1.4b

M - I write from a tavern in Ánslo. The good man of the house has plied me with ale and meat, refusing payment - astonished, I suppose, at a woman traveling alone. The benches are crowded, spirits are high; but I cannot bring myself to speak with those around me. I can think of nothing but your note. But I suppose I should start at the beginning.

I traveled to Ánslo, accompanied by a young farmer trading sheepskins. I scarcely remember the journey; I thought only of the "ailment" in your note, of what could possibly have driven you to leave. I have fought an invisible army of ailments in my mind since my departure.

When we arrived at the gate, we parted ways, and I waited for nightfall before searching for your symbol. Before long, I spotted it - carved into a large stone half-hidden in the weeds. Beneath, another note bearing your mark.

It was addressed to "Frida".

I suppose some part of me still believed you knew I would come for you. I am corrected now.

You had enclosed an inventory and a diagram for her - a drawing of a warehouse interior. It appeared that you intended her to break into the warehouse and obtain certain metals, presumably for your future use.

A friend? A lover? A partner in some criminal enterprise? Strange to think I know you so little.

And strange, Marketa, that you would send any kind of companion into such danger. I find myself growing angry on this Frida’s behalf. Could you really intend for her to break in? To follow the circuit of the guards, and trust that she will not be caught? Is the woman invisible?

Still. I’m distracted by your parting phrase. “I trust you understand me” - a suggestion that all is not as it appears. And, directly before that - “You have a quick mind.” A quick mind is what’s needed then, and not a quick body.

… Perhaps you never intended this Frida to go physically to the warehouse. Perhaps your true instructions are here in front of me - the map, the inventory, your directions.

Perhaps there is still a way forward.