Renfield was cheating.

That was all right with him. These things had their uses; what good was mischief if it couldn't be used for heartfelt ends?

His present of a single amber marble, long since bought, was back in Room Nineteen. Beyond his reach and kept beyond the ability to cheat. Instead, somewhere in limbo, he wrote a letter.

Ray,

You do not know it, and won't for some time, but today is your birthday. This is a marvelous thing. I had planned to make it a fine day for you. It would have been a meal the likes of which the Inn's kitchen has not seen since likely Scotty's last significant occasion. I would like to say since living memory, but a smart man knows when his skills have been matched.

I would have given the day all the special deference such a fine occasion warrants, including more private pursuits than any kitchen may provide for - however creative I've known you to be with a kitchen - but circumstance has determined that we likely cannot. I am sorry. When such things flow again, I shall make it up to you.

I am no longer as skilled with words as I once was, but I love you. Happy birthday, my Ray.

-Ren

It was only for this man that he ever signed his name in truncated form.

He would make sure the letter found its way to Ray, when the memories did.