt offered a warm smile as I swept past her on my way to the bathroom. A hushed whisper passed through the crowd as the fabled fortune teller, Saterlee Chapel entered the room. I am tempted to pay her a visit, but I will do so with trepidation. So many names and such a diverse array of characters. We will come to know them all, dearest.
There was a stunning fireworks display, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. Reds, greens and golds lit the sky in patterns so intricate, to the cries of the watchers below. When the fireworks were done, L’Enchanteur opened the evening’s Gala.
Cecelia, you won’t believe what I did! Your shy and retiring sister marched right through that motley crowd and stood before them to recite one of my own compositions. Quite frankly, I was so nervous, I feared I may faint. I stood my ground, however, and in a clear voice spoke thus..
Mother’s Roses
Plucked from a garden, not mine
Its blood-red head rallies,
momentarily defying
the inevitable.
Torn petals, already darkening,
begin to curl
and fall.
Her children plead
for fresh water
in an old china cup
or vase.
Let the rose languish there
until crumbling and dusty,
for no mother dare
discard
this sweet-scented gift.
A sense of calm pervades me now, Cecelia.
I am prepared for whatever may lie ahead of us.
Your Elizabeth.
