14 May
To: Oliver Thornstead
Bree-town
Dear Uncle,
Forgive the brevity of this most recent letter, but I have little time at the moment with which to sit and write. Between the coming of summer, and my newest employment, I find myself busier than a mud wasp in July, as they say here in Bree. The lumber camp can scarcely keep up with orders for builders of cottages, wagons, carts, fences, and every other thing you can imagine that comes from the flesh of a tree.
As well as the regrettable circumstance of keeping me from visiting you for the past few months, my busyness has the added benefit of keeping me from repeating steps that one might call unwise. I have left aside my pursuit of Miss Forbush (or shall we say now, Missus Turnbough) and the acquisition of her confession. For now.
The gentleman who advertised for a pair of helping hands at this new inn is a quiet and congenial sort. He asked me to stop by once a day and inquire with the innkeeper (a rather rotund fellow, but decent enough) if anything might need to be done that requires a sturdy back and strong set of legs. The pay is surprisingly generous for a new enterprise, but perhaps the man has a tidy fortune squirreled away somewhere. It isn't my place to ask, and I have no plans to. He also assured me that I would be granted a meal once a day, but I will pay for this without him knowing. I would not feel right elsewise.
So far, I have done a lot of fetching and carrying, moved a few tables from here to there, and dug an unfortunate bird from the chimney. Mindless work, one might say, but it is May after all, and is there a finer month for working with one's hands, especially outdoors?
I will write again soon. Give all my best wishes to Aunt.
Your Nephew,
Westen
