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M –

I dreamt about you last night. You came to me with your soft dark hair pulled back and a light in your eyes, and you told me you would free me from my father. You laid your hand on mine, a benediction, and I closed my eyes, feeling my throat tighten. Before you, I had not known I needed to be freed.

In my dream, you drew me outside and we walked along the riverbank. You spoke to me of things I’d never imagined - the trade routes you followed, the merchants you befriended. All the while you strode briskly, like a man, and I followed you eagerly, marveling at the world that seemed yours for the taking.

And then I awoke, and remembered everything that has come to pass.

You reached inside the quiet closet of my heart and opened me up to the world.

We whispered vows to each other in the meadow, tied wildflowers like rings around our fingers.

And then you killed my father.

M –

I went to the cathedral to pray today.

I remember my father taking me there as a child. I would kneel on hard tile, clasping my hands, trying to be the image of filial piety. He would leave me and ascend to his place on the dais, and I would study him – his lips as he murmured in Latin, his hands as he crossed himself, the eyes of his parishioners filled with worship. Everything he touched was consecrated.

He was like the sun to me, and I was content to bask in his light.

Even years later, when he stood at the head of the crowd, casting precious books into the fire – I could not bring myself to feel as you felt. You spoke urgently to me of his hunger for power, power that no single man should wield, and I pretended to agree with you. But when I turned over the notion of this power in my heart, I secretly felt – not fear – but pride.

Deep within, I still thought with a child’s mind and felt with a child’s heart.

I suppose that was our undoing.

Now I live a quiet life in the abbey, and the abbess smiles that I am living the life my father would have wanted. On a few rare nights, I walk alone in the orchard and write these letters, to a lover who will never read them. A lover I spurned in loyalty to a man who wished to become a god.

Wherever you are, M, I hope you understand. I am no longer a child. I would do things differently now.

M –

A girl came to me today with a note that she asked me to read for her. It was a small scrap, unsigned, containing instructions for a soothing poultice.

It was written in your hand.

After the girl departed, I left the abbey. I did not know where I was going until I found myself at an inn, sounding out the local gossips. They told me there is a powerful alchemist far in the north. She heals disease and forestalls sickness and crafts strange tinctures and brews. Those who ask her to multiply their wealth or prolong their lives are driven out with a hot brand, but those who come to her for knowledge leave satisfied.

It was you, M. I’m sure of it.

As I write this, the abbess calls me in to evening prayers. But these events have resurrected the Hannah of old – the one who climbed out of windows and down trellises to be with you. I cannot go inside now. I cannot be still and silent when I know where you are.

Marketa.

I am going to find you.