Isulril looked at her finger. It had been hours since she had pricked it with the thorn of one of the roses that she had been arranging earlier that day. It did not bleed. It barely even looked like a wound. Indeed, it scarce felt like a wound, she thought. But she remembered it well.
She had been speaking with the physician, and felt the prick of the thorn at her finger. She had seen the blood well out of the tip of her finger, and had found herself perplexed, at first, that her own blood had, on such a tiny level, spilled before her.
She did not let the man see the wound. Indeed, she had removed herself from the sitting room, and taken it upon herself to quickly bandage and stop the bleeding. It was folly, she thought, to have caused herself to bleed in front of him, or worse yet, it was showing a weakness, in a sense.
She thought back on it, thought back on the lengthy conversation of a rainy afternoon, and found herself feeling similarly. She cursed herself inwardly, for she had been more frank than she ought to have been. She had, in some senses, made herself vulnerable to that man, and it irritated her to no end.
She set her hand upon her lap and picked up a book, skimming the Sindarin lines over and over without actually attending to them. She may have memorized the words by now, but their meaning was lost on her. She set the book down, and picked up her quill.
I feel...
She started writing, then stopped again. She crossed out the second word.
I feel am confused.
Better, she thought to herself. All the better to clear her mind. She continued writing.
I am quite confused in my mind. I feel a small rush of hope upon seeing this man. There is something strange that I do not understand. An odd feeling in my chest and in my belly. And yet there is dread. Constant fear of ruining his good opinion. Yet, why do I care for such a thing? He is yet a stranger to me. I...I wish I better knew my mind.
She put down the quill and shook her head. Crumbling the parchment, she threw it to the floor. She sighed, then took a fresh sheet, and began to pen something else.
Mr. Dimheim,
You asked me what I wished as payment in return for the hot house space which you requested. At the time I was unsure what to say. I do stand by my desire to not be recompensed in coin. Yet you are too decent a man to allow me to let you the space without some sort of barter. I understand that you are a pragmatic man, so I will myself try to be pragmatic.
You are a learned man. I ask, therefore, that you might provide me with the means to ease my melancholy, and that I might better understand it through you. If such a thing can be attempted--I have heard rumors of certain plants and fungi which may aid the process--I would be most obliged to you.
I hope that this offer will be acceptable to you, and that you will find it suitable to your tastes. Hoping this letter finds you in good health. I have enclosed with this letter another bottle of the Swan's Blood wine. I hope you will find it satisfactory.
Sincerely,
Isulril
Isulril blew on the paper, helping to dry the ink. When it was dry, she sealed it, and set it aside. She looked at it nervously from time to time as she continued her translations, frowning slightly.
It was a long night, and even when she went to bed, the woman tossed and turned. There was an unease to her, but it was not completely unpleasant. When finally she did sleep, she did not dream, or at least not that she could remember. She woke the next morning and took the missive to the post, dreading and hoping.
